Osgood Perkins’ adaptation of Stephen King’s The Monkey is a brooding, relentless exploration of inherited trauma, guilt, and the inescapable grip of fate. Unlike the more bombastic horror offerings of recent years, The Monkey operates on a slow burn, weaving an unsettling atmosphere that tightens its grip with each turn of the cursed wind-up toy’s key. With Perkins’ trademark eerie stillness and a production led by horror maestro James Wan, this is a film that feels both deeply intimate and utterly terrifying.
At its core, The Monkey is not just about a cursed object—it’s about the fraying ties of family, the wounds we pass down, and the price of unresolved grief. Theo James delivers a remarkable dual performance as twins Hal and Bill Shelburn, embodying their starkly different personalities with an intensity that makes their estrangement all the more tragic. James captures Hal’s weary resignation and Bill’s cruel unpredictability with a performance that is as nuanced as it is unsettling. Christian Convery as their younger selves cements the deep-seated fractures that define their relationship, laying the groundwork for the film’s devastating emotional arc.
The film’s structure is built upon two timelines: the past, where young Hal and Bill first discover the sinister monkey that seems to trigger grisly deaths at random, and the present, where Hal, now a distant and broken man, is forced to confront the malevolent force he thought he had buried. Perkins handles these time jumps with surgical precision, allowing each reveal to land with a weight that lingers long after the moment has passed.
Tatiana Maslany delivers an affecting performance as Lois, the twins’ doomed mother, whose untimely demise remains a source of lingering guilt and trauma. Her presence, though brief, haunts the film in the best possible way—her memory shaping the choices and fears that drive her children to the brink. The film’s supporting cast, including a compelling turn from Rohan Campbell as Ricky, a troubled young man unknowingly drawn into the monkey’s orbit, adds layers of tension that deepen the film’s impact.
Perkins’ direction is patient, favoring creeping dread over cheap thrills. The monkey itself, a grotesque relic of malevolent intent, is never overused. Instead, its presence is felt more than seen, with the sound of its relentless drumming acting as a harbinger of death. When violence does erupt, it is swift, brutal, and often shockingly creative—particularly a motel pool sequence that turns from serene to grotesque in a matter of seconds.
The film’s climax, a reckoning decades in the making, unfolds with operatic intensity. Bill, long convinced that Hal was responsible for their mother’s death, finally gets his moment of revenge, only for the monkey’s uncontrollable hunger for chaos to turn against him. The sequence, which sees Bill desperately trying to manipulate the cursed toy’s rules, builds to a tragic inevitability, underscoring the film’s central theme: no one truly escapes their past.
The final scene—Hal and his son Petey driving through a decimated town, forever bound to the monkey’s curse—carries a heavy emotional weight. The appearance of the pale horseman, a chilling nod to the inescapable specter of death, solidifies The Monkey as a horror film that isn’t interested in easy resolutions. Perkins leaves us with a sense of dread that lingers long after the credits roll, a reminder that some curses aren’t meant to be lifted.
While The Monkey may not be for those seeking relentless jump scares, its unsettling atmosphere, powerful performances, and deeply psychological horror make it one of the most compelling Stephen King adaptations in years. It’s a film that understands that the scariest monsters aren’t just supernatural—they’re the ones that live within us, waiting for the right moment to wake up and start drumming again.
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