Henry Rollins Harnesses His Inner Philosophical Meathead In The Horror-Dramedy Hybrid ‘He Never Died’

Like Ice-T or Denis Leary, Henry Rollins is the kind of actor who is essentially plays himself in every role. Usually that role is of a cop, prison guard, neo-Nazi, or some other caricature of hyper-masculinity, which is fitting because the former Black Flag frontman’s off-screen persona is a caricature of hyper-masculinity.

However, when you’re going to have Rollins step out of his comfort zone, and play, say, a centuries old Biblical figure who feasts off of human flesh and is doomed to walk the earth for eternity in retribution for his brother’s murder, then you have to make an extra effort to solidify that fourth wall.

How does the dark, horror-dramedy hybrid He Never Died make the effort to differentiate between Rollins the professional loudmouth and the Old Testament cautionary tale Cain? Mainly by covering up several of the punk singer’s trademark tattoos. It sounds like such a little thing, but it makes a big difference. Trust me, nothing takes me out of a movie faster than seeing the giant sun tattoo that reminds me that this is Henry Rollins and not whatever hockey coach/drill sergeant/rogue cyberpunk street doctor he’s supposed to be portraying.

For starters, filmmaker Jason Krawczyk had the foresight to erase both the tell-tale Black Flag bars from the back of Rollins’ neck and the giant “Search & Destroy” backpiece. I included helpful arrows so that you can see where the tattoos would usually be.

Here’s a black-and-white Henry IRL:

And here he is as Cain:

Krawczyk also had the trademark Einstürzende Neubauten tattoo on Rollins’ right shoulder covered, because the last thing you want to be thinking about is how this immortal Old Testament holdover got into collecting experimental German industrial records from the ‘80s.

So far so good, right? Well, there’s a hiccup in the tattoo strategy. When Rollins’ character Jack goes into his giant chest of money to pay his landlady, we see brief flash of his Misfits tattoo reminding us that all though this character is supposed to be exhausted by the relentless monotony of eternal life and the constant torment by his insatiable hunger for human flesh, he did spend over thirty of his couple thousand years on Earth in a close friendship with Glenn Danzig.

However, it was pretty clever to turn the Black Flag bars on his left bicep into this modified train-track design, just in case we didn’t start thinking about how the Biblical figure who slaughtered Abel out of unmitigated jealousy slept in the shed in the back of Greg Ginn’s parents’ house during his punk rock salad days.

Aside from modifying the telltale Rollins signifiers, Hank does seem to bring a lot of himself into the role of a tormented doomed to exist in an eternal agony. The clipped sarcasm is just a reined in version of the wit he exudes in his spoken word engagements, and damn if it isn’t effective. Sure, the man looks like a military school gym teacher, but he also knows a thing or two about comedic timing.

Also, there’s something that feels very emotionally closed off about Rollins’ public persona as a curmudgeonly punk elder statesman. He’s rarely known to be involved in romantic relationships and in interviews he’s talked about how his relentless touring schedule is likely a buffer to avoid facing personal demons. That’s the curious thing about people with the that bulldog persona. Rollins channels that guarded, unknowable quality into Jack, a guy who cloisters himself away in a dark, dingy apartment and dusty bingo halls because the presence of a bunch of used up old elderly folks is less distracting than the more younger, glorified buffets walking around with fresh blood coursing through their veins.

Of course, Jack’s ascetic lifestyle hits some complications despite the simple routine he worked out for himself, including eating bland food served by an adorable diner waitress with an inexplicable crush on him. That trope where the warm, cute, and nurturing women is inherently curious about the weird older guy who keeps to himself is some serious Writer Wish Fulfillment™ bullshit. Trust me, I used to be a waitress. I wanted nothing to do with the older men who came into the coffee shop and sat alone all brooding, barely masking their inner turmoil. Mostly women at service jobs dread having those guys start a conversation with them, much less actively try to pry personal information out of those dudes.

And then there’s the very Joss Whedon-esque deal where he buys his food —aka spare human parts— from the dirtbag intern at the local hospital. The whole transaction feels like a homage to the Buffy-verse, given how Angel tried to resist his vampiric nature by subsisting off of blood purchased from the local blood bank on the sly.

Jack’s struggle with his inherent appetite is likened to an addict’s struggle to stay sober. In real life, Rollins doesn’t drink or do drugs, not because he had a problem, but because he places a premium on tenacity and discipline. In other words, he’s a control freak. However, when Jack “falls off the wagon” and indulges his appetite for blood, this is what happens:

Also this:

God forbid we find out how the real Rollins would act out if someone stuck a funnel down his throat and cracked open a bottle of Jim Beam.

Jack is at his most uncomfortable when he’s forced to meet the daughter he never knew he had. The last time he had sex was 19 years ago, which resulted in Andrea, the stereotypical wayward drunk and promiscuous teen that male screenwriters seem to uniformly think results from growing up without a father figure. Given Andrea’s natural curiosity and desire to get close to her dad and Jack’s inherent aloofness, and reluctance to form bonds with other human beings at the risk of eating them, this movie had a real chance of turning into Bad Santa meets The Terminator (that is, if the Terminator needed to eat people for fuel). At one point, Jack even says “I’ll be back!” Sans accent, of course.

Jack ultimately relents and allows Andrea to stay at his dark cave of an apartment and if you think he made the chivalrous gesture of offering his daughter his bed while he crashed out on the loveseat, think again.

The possibility of this movie devolving into an schmaltzy odd couple father-daughter bonding film is subverted when Jack chases Andrea out of his apartment upon the threat of eating her and she is ultimately kidnapped and tortured in an organized crime plot too silly and convoluted to recount here.

Essentially, Jack and everyone he meets is terrorized by the Bad News Bears of the criminal underworld. For starters, all of the discount mobsters use flip phones. I realize they’re probably burners, but how am I supposed to take a crime boss with a flip phone seriously in the Year of our Lord 2016?

Sure, He Never Died is uneven, but it’s ambitious. It’s trying to be profound, and funny, and provocative. It doesn’t always hit the mark, but it’s ultimately a fun ride.

As for Rollins. He doesn’t have a lot of range. He knows he doesn’t have a lot of range. Anyone with working eyes and ears knows that he’s not a Daniel Day Lewis caliber chameleon. However, when he’s used well, he’s compelling and charming. Sure, it was ambitious to cast him as an implied angel with his wings clipped rather than the bodyguard for a money launderer, but he still got to harness his inner philosophical meathead.

[Watch He Never Died on Netflix]

Maggie Serota is a Staff Editor at Death and Taxes and a freelance writer who loves TV more than life itself.