The Monkey

This is the perfect dumb movie—just smart enough to keep you engaged, just dumb enough to remind you that the details don’t really matter. From the opening ten minutes, you’re launched headfirst into the 1980’s  cocaine-fueled, self-serious, and utterly wacky world of Stephen King. It nails the tone, embracing both its absurdity and its sincerity, culminating in something wildly entertaining.

This is the kind of film best watched with a group of friends, cheap beer in hand, ready to roast every ridiculous twist. It’s not meant to be dissected with scholarly intent but rather praised in gleeful, tongue-in-cheek admiration—the way all great over-the-top horror should be. The film is heavily steeped in irony and cynicism; it should be celebrated in the same spirit.

If there’s a flaw, it’s that the film’s central conceit—nihilistic, over-the-top deaths doubling as a loose metaphor for generational trauma—wears thin fast. The more CGI-heavy and cartoonish the carnage became, the less invested I felt. One particular sequence involving thousands of bees nearly lost me entirely.

But what saves the film, what elevates it from B-movie schlock to something genuinely memorable, is the cast. They play it with just the right mix of sensitivity and humor, selling the madness with total commitment. 

I walked in expecting disappointment. I walked out pleasantly surprised. This is the kind of horror movie that thrives on its own excess—teetering between brilliance and absurdity, never quite collapsing under its own weight. It’s messy and occasionally exhausting, but that’s part of the fun. You don’t watch a film like this for restraint; you watch it to see just how far off the rails it can go. And on that front, it absolutely delivers.