There are films that tiptoe into absurdity and there are films like "Sunlight" that stomp on its throat and throw it in the back of a van. A suicidal radio host barely has time to tighten the noose before a stranger dressed head-to-toe as a monkey crashes through his misery, prevents his suicide, kidnaps him, steals his wheels, and drags him across the country on a quest to start a banana boat business. It sounds unhinged because it is—but within all the chaos, filth, and feral shouting, something unexpectedly tender grows. This isn’t just a road trip from hell; it’s the sort of unlikely collision of souls that somehow, through duct tape and desperation, becomes salvation.
What makes it really sing is just how ferociously funny it is. This isn’t polished, sitcom-safe humour—it’s raw, crass, and shamelessly unfiltered. Monkey doesn’t have an inside voice. She rants, she invents whacky songs about holes in the middle of breakdowns, she hurls insults that make you choke on your laughter before you realise you probably shouldn’t be laughing at all. But you do. The comedy here isn’t a neat garnish to the drama; it’s survival itself. These characters claw their way through darkness by making it ridiculous, by mocking the pain until it finally gives a little and lets them breathe.
At first glance, it just feels like another eccentric indie road movie. I mean, it sounds like the setup to a shaggy absurdist comedy written by somebody who may or may not be all there. And yet, watching it, you realize you’ve wandered into something far warmer, stranger, funnier, and more delicate than you could have ever hoped for—a story that wears silliness like a disguise, only to reveal real tenderness beneath.
Roy is introduced to us mid-collapse, a man so wrapped in grief that life itself feels uninhabitable. He’s ready to leave it all behind until fate—or perhaps just bizarre coincidence—drops Jane into his path. Jane, who refuses to be Jane at all, speaking through “Monkey,” a persona she’s been hiding inside for so long that it’s hard to tell if it’s protection or escape. The two of them shouldn’t work together—one broken beyond belief, the other clinging to fantasy—but somehow, locked in a battered van with the New Mexico sun bleeding across the horizon, they form an unlikely sanctuary for one another.
"Sunlight" is so affecting, not because of its quirkiness, but its raw honesty. The monkey suit, despite how outlandish, feels heartbreakingly human. It’s a barrier, yes, but also a lifeline—a way of coping when the rawness of being fully seen is just too much to bear. And through their journey, through late-night drives and messy jokes and small acts of care, Roy and Monkey begin to teach each other how to live again. The humor here doesn’t undercut the pain; it’s part of survival, the strange laughter that can only come from two people finally sharing their loneliness out loud.
Visually, the film glows with a kind of battered beauty—long stretches of empty highway, soft desert light pooling through dirty windows, moments of stillness where nothing happens except the quiet hum of two souls cautiously learning to trust. There are stretches where the plot almost drifts away, and yet that feels right; this isn’t a movie rushing to a destination, it’s one that lets you sit with these characters as they stumble toward themselves.
By the time the final act arrives, it’s not about big revelations or dramatic twists. It’s about the way grief loosens its grip when someone else finally reaches in. It’s about identity being something you can choose to reclaim, even after years of hiding. And it’s about finding connection in the strangest, most imperfect places—a beaten-up van, a road going nowhere in particular, a monkey suit shielding a fragile heart.
It’s impossible to talk about "Sunlight" without acknowledging the strange, brilliant force behind it. Nina Conti, making her feature directorial debut, doesn’t just co-write this mad little beast with co-star Shenoah Allen—she throws herself into it completely. What could’ve been a quirky gimmick in lesser hands becomes, through Conti’s writing and performance, something heartbreakingly human, and unrelentingly honest. Allen matches her step for step, grounding the lunacy with quiet, bruised sincerity. Together, they create a two-hander that feels improvised yet razor sharp, ugly and beautiful all at once—a fearless act of comedy and compassion that only works because they commit to every single deranged, tender second of it.
"Sunlight" isn’t loud about its brilliance. It doesn’t need to be. It lingers instead, like the warmth of an unexpected kindness, leaving you a little cracked open, a little lighter, and maybe even humming a silly improvised song to yourself on the way home.
9/10
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