You ever hear a movie premise so bonkers, your first instinct is to laugh—but then you catch yourself thinking, “Wait, this might actually work”? That’s exactly what happens with Sunlight, Nina Conti’s directorial debut that begins as a delightfully absurd comedy about a woman in a full-body monkey costume and ends up as one of the most emotionally satisfying buddy-road films of the year.
Yes, you read that right. Monkey costume. Full-body. Never comes off. Ever.
Let’s back up.
A MONKEY, A RADIO HOST, AND THE UNLIKELY BEGINNING OF SOMETHING REAL
Nina Conti, best known as a comedian and ventriloquist, dives into something deeply personal, weirdly funny, and sneakily profound with Sunlight. She stars as Jane—a woman dealing with her trauma not by going to therapy or journaling, but by permanently donning a big furry monkey suit and speaking to the world through that primate persona. It’s like Judge Dredd meets Sesame Street meets a quarter-life crisis.
Jane refers to her monkey-self as a separate identity. The Monkey isn’t just a mask; it’s a coping mechanism, a sassy alter ego that handles life’s chaos while Jane stays tucked away somewhere beneath all that synthetic fur. The film wastes no time introducing us to her world of disassociation and defense mechanisms, and it only gets stranger (and more interesting) from there.
One day, Jane saves a man named Roy (played by Shenoah Allen) from killing himself. He’s a late-night radio host from New Mexico who was literally on his way out when Jane—er, the Monkey—shows up. He wakes up to find himself in the passenger seat of his own van, while a chatty simian figure commands the wheel. Naturally, he’s confused. But before he can ask too many questions, they’re already en route to Colorado for what Jane describes as a “business meeting” about starting a banana boat business. Yes. Banana boats. She’s got a dream, alright.
This setup could easily spiral into cheap jokes about monkey suits and mental health, but Conti and Allen don’t go for the low-hanging fruit (pun intended). Instead, they treat this offbeat pairing with surprising tenderness and an open-hearted curiosity.
THE HEART UNDER THE HAIR
One of the big wins for Sunlight is how it stays honest without ever getting preachy. Sure, it’s weird. A lot of it is ridiculous on paper. But once the initial “wait, what?” fades, what emerges is a touching character study about two people who’ve been beat up by life—and who find a sliver of hope in each other.
The chemistry between Conti and Allen is undeniable, and that’s probably because the two have worked together in comedy circles before. They’re not faking the comfort. Their dialogue has that rare, lived-in quality—like you’re eavesdropping on two old friends catching up after years apart. There’s a looseness to their rhythm that makes everything feel real. They banter, bicker, and laugh in that beautifully unpolished way that real people do.
There’s one scene in particular where Roy talks about how his soul-crushing job helped push him toward suicide. Instead of diving into a Hallmark-style pity party, the Monkey launches into a ridiculous song about the holes in the human body. “Mouth hole, butt hole, ear holes” and so on. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Roy joins in. And suddenly, we’re witnessing a moment of healing—one that’s as crude as it is cathartic.
This isn’t your usual “and then they found hope” arc. It’s messy. Funny. Uncomfortable. And that’s the magic of it.
THE MONKEY ISN’T A GIMMICK—IT’S A METAPHOR
Let’s talk about the monkey suit for a minute. It’s more than a visual gag. Conti and Allen smartly position it as a metaphor for the ways we hide from ourselves. Jane doesn’t just wear the Monkey—she becomes it. The Monkey is brash, confident, a little vulgar, and completely unfiltered. Jane, on the other hand, is quiet, wounded, and scared to be seen. The costume lets her keep the world at a distance.
But here’s the twist: instead of treating this psychological armor as something to “overcome,” the film explores how personas can help us survive—even thrive. The goal isn’t to strip it away, but to understand it. That’s what gives Sunlight its surprising emotional heft.
And it’s not just Jane who’s hiding. Roy’s been drifting through life numb, disconnected. His suicidal moment wasn’t some dramatic culmination; it was just the result of feeling unseen for too long. So when Jane rescues him—and then ropes him into her monkey-powered road trip—he gets a shot at rediscovering what it feels like to be truly heard.
Even their destination reflects this. Roy wants to visit his father’s grave and dig up an old watch—a keepsake he plans to sell. The trip is part closure, part escape. But mostly, it’s an excuse for two broken people to stumble toward something resembling connection.
THE STEP-DAD, THE CHASE, AND THE CHAOS
Of course, it wouldn’t be a road movie without a little chaos. Enter Wade (Bill Wise), Jane’s stepfather and the legal owner of the monkey suit. He’s chasing them down, determined to reclaim his property—and possibly his stepdaughter in the process. Wade’s pursuit adds a bit of tension to the journey, but never derails it into full-blown action territory. He’s more comic foil than true villain, a reminder of the world that Jane’s running from.
His presence also reinforces the film’s core theme: identity. Who gets to control how we define ourselves? Wade wants Jane to give up the Monkey. Roy’s job and past demanded he play a version of himself that made him miserable. Together, the two are learning to write new scripts—ones where they’re the authors.
WHERE THE FILM REALLY SOARS: THE QUIET MOMENTS
It’s easy to praise a film for its dialogue or performances, but Sunlight deserves credit for something subtler: its silences. Conti, who directed the film, knows exactly when to let the chatter fade away and the feelings settle in.
There’s a hauntingly beautiful scene where Roy and the Monkey drive through the New Mexico desert at night. No jokes. No dialogue. Just the soft glow of headlights, a slow pull-back shot, and Radiohead’s “Weird Fishes / Arpeggi” playing in the background. It’s the kind of scene that sneaks up on you, forcing you to sit with the characters—and yourself.
The camera slowly zooms out until the van becomes a tiny dot in a vast landscape, reminding us just how small we are, and yet how powerful these little human connections can be. That’s the kind of moment that separates a good film from a great one.
SWEET, SINCERE, AND UNAFRAID TO BE MESSY
What makes Sunlight truly special is how it walks the tightrope between sincerity and sentimentality. Lesser films would collapse into clichés. But Conti and Allen resist that urge, instead leaning into the awkwardness of real life.
One particularly endearing moment comes after a stressful day when Roy sets up a little sleeping space for the Monkey in his van. It’s a small gesture, but it carries weight. Yet instead of bathing the scene in gooey music and slow motion, the Monkey grumbles about the bed being broken and asks if Roy has any Xanax. It’s oddly perfect. The scene doesn’t ignore the sweetness—it just reminds you that vulnerability is rarely neat and tidy.
These kinds of moments add up. They build a relationship between the characters—and with the audience—that feels earned, not engineered.
THE BIG TAKEAWAY: SOMETIMES THE INTERRUPTION IS THE POINT
There’s a quote that gets at the heart of what Sunlight is trying to say. It’s from Henri Nouwen’s Reaching Out, where he writes, “I have always been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I slowly discovered that my interruptions were my work.”
That idea—of life’s detours becoming the real story—is baked into every frame of this film. Jane didn’t plan on meeting Roy. Roy didn’t plan on surviving. But in their unplanned collision, something real is born. Something healing.
In the end, Sunlight isn’t about monkey suits or graveyard pilgrimages or banana boats. It’s about two people who thought their lives were over—and found a second wind not by fixing everything, but by showing up for each other in their weird, wounded ways.
It’s not a revolutionary story. But it is a deeply human one.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
