Occasionally, a Stephen King adaptation appears that doesn’t just scare you—it takes you by the throat, shakes you up, and taunts you. Osgood Perkins’ The Monkey is such a ride. Having scored big with his chilling Longlegs, Perkins takes a hard swing in the other direction, appropriating the anarchy of King’s short story and twisting it into a bloody, dark comedy spectacular. Think less brooding terror and more “what the hell did I just see?
“—in the best possible sense. The setup begins like a typical King scenario, then goes happily off the rails into insanity. Twin brothers Hal and Bill—both portrayed in adulthood by Theo James—discover their deceased father’s childhood toy monkey in the attic, an innocent-looking wind-up organ grinder’s monkey with a lethal party trick: each time it rings its cymbals, someone dies in gruesomely nasty circumstances. Childhood efforts to dispose of it are unsuccessful, and later in life, the murders start up again, reuniting the estranged brothers for one final confrontation.
The movie even begins with Adam Scott as a desperate fellow attempting—and failing—to be rid of the accursed thing, establishing an early blood-soaked tone.
It’s not the premise that sets The Monkey apart, although that is plenty interesting. It’s the forceful, unapologetic way Perkins commits to the lunacy. He doesn’t respectfully tip the hat toward the horror-comedy genre; he cannonballs into it with gusto, splashing forth waves of over-the-top kills, splashes of slapstick, and gallons of blood.
Every kill is orchestrated with unique inventiveness, the practical effects convincing in their tactile, old-fashioned appeal. Theo James is the film’s secret ingredient, delivering a tart double turn. His Hal is the cynical but level-headed brother you want to root for, giving deadpan lines and unexpected flashes of emotion. Bill, on the other hand, is more twitchy and volatile, allowing James to get into a more erratic streak.
Young actors Christian Convery and his co-star, as the child Hal and Bill, set the emotional foundation early on, revealing how the monkey’s violent past left its impression. The supporting cast is filled with familiar faces, all contributing a burst of offbeat, memorable energy. Tatiana Maslany steals a scene in a quick but memorable turn as the mother of the twins. Rohan Campbell, Sarah Levy, and Adam Scott all drop in, some for cameo flashes, but all contributing to the film’s zany patchwork.
There’s also a surprise father-son subplot between Hal and his son Petey (Colin O’Brien) that brings a surprising amount of heart in the midst of bloodshed.
From a craftsmanship perspective, Perkins and his team enjoyed themselves with this one. The kills are set up with clever creativity, the sound effects deliver every cymbal smash like a kick to the gut, and the camerawork embraces bright, garish colors that underscore the film’s dark humor. The monkey itself is just straight-up nightmare fuel—it’s motionless, it’s silent, and yet somehow evil-looking every time it shows up.
Critics have praised Perkins for striking the tricky balance between horror and comedy without losing momentum. The pacing never lets up, jumping from one outrageous set piece to the next, and the finale is pure controlled chaos—so wild you’ll want to rewind just to see how it all came together.
For King devotees, the movie hits the author’s wickedly acidic sense of humor and readiness to be mean-spirited, even if it takes liberties with the original tale. For moderate viewers, it’s just a hoot—a sidesplitting combination of giggles, screams, and jaw-dropping thrills. The Monkey isn’t around to complain or moralize; it’s around to kill you, scare the living daylights out of you, and make you laugh all at once. Wind it up, set it spinning, and watch the corpses drop.
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