For nearly two decades, Marvel’s Disneyfied Cinematic Universe has swaddled audiences in a cozy lil’ family-friendly safety blanket. Comic book adaptations, at least in theaters, resemble a dependable brand of PG-13 squeakiness. That’s why Clayface is such an exciting antidote to modern capes-and-spandex flicks. It’s like watching Swamp Thing for the first time; superhero features can be icky, graphic, and nightmarish. Horror filmmakers James Watkins and Mike Flanagan wade into the muck that makes up DC’s moldable Batman villain, embracing the rated-R despicableness of a monstrous horror-first superhero experience.
Tom Rhys Harries stars as Matt Hagen, an Oscar-nominated actor on the verge of a career breakout. That’s until he beds a Gotham mob boss’ promiscuous partner, who orders his goons to slice Hagen’s face into a patchwork money-killer. The performer’s life falls apart; his agent bails, his finances plummet, and he’s left with a mangled profile that scares Hollywood away. Hagen’ll do anything to restore his dashing looks, which is where fringe scientist Dr. Caitlyn Corr (Naomi Ackie) and her nanobot research come in. Hagen demands to be her first human trial, hoping Corr’s regenerative serum can heal his disfigurement—which it does, but not without life-changing side effects.
The combo of Watkins and Flanagan—Hossein Amini also gets a co-writer credit—is a harmonious team-up. Flanagan’s penchant for human tragedy establishes Clayface’s harrowing origin, peering into a broken soul: a man with a million faces who can now rearrange his likeness to literally wear any mask. Then there’s Watkins’ blunt English bleakness (Eden Lake, Speak No Evil), which doesn’t shy away from the devastating consequences of Hagen’s Clayface antics. The task is anything but simple: tell a sympathetic story that establishes a villain’s motivations. Impressively, Watkins details the Icarus-like downfall of pretty-boy Matt Hagen while staying mean, compassionate, and playful throughout.
Harries locks in as the eventual Clayface, weaponizing his hunky appearance for Hagen’s prototypical Hollywood heartthrob. His performance carries anti-hero bravery for so long, only to morph under the corrosive toxicity of vengeance. Hagen is gorgeous enough to get a free pass to the A-List, which Harries uses to his advantage in a film that heavily satirizes the vapidness of Hollywood’s celebrity culture. But then he lets the bastard take over, contrasting a mercenary menace with Hagen’s softer, smushier exterior. Anger unlocks his most dangerous abilities—whether he uses them to hurt or help is the film’s greatest source of suspense.
Clayface is a shockingly brutal body-horror venture inspired by Batman: The Animated Series’ “Feat of Clay” episodes. Hagen mercilessly bludgeons a henchman’s brains into smithereens in a shocking execution, pulling the gore factor above suffocation by stretchy skin—but it’s more about Clayface’s figure. He’s the victim of an experiment gone ballistic, which feeds a steady diet of melty, lumpy VFX. Hagen’s body droops like a wax candle under intense heat, which can get grotesque when snipping eyelid gunk that’s fused together. It’s never particularly scary, more unnerving like The Fly or The Invisible Man—but that doesn’t negate the intense bloodshed or visual gnarliness typically kept away from today’s comic book audiences.
However, some aspects of Watkins’ mobland noir feel underserved or less well executed. Where certain deaths will have viewers picking flesh chunks out of their popcorn, one particularly lackluster kill underwhelms by elastic A Nightmare on Elm Street remake standards. Ackie might click into place as Hagen’s Dr. Frankenstein slash Veronica Quaife, but Max Minghella’s Gotham detective, Dr. Corr’s fiancé, introduces a predictable love-triangle dynamic. Flanagan’s story concept is in his wheelhouse—examining Hagen’s ego, a man hiding from his demons behind false personas—but the list of betrayals he confronts can feel run-of-the-mill in terms of narrative momentum.
Still, Clayface has plenty of fun bucking superhero trends because he’s no superhero; morality doesn’t bog down his actions. Watkins manipulates mirrors and uses Clayface’s blink-and-he’s-changed disguises as an eerie trick, exposing Matt’s subconscious thoughts like inevitable impulses. There’s also a grungy sleaze to the gangster types, like Hagen’s hunting Dick Tracy caricatures. As violence erupts, Watkins doesn’t hold back—it gets sicker and gnarlier as Hagen learns about his regenerative powers and how his blood always returns to his body. We see Hagen’s mutation for who he is: a Gotham villain who wants to see his foes suffer in ways they cannot comprehend.
Plus a cheeky flash mob thrown in for a choreography boost? I’m not complaining.
Clayface is a successful origin feature that isn’t afraid to wade into Gotham’s sludgiest arcs. Harries stands out as a protagonist worth caring about and a villain worth fearing, hopefully to return. Horror influences are loud when called upon and surely proud, making for an uncharacteristically vile and traumatic brand of DC storytelling that sings under the watch of James Gunn (a brilliant horror creator in his own right). It might never be as low-down as Watkins’ prior works, or as heartrendingly rich as Flanagan’s opuses, but Clayface benefits from both approaches. Truly, and I mean this with adoration, Marvel could never.
Movie Score: 3.5/5