When Hitchcock Meets Planet of the Apes (Badly)
“An anthropological thriller,” director Richard Franklin said. What we actually got was Curious George Goes Berserk in Scotland. The film markets itself like high-brow horror but plays out like a bad zoo exhibit you can’t leave. A mansion on the coast, three apes, a young student, and Terence Stamp phoning it in so hard you can hear the dial tone.
Elisabeth Shue Deserved Better
Poor Elisabeth Shue. She’s luminous, natural, charming—basically everything this script is not. Instead of showcasing her as a smart zoology student in peril, the movie turns her into a scream queen playing second fiddle to an orangutan in a butler’s suit. Shue isn’t just wasted here; she’s practically composted. Every scene she’s in feels like a reminder that Hollywood in the ‘80s loved putting talented actresses in trash just to see if they’d shine anyway.
Spoiler: she does shine, but mostly because everyone else is dimmer than a light bulb in a haunted house.
Terence Stamp, Paging Dignity
Let’s talk about Terence Stamp, who looks like he’s wondering which mortgage payment forced him to accept this role. His Dr. Phillip is supposed to be a brilliant anthropologist studying the human–ape connection. Instead, he spends most of the film brooding in a drafty mansion and mumbling like a man who’d rather be at the pub. He disappears halfway through, leaving us with Shue and the chimps. Maybe he escaped. Maybe he begged the production crew to kill his character off. Either way, you can’t blame him.
The Apes: Planet of the Miscast
The real star is Link, a super-intelligent chimpanzee played by—wait for it—an orangutan painted to look like a chimp. This is like casting Danny DeVito as LeBron James: bold, baffling, and anatomically impossible. Link shuffles around in human clothes, does house chores, and looks menacing only if you’ve never been within 50 feet of an actual ape.
The other simian actors fare no better: one’s a moody sidekick, the other just sort of exists. The ape violence never feels threatening, partly because it’s hard to fear something dressed like an extra from Downton Abbey.
Jerry Goldsmith, Stop Trying So Hard
And then there’s Jerry Goldsmith’s score, which works overtime to convince you this nonsense is scary. Strings swell, brass blares, timpani crash—meanwhile, the “terror” is a monkey fumbling with a doorknob. Goldsmith deserved better too, but at least his music almost tricks you into thinking there’s a movie here.
Anthropological Thriller? Please.
Franklin claimed this was based on “anthropological realities.” Reality check: there’s nothing anthropological about an ape running around in a butler’s jacket, throwing temper tantrums like a toddler denied candy. Hitchcock would’ve sued from beyond the grave for even being mentioned in the same sentence.
The Pacing: Slow March of the Monkeys
The film crawls at a pace so sluggish you’ll wish Link would just rip someone apart to move things along. Instead, you get endless scenes of Shue wandering the house, Stamp staring into middle distance, and Link looking confused about why his fur is dyed black.
By the time the apes finally revolt, you’re rooting for them—not because you’re scared, but because at least they’re doing something.
The Ending: Darwin Rolls Over
The climax devolves into your typical “final girl versus beast” showdown. Shue screams, Link screeches, and the whole thing collapses into a cartoonish mess. It’s less “thrilling conclusion” and more “end of a bad circus act.”
Final Verdict
Link wastes Elisabeth Shue, humiliates Terence Stamp, and insults apes everywhere. It’s a confused jumble of half-baked Hitchcock homages, limp scares, and monkey suits. The only scary part? That it was ever greenlit.
