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Candyman by cinemamind

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HERMANN NITSCH

Schüttbild, 1963.

Red dispersion paint on thinly primed burlap

Ketterer Kunst

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Concept art for Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992).

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Jean Paul Gaultier: Blood Drip Faux Fur Coat Autumn/Winter 1998

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@grimfate

A pale woman with eyebrows so plucked they were barely visible, her red hair snagged and twisted round into an unmanaged bun sat atop her charmless expression. Her company was as disheveled, a spindly creature teetering on puncture marked limbs. Knock-kneeing past the hazards of the floor, crunching liquor bottles bravely beneath the rubbery bottoms of flip-flops so wornthin that the print of her step was permanently cast into the soles. The two joined each other in a mirror streaked with a web of cracks.

The imagination had to stretch to picture the building's original all-white interior. Decrepitude had eaten all clean things. Human filth and the obstinate mother nature reclaimed what were once aisles and aisles of products. Picked naked, now rusted in service as shelves for the belongings of the squatters: heavy clothes and blankets to combat the unseasonably late winter cold, drug paraphernalia, and a number of spray paint cans.

The pair of their voices were bonedry and thin. Speaking the same plea of "Candyman" without rhythm, without unity, awkwardly attempting to align the speed of their tongues and never finding each other. Incompatible, but determined, they stop at their respective fifth chants.

Walls barely-lit by yellowed floodlights read sweets to the sweet looking wet to the touch. The smell of the acrid aerosol gets stronger towards the building's bathroom.

And copper. An eye-stinging amount of copper. Wet burbling is overwhelmed by a sharp yelp, an ecstatic cry belting from behind the ajar bathroom door. To each plunging pound that lands, an unwieldly and dripping type of music, she harmonized with curses of desperation. Quieter, and quieter. And when she longer sang, her martyred body was heard colliding into the sink.

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Candyman (1992)

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HERMANN NITSCH

Schüttbild, 1963.

Red dispersion paint on thinly primed burlap

Ketterer Kunst

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True evil is, above all things, seductive. When the devil knocks at your door he doesn’t have cloven hooves. He is beautiful and offers you your heart’s desire in whispered airs. Like a siren, beckoning you to her ruinous shore.

Penny Dreadful, from ‘And Hell Itself My Only Foe’

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The bulb glows.

Light banishes the black shapes cast by slim toiletries and lumpy bath towels. Gone are shadows of pillars, and shadows deceptively manshaped, vanished. Electricity travels round and round a closed circuit, summoned by the hand on the light switch, doing what it habitually does: it buzzed.

When he emerged from the bathroom the sound was as present as ever, with him even as he went through his belongings. The task required more effort than it ought to as if sleep was sticking in the joints, wanting to gum them up, to slow him down. The bed seemed the better option than unpacking, that perhaps a nap might cure the onset of heaviness. Fingers slip beneath folds of fabric, stung with sensation across the unsuspecting pads. If or when the hand retreats, out tumbles a shower of jewels from the bag. Bright colored crinkle papers in a gaudy arrangement of hues - brilliant blood red, toxic neon orange, and unnatural green. Hard candies.

Something vicious masquerades as inviting sweets. Did it draw blood?

One of the jovial twists that sealed the paper around the treats comes aloose, parted open like a flower in its season. Pressed secretly inside, gleaming silver, the bathroom light winks over the thin edge of a razor blade.

Falcor hums quietly as he worked, reading through his books. Legends of this man who had died and came back vengeful. He liked to learn about humans mysteries, of course. He didn't have much hope for finding anything substantial, since he'd looked into the Legend Of Bloody Mary before and found nothing except information on Mary Tudor, who earned her moniker 'Bloody Mary' for her relentless pursuit on protestants in the medieval era. This story seemed almost the same, only you chanted the name five times instead of three.

"So cry out so you can see, five times, to hail a legacy." he hums. "He's the Candyman." But was it real? Most of what he could find was a racially motivated crime in the 1800s of a man who was attacked, and died as a result. Daniel Robitaille. But there wasn't much else. So he turned to the locals, to ask about him.

Supposedly, after he died, right where Cabrini-green stands now, he came back a vengeful spirit and kills anyone who looks in a mirror and says 'candyman' five times. Falcor was hesitant to try this, as after he tried the Bloody Mary one, nothing happened. But he was nothing if not persistent.

He gathers his items, placing them in his bag before heading out to his apartment. He sets his stuff down and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and turned the light off. Finally, he looks into his dimly lit reflection. "Alright, let's see if you're real." He says, and takes a deep breath.

"Candyman. Candyman. Candyman. Candyman. Candyman." It was quiet as he finished. Way too quiet. He couldn't even hear the electrical humming from the outlet anymore. He examines his reflection. Something was definitely different. But after a few minutes of silence, and seeing nothing, he turns, to turn the light back on and leave the bathroom. As he turned his head, he caught a glimpse of curved metal in the mirror. His gaze snapped back to look at the mirror. Gone.. maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. He clicks the light back on, and exits the bathroom, to go unpack his bag.

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Federico García Lorca, from Blood Wedding

Text ID: violent and filled with great sensuality.

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“You can love a monster, it can even love you back, but that doesn’t change its nature.”

— Eliza Crewe, Crushed

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candyman, what is he?

to see him is to know, without a doubt, that you have always known him. known him as an entity in that place kept for terrors.

he clings to history as difficult to endure hearing as they are to tell. you need these shows and shams to keep your interest. you need a trauma too loud to ignore. his Existence & Immortality is achieved by a cycle of ageless oral tradition, supping the chill of fear felt by people when sharing Candyman's story. Candyman has worn the faces of many different tragedies, but his current conscription is the spirit and tale of daniel robitaille. they influence one another, and would not be so easily separated. where Candyman ends and daniel begins, who's to say?

it is why he must defend the rules: summoning him will end in bloodshed, or else there will be doubters, and soon no one will carry on their lips his legacy

candyman, what is his power?

MENTAL INDUCEMENT: TO PUSH THE MIND TO A DESIRED STATE ADDICTIVE CONTENTMENT: TO CAUSE OTHERS TO FEEL EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT FANATICISM MANIPULATION: TO INDOCTRINATE OTHERS INTO FANATICAL OBSESSION

And you will be enchanted upon witnessing him. By his voice, by his fetching display, by the buzz from his body. You will have to fight to resist the rapture. You think you know he means you as much harm as romance. he is the Power of Seduction, speaking like an old lover, it is courtship simply to be looked at by him. He drains the strength from your limbs when he reaches for you with offerings.

The sweetness he offers is life without living: was to be dead, but remembered everywhere; immortal in gossip and graffiti. he offers to put You in his story, by being his victim.

You must consent, either by summoning him or by obliging him when he asks for you to forfeit your life over to him.

Once summoned by the ritual of speaking his name five times in a mirror, he can do much more than suddenly appear and slay you where you stand. he can haunt you as he sees fit, invisible or visible at his whim, either as only a reflection or with a physical form, appear anywhere at any time, and extend his violence to anyone close enough to your vicinity.

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Daniel Archer