Primate Review – A Savage, Slick Creature Feature That Knows Exactly What It Is

At a time when horror cinema seems determined to process collective trauma through allegory, grief metaphors, and solemn symbolism, Primate arrives like a blood-soaked banana peel thrown directly at the genre’s feet. Johannes Roberts’ latest film has no interest in prestige posturing or psychological excavation. Instead, it delivers something far rarer—and arguably more valuable at this particular cultural moment: a fast, vicious, knowingly outrageous creature feature that exists purely to thrill, horrify, and entertain.

In doing so, Primate becomes one of the most confident examples of modern B-movie filmmaking in recent years. It is brief, brutal, and slickly assembled, wearing its influences proudly while sharpening them for contemporary audiences. The result is a giddy, gory good time that feels engineered for cult status, even as it benefits from studio-level polish.

No Trauma, No Allegory, Just Teeth

The most striking thing about Primate is its refusal to pretend it is anything other than what it is. There is no tortured symbolism lurking beneath the surface, no earnest attempt to elevate its carnage into metaphor. The film’s thesis is simple and blunt: chimpanzees are not pets, and when humans forget that fact, the consequences are catastrophic.

That bluntness is refreshing. Over the past decade, horror has been dominated by films striving for thematic weight—often successfully, but sometimes exhaustingly so. Roberts takes the opposite approach. Primate is a deliberate riposte to the “grief-as-monster” trend, a reminder that horror can still function as spectacle, shock, and adrenaline without carrying the burden of self-importance.

The closest cinematic ancestor here is not Hereditary or The Babadook, but Shakma, the infamously goofy 1990 creature feature about a baboon driven homicidal by experimental drugs. That film took years to be reclaimed by cult audiences, eventually embraced by the same inebriated midnight-movie crowds who canonised Troll 2. Primate, by contrast, feels primed for immediate appreciation. It is tighter, smarter, and far more technically accomplished—a B-movie that knows it is a B-movie, and is better for it.

A Lean, Relentless Runtime

Clocking in at a brisk 89 minutes, Primate wastes very little time. The pacing is aggressive, almost ruthless, and deliberately so. There is no room here for moral lessons or extended backstory. The film moves like a rollercoaster: a quick climb, a violent drop, and then a relentless sprint to the finish line.

That efficiency is part of the film’s charm. Roberts understands that creature features live or die by momentum. Too much explanation dulls the edge; too much character introspection slows the bleed. Primate opts instead for narrative economy, sketching its setup in broad but effective strokes before unleashing chaos.

There is, however, one cost to this approach. Some viewers may wish the film lingered slightly longer on the “before”—on Ben as affectionate pet rather than feral predator. A few extra scenes establishing the family’s dynamic with the chimp might have deepened the emotional impact of his transformation. But Primate is less interested in heartbreak than in horror, and once it gets moving, it rarely looks back.

Ben: From Pet to Predator

At the centre of the carnage is Ben, the chimpanzee whose journey from beloved family member to bloodthirsty killer drives the film. Importantly, Primate never frames Ben as inherently evil. His violence is the result of human error and hubris, not malice. This distinction matters, and the film handles it with surprising clarity.

Ben became part of a Hawaii-based family after the late matriarch’s work in linguistics followed her home from the lab. What began as research blurred into domesticity, turning a wild animal into something dangerously close to a surrogate child. By the time the film begins, Ben is fully integrated into family life, treated less like an animal and more like a younger sibling.

He lives with teenage Erin (Gia Hunter) and her widowed father Adam (Troy Kotsur), a crime writer, in a luxurious but isolated cliffside house. The location is key: beautiful, remote, and utterly unsuited for rescue once things go wrong. The family’s fragile equilibrium is disrupted by the return of Lucy (Johnny Sequoyah), the estranged eldest daughter who has emotionally withdrawn since her mother’s death. She arrives with a best friend and a handful of party-ready stragglers, expecting a weekend of freedom and indulgence.

What they get instead is a mongoose bite.

Rabies as the Catalyst

As ominous text at the film’s opening explains, rabies is fatal once symptoms appear. Ben has been bitten. From that moment, Primate operates on borrowed time. The transformation is swift, unsettling, and irreversible.

Ben’s behaviour becomes erratic, then openly aggressive. Lucy, more informed than the others, delivers the film’s most chilling line with devastating simplicity: “He’s not Ben anymore.” The cosy, teddy-clutching “little brother” is gone. What remains is a creature driven by pain, confusion, and primal instinct.

The first major act of violence arrives quickly and decisively. Any assumption that Primate might be a PG-13 affair evaporates as a character’s face is torn apart with shocking explicitness. From that moment on, the film commits fully to its hard R rating—and never looks back.

Brutality With Purpose

What distinguishes Primate from lesser gore-fests is how effectively it balances violence with suspense. The carnage is frequent and ferocious—jaw-snapping attacks, bone-crunching impacts, and at least one fall from a great height that resolves in a memorably grotesque fashion—but it is rarely gratuitous.

Roberts understands that gore works best when paired with anticipation. Ben is unpredictable. Sometimes he lurks in the background, watching. Sometimes he charges without warning. The tension comes from not knowing when he will strike, or how far he will go when he does. When the violence lands, it feels earned rather than numbing.

One particularly repulsive sequence involving an Instagram-obsessed jock pushes the film into genuinely shocking territory, prompting the kind of nervous laughter that signals a horror audience both delighted and appalled. It is nasty, inventive, and unapologetic.

A Clever Use of Space

One of Primate’s smartest sequences involves the survivors retreating to the middle of the swimming pool. The logic is sound and satisfyingly simple: Ben cannot swim, and rabies is historically associated with hydrophobia. This creates a temporary safe zone that is visually striking and narratively effective.

The pool becomes both refuge and trap, forcing characters into close proximity while danger prowls just beyond reach. It is a classic creature-feature setup, executed with clarity and tension. Roberts may get to this point a little quickly, but once there, he milks the situation for all it is worth.

Practical Effects That Matter

In an era dominated by digital creatures, Primate distinguishes itself through its commitment to practical effects. Ben is portrayed by movement specialist Miguel Torres Umba, whose physical performance gives the chimp weight, menace, and unsettling personality. This is not a creature that feels digitally inserted into the frame; he occupies space, interacts physically with his environment, and imposes himself on the action.

The tactile nature of the creature work pulls the audience closer to the chaos. You feel Ben’s mass, his momentum, his proximity. It is a rare modern achievement and a reminder of how effective practical effects can be when used with care and craft.

As the film progresses, Ben’s behaviour evolves from animalistic to almost slasher-like. There is even a Halloween-referencing wardrobe moment that nudges the film toward self-aware absurdity. By the final act, this evolution becomes slightly laughable—but by then, the film’s energy is such that plausibility is no longer the primary concern.

Performances That Commit Fully

The cast meets the film’s demands with admirable commitment. Gia Hunter anchors the story as Erin, conveying genuine affection for Ben and believable terror as she realises what he has become. Her performance provides emotional grounding amid the chaos.

Johnny Sequoyah brings a brittle, defensive edge to Lucy, whose emotional withdrawal masks guilt and unresolved grief. Her explanations of Ben’s condition add urgency without bogging the film down in exposition.

Troy Kotsur, fresh off his Oscar win for CODA, is a standout. As Adam, he delivers a warm, quietly heroic performance that lends the film unexpected heart. His deafness is integrated naturally into the story, with several scenes conducted entirely in sign language. That such moments appear so prominently in a wide-release studio horror film feels quietly significant, even if the film itself never pauses to underline it.

The supporting cast of teens leans into familiar archetypes—jocks, influencers, partygoers—but with enough conviction to make their fates engaging. You may predict who survives and who does not, but the journey remains entertaining.

Retro Influences, Mixed Results

Roberts and long-time co-writer Ernest Riera clearly have a deep affection for 1980s creature features, and Primate wears its influences proudly. The raucous teens, practical effects, and synth-heavy score all point toward that era.

Not every homage lands. The music, in particular, sometimes opts for style over suspense, undercutting tension in moments that might have benefited from restraint. This was a similar issue in Roberts’ The Strangers: Prey at Night, where aesthetic choices occasionally overwhelmed atmosphere.

Still, these are minor quibbles in the context of what Primate achieves overall. Roberts, who also directed the hit shark thriller 47 Metres Down and its superior sequel, demonstrates a growing confidence and efficiency here. He understands pacing, spectacle, and audience expectation—and deploys those skills ruthlessly.

A Bloody, Welcome Reset

After a lacklustre year for horror, weighed down by self-seriousness and diminishing returns, Primate feels like a jolt of electricity. It is not ashamed to be fun. It does not apologise for its brutality. It exists to entertain, and it does so with gusto.

Is it silly? Yes. Is it excessive? Absolutely. Does it occasionally sacrifice logic for momentum? Without question. But these qualities are not flaws so much as defining characteristics of a genre built on excess. Primate understands this and embraces it wholeheartedly.

By the time the extended, family-fights-back finale arrives—chaotic, electric, and surprisingly involving—you are unlikely to care about plausibility. You will be too busy wondering who, if anyone, makes it out alive.

Final Verdict

Primate is a giddy, gory good time: a brief, brutal, and confidently made creature feature that delivers exactly what it promises. With its effective practical effects, committed performances, and relentless pacing, it offers a refreshing alternative to the solemnity that has dominated modern horror.

There is a great deal of unpretentious B-movie fun to be had here. For audiences craving something direct, nasty, and gleefully excessive, Primate is a wildly entertaining way to start 2026—and a reminder that sometimes, the simplest horrors are the most satisfying.