Blue Monkey

While working in a greenhouse, a man receives an insect bite after touching an exotic plant. Immediately, he falls ill and is taken to an emergency room where the doctors diagnose him as suffering from an unknown bacteria, and a strange parasite which emerges from his mouth as a large slimy wormlike creature. Soon, there are more cases of bacterial infection, but the more immediate problem for the hospital is the wormlike creature which after accidental exposure to a genetic growth stimulant grows to monstrous proportions and starts a reign of terror and bloodshed in the hospitals abandoned wing.

We were somewhere on the outskirts of Toronto, our minds vibrating from a dangerous cocktail of cheap Canadian rye whiskey and a stack of dog-eared 1980s Fangoria magazines, when the TV screen started sweating green slime. It was Blue Monkey (1987). For the uninitiated cinephile, this is not a film about primates, nor is it a whimsical nature documentary. It is a gloriously unhinged, tax-shelter-backed piece of Canadian horror history directed by William Fruet—the legendary director behind the brutal exploitation masterpiece Death Weekend (1976) and the atmospheric sleeper Funeral Home (1980).

It is a movie that defies logic, marketing conventions, and the basic laws of biology. It stands as a beautiful, glowing monument to the late-80s video store era, back when distributors would stick any title on a box just to watch it fly off the shelves of a suburban strip mall.

The Great Canadian Shell Game of False Advertising

Let’s address the screaming, white-hot elephant in the projection booth right away: there are absolutely no blue monkeys in this film. In fact, there are no monkeys at all. The movie was originally slated to be called Green Monkey, but the producers got cold feet due to the era’s panic surrounding the origins of the AIDS epidemic. So, in an act of pure, beautifully cynical distribution magic, they painted the title blue and hoped the audiences wouldn’t ask for their money back.

The story kickstarts in a greenhouse when an elderly handyman gets pricked by an exotic Micronesian plant. He is rushed to a local hospital where he immediately vomits up a six-inch, slimy insect pupa and violently expires. Enter a gang of wandering, unsupervised hospital pediatric patients—including a shockingly young Sarah Polley—who find the larva in a lab and decide to feed it a massive, highly toxic dose of experimental growth hormone powder. The larva mutates into a giant, man-eating praying-mantis-cockroach hybrid that turns the quarantined medical facility into its personal buffet. It is a plot so beautifully stupid, so delightfully fifties-throwback, that it makes you want to kiss the screenwriter.

Railsback, Vernon, and the Laser-Guided Hospital Hell

The true joy of Blue Monkey for any self-respecting genre maniac lies in its cast. Leading the charge into the insectoid abyss is the great Steve Railsback as Detective Jim Bishop. Railsback, famous for portraying Charles Manson in Helter Skelter and screaming his way through Tobe Hooper’s majestic space-vampire opera Lifeforce (1985), brings his trademark, twitchy, high-wire intensity to the role of a cop just trying to survive a shift. He doesn’t just hunt the bug; he stares at the screen with the look of a man who knows the budget is small but the stakes of his performance are infinitely high.

Alongside him is the patron saint of cinematic authority-figure swine, John Vernon. Playing the stubborn hospital administrator Roger Levering, Vernon brings that rich, booming voice and the classic “Dean Wormer” energy we all know and love. He refuses to quarantine the building because he’s terrified of a public panic, practically begging the giant bug to eat his staff. Watching Railsback’s manic energy collide with Vernon’s stiff-necked bureaucratic arrogance is like watching a car crash in slow motion, and it is glorious.

The Beautiful, Slime-Drenched Triumph of Practical Effects

While the script leans heavily on pseudo-scientific jargon and bizarre subplots—including a hilarious cameo by SCTV’s Joe Flaherty as an expectant father—the physical execution of the monster is a masterclass in 1980s practical effects. Created by the wizards at Sirius Effects, the creature is a massive, tangible puppet that actually occupies space in the dark, fog-choked service tunnels of the hospital.

When the bug strikes, it doesn’t rely on modern, weightless digital pixels. It hits with heavy rubber limbs, geysers of green goo, and a physical presence that makes the actors look genuinely terrified of being crushed by a giant piece of painted latex. The climax features the survivors trying to fight the monster in a basement research lab equipped with still-functioning surgical lasers, transforming a standard monster hunt into a neon-colored laser show of pure, beautiful chaos. It is a high-octane love letter to a bygone era of physical filmmaking. Buy the ticket, ignore the misleading title, and prepare to get covered in slime.