The deep horror roots of the sinister simian wind-up toy in “The Monkey”
The Monkey
Starring Theo James, Tatiana Maslany, Colin O’Brien & Christian Convery
Directed by Osgood Perkins
Rated R
In theaters Friday, Feb. 21
As a horror flick, The Monkey certainly has its bona fides. It’s based on a 1980 short story by horror maestro Steven King, inspired by a much older classic creepy tale, The Monkey’s Paw, by British author W.W. Jacobs. One of the producers is James Wan, the creator of Saw, Insidious and The Conjuring franchises. The director, Osgood Perkins, made last year’s Longlegs, a wild ride of freakish serial-killer disturbia with Nicolas Cage and a demonic doll. And the director is the son of Anthony Perkins, forever enshrined in the halls of horror as the cray-cray, cross-dressing Norman Bates in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic Psycho.
Here, murder and mayhem swirl around a wind-up monkey “toy” that unleashes all kinds of hellzapoppin’ when someone turns the “key” on its back, making its mechanical arms start to bang on a drum. As a drummer myself, hey, I get it—some people don’t think much of drum solos. But at least no one’s ever died, as far as I know, because I dig into a roll or a few paradiddles.
Theo James (from the dystopian Divergent films, and season two of The White Lotus) plays double roles as the adult versions of twin brothers, Hal and Bill, who’ve grown up loathing each other. As kids (both effectively played by Christian Convery, from Netflix’s Sweet Tooth) rummaging through their dad’s collection of souvenir curios, they discover a box containing the monkey. “Turn the key and see what happens” is the instruction on a label on the monkey’s back.
What happens when the key gets turned is spectacularly bad news. People start to die, in twistedly inventive, Rube Goldberg-ian ways—decapitated by a flying knife at a Japanese steakhouse, trampled to death in a sleeping bag by wild horses, mangled by a lawnmower, beheaded by a cannonball, eviscerated with a speargun in a pawn shop. No one is safe when this monkey gets cranked.
Unlike some other evil “objects” or playthings (like the dolls in Chuckie, Anabelle, M3GAN or The Boy), the monkey doesn’t participate or engage in the mayhem. It doesn’t come alive and pick up a kitchen knife, like the South America voodoo doll in Trilogy of Terror, chasing Karen Black in the made-for-TV shocker back in 1975, or directly menace Telly Savalas like Talking Tina, the “Living Doll” on that 1963 episode of The Twilight Zone. This sinister simian is more a silent summoner of evil, an inscrutable avatar for the deep, dark pit of existential unknowable-ness, staring us down with a relentless, unsettling grin and a drumbeat heralding doom…for someone.
Elijah Wood (Frodo from The Hobbit-verse) has a scene as a gonzo parenting guru, and the director himself slips into the role of Hal and Bill’s swinger uncle.
The movie, which often feels like a smart-ass comedic spoof and send-up of horror cliches, runs on gleeful, ghoulish humor and an embrace of its own wild, wooly weirdness—like the school cheerleaders who show up to rah-rah-sis-boom-bah at murder scenes. It’s also got a subtext about fathers and sons, deadbeat dads, the various toxicities that families “pass down” through generations, and the infallible truth that we’ll all inevitably meet our expiration date someday. The movie even literalizes a line from the Book or Revelation: “And I looked and beheld a pale horse. And his name that sat on him was Death.” Giddy-up!
“Everybody dies,” the boy’s mother (Tatiana Maslany) tells them, after the funeral of their babysitter. “That’s life.”
That’s certainly life with The Monkey, where a twist of its key always brings an insanely over-the-top, spectacularly splattery encounter with the grim reaper. Who’ll be next? How many more people will die? Is the Monkey the devil? Can it be stopped?
And can you ever hear the retro grooves of Sam Cooke’s “Twistin’ the Night Away” again without thinking of a grinning keyed-up monkey, lopped-off heads, killer bees, and how a cobra can leap out of a golf course hole and clamp down on your jugular?
—Neil Pond
The Media Tourist 