There's a quarter of an idea at the start, and half an idea at the end, which sandwiches a film that lacks and tension, comedy, or ability to meet Stephen King's work at the level it's putting out.

The short story this is based on isn't exactly deep stuff, but like many of King's short stories, there's enough to build something really interesting and great with.

As it is, The Monkey is muddled, misguided, and stuck in the ingredients phase of the recipe. It's akin to cracking eggs, turfing flour in a bowl, and adding three tablespoons of baking powder because you misread the steps, and then saying 'done?'

Not that all horror films need to be allegories, but there's hints that The Monkey could have looked at colonialism and stolen goods, then it abandons that for some kind of brother vendetta narrative that is juvenile in a trite and trivial way. Then, it wraps up with a button point about death being a part of life and that we just have to keep dancing.

And while I'd usually embrace that mindset, the film doesn't really earn the weight of that thought. Instead, it just ends up like many of the victims in the film: exploding in a burst of bloody confetti at a funeral. Out of place, a little tacky, and has everyone asking 'wait, why?'