Candyman: Day of the Dead

Daniel Robitaille was my great-great-grandfather.

He was the son of a slave

who fell in love with a white woman.

When they were found out,

a mob dragged him into a field

and sawed off his right hand.

They took honeycomb from a beehive

and covered his body in honey.

A swarm of bees attacked and killed him.

That is one messed-up way to die.

They say he came back from the dead,

his hand replaced by a bloody hook.

You call his name five times into a mirror and he appears.

And when he comes,

he'll be the last thing you ever see.

They call him the "Candyman."

Come on.

You called his name five times and nothing happened, right?

I've never done it.

No shit.

Okay.

Come on.

What are you doing?

I guess I'll just have to prove this to you.

Five times, right?

No. No, no, no. Don't do this.

It's for your own good.

All right.

Candyman.

All right.

Candyman.

Okay, I get your point.

Candyman.

Candyman.

You're right.

- He doesn't exist. - Right.

- It's just a story. - Yes.

That's what I've been trying to tell you.

Now, get your little ass over to the gallery

and get the show over with.

Gosh, I'm late for my audition.

Señora! Señora!

No habla español.

Candy! Candy! Candy!

They're for the Day of the Dead.

A dollar!

Oh! No, thank you. No, I couldn't.

Go ahead. A gift from me to you.

Okay. Thank you.

On the Day of the Dead,

it reminds us that death is sweet.

Personally,

I'd like to take a bite out of death.

Feliz Día de los Muertos.

Sweets to the sweet.

Shit.

Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

The whole urban myth was based on this bad boy,

and I got his paintings.

Ha ha! That's right, homes. It's authenticated.

Hold on one second.

Guys, that's leaning to the left.

Yeah. Yeah. Jeffrey, listen.

I'm talking a killer show, all right?

Now you're a fucking art critic.

You're not gonna see anything like this.

Yeah, you'll have an exclusive.

Just get your ass down here, okay?

- You asshole. - Hold on one second.

You held out on me, ruca.

You didn't tell me this was the Candyman.

This is the reason I didn't tell you.

Mickey, you can't do this.

Jeffrey? Jeffrey?

Can I call you back in about 10 minutes?

All right. Peace.

- Now, baby... - No.

Daniel Robitaille was an artist,

not some monster with a hook.

This is unfair. It's bullshit.

Okay. All right. Take a breath, please.

I want people to know Daniel Robitaille the man,

not some twisted urban myth.

Yeah, I hear you, baby.

Guys, lift up the left side, please?

- Mickey! - What?

You turned this show into exactly what I didn't want.

It's just an angle, baby.

I'll pull the paintings, Mickey.

I own them.

All right, look, let's chill.

Now, I agreed to show the paintings,

but I did it to promote my gallery.

Now, these pieces, they're good.

They're fucking great, but I need an angle.

I mean, come on!

Saturday's the Day of the Dead. It's synergy.

You cannot buy promotion like this.

I make a name for the gallery,

and you get a lot more people

to hear your side of the story, right?

Right?

Relax.

I'll honor the dead.

Man, that's not straight.

Hold on one second.

Left side, pendejos. Left side.

- Miguel? - Yeah, babe.

There's a guy here to see you.

Aw, shit.

What? Who are they?

Cops.

Kraft. Sacco.

So...

looks like you're having another opening night tonight.

Everything up to code?

Got all your licenses in place?

Yeah.

All the paperwork's in back.

But I'm sure you guys will find some way to bust my balls.

You always do.

Yeah.

Your kind's always up to something.

Is that all? 'Cause I'm busy.

Yeah.

Get back to your business... "Mig-well."

Catch you later.

Miss.

L.A.'s finest assholes.

So, it was nice to see you.

Good to see you.

It has been a long time.

Well, you know, busy at the office.

You okay?

I don't know if this show was a good idea.

It's not going the way I wanted.

Ow!

What's blood for...

if not for shedding?

Ohh.

Excuse me.

So...

Who was Daniel Robitaille?

And why did he become the Candyman?

It all began when a Confederate Army colonel

hired the young black artist

to paint the portrait of his only daughter,

Caroline.

They fell in love.

And it was love as forbidden as it was passionate.

When they were discovered,

the Colonel gathered an angry mob

and chased him down like an animal.

They tied him to a tree

where his body was ravaged by bees.

Uhh!

Aah!

Candyman!

Candyman! Candyman!

Aah!

Candyman!

By the time the mob chanted his name

for the fifth and final time,

Daniel Robitaille was dead.

Stories of the Candyman

spread throughout the black population of the South.

They said the hate that had killed the young artist

had created something evil.

Hate generates hate.

Evil breeds evil.

This man couldn't lash out in life.

But in death, that... that hate,

that evil was strong enough to bring him back,

to reclaim what was taken away.

Do any of you dare call his name?

Do you?

Daniel Robitaille was just a man.

Ladies and gentlemen,

Daniel Robitaille's great-great-granddaughter

Caroline McKeever. Give her a hand.

I think it's sad that this wonderful artist's memory

is overshadowed by all those stories.

It's not who Daniel Robitaille was.

The soul of a good man is reflected in these paintings.

That is what's real.

He should be remembered for what he left behind:

His art,

not the terrible myth

that has haunted my family for years.

But...

what about the Candyman?

Huh?

How can you deny the stories?

I don't believe in him or the story.

Prove it.

Call his name five times in the mirror.

No, I'm not gonna play this game.

Why not? You afraid he might appear?

No.

But in the back of your mind,