Before our screening of The Monkey, we were told not to expect anything like writer-director Osgood Perkins’ previous film, Longlegs.  That turned out to be the only honest moment of the evening.  Where Longlegs built suspense with creeping dread, this (very) loose adaptation of Stephen King’s short story drowns in gratuitous gore, uninterested in crafting anything truly unnerving.  If you’re looking for surface-level scares, they’re here in abundance—but don’t expect the precision and restraint that made Longlegs such a standout.  Instead, The Monkey plays like a gory teaser for Final Destination fans waiting on the next installment (due in May, by the way), with Perkins focusing more on elaborate kill sequences than actual tension.

The film follows twin brothers Hal and Bill (Christian Convery as kids, Theo James as adults) and their father’s old toy monkey—a sinister object that seems to trigger a series of grisly deaths.  Determined to break the curse, they find a way to ensure it can never be played with again.  Years later, when they think they’ve moved on, the monkey’s deadly influence resurfaces, forcing Hal to confront the past as he searches for his twin.  It’s a premise that could work—King’s original short story was a lean, effective slice of supernatural horror—but Perkins opts for excess over suspense, trading creeping unease for splattery, over-the-top set pieces that land somewhere between grotesque and unintentionally funny.

There’s no denying that The Monkey is technically well-made.  Cinematographer Nico Aguilar finds creative ways to frame the carnage, using shadows and reflections to build fleeting moments of tension.  Edo Van Breemen’s eerie score tries to inject some atmosphere, while Danny Vermette’s production design leans into a grimy, decayed aesthetic tailor-made for horror fans.  But all the craft in the world can’t save a film that doesn’t seem to know what it wants to be.  At times, The Monkey flirts with being a darkly self-aware gorefest; at others, it indulges in overwrought melodrama that clashes with its gleefully nasty instincts.

The performances reflect this tonal confusion.  James (Mr. Malcolm’s List) does solid work as the adult Hal and Bill, but the two brothers feel so disconnected that different actors might as well play them.  Convery’s stiff performance as the younger twins makes it hard to invest in the trauma meant to drive the story forward.  Tatiana Maslany (The Vow), as their mother Lois, seems to be in an entirely different movie—a strange mix of John Waters’s camp and Frank Capra’s sincerity. 

Elijah Wood (No Man of God) fans can leave after his first scene (because that’s all there is of him), his oddball self-help guru more of a sideshow attraction for name recognition than an essential character.  And then there’s Adam Scott, who shows up for a cameo that should be a fun surprise but instead feels like a Hey, look! It’s Adam Scott! moment.  Continuing to take these shapeless, thankless roles (hello, Madame Web!) only serves to dilute Scott’s brand.  Starring in Apple TV+’s Severance won’t make him a movie star.

But The Monkey’s biggest failure is how completely it ignores what made King’s short story work in the first place.  King understood that horror often works best when it’s left to the imagination—he let the cursed monkey’s evil seep into the reader’s mind rather than forcing it on them with buckets of blood.  Perkins, on the other hand, has no interest in subtlety.  He leans into excess with all the finesse of a sledgehammer, mistaking gore for genuine fear.  Even the film’s scattered nods to other King works feel haphazard, as if Perkins is tossing in Easter eggs to distract from how far he’s strayed from the source material.

The Monkey is an overly earnest but ultimately hollow entry in the horror genre.  It’ll find fans among those who judge a film by how many times they have to look away, but anyone hoping for a return to the carefully constructed tension of Longlegs will be left frustrated.  Horror thrives on atmosphere, tension, and knowing when to hold back.  Perkins, unfortunately, chooses the easy route, letting excess stand in for craft.  The result? A film that’s more exhausting than terrifying—one that, much like its cursed toy, might be best left forgotten.