All his life, Reagan Tyler (Jason Wiles) has been troubled by dreams, visions and premonitions. After he makes the trip to Las Vegas to meet his pal Double (C. Thomas Howell), Reagan becomes involved with beautiful, buxom blonde Monika (Cerina Vincent). The next day, Reagan learns that the girl he has just spent the night with was killed the day before he met her, shot by gangsters searching for some missing drug money. Is Monika a ghost, out to avenge her death and that of her sister, or just another one of Reagan's dreams?
I find it hard to believe that MoniKa was made by director Steven R. Monroe AFTER his entertaining I Spit On Your Grave remake, the film bearing all the hallmarks of a debut feature from an inexperienced film school graduate who has yet to hone their directorial and writing skills: the script is an embarrassment of dumb clichés that ends with the biggest and dumbest cliché of them all—it was all a dream; the performances are, for the most part, awful, with lead Cerina Vincent clearly cast for her impressive physical attributes rather than her acting skills; and the direction is a massive case of style over substance, Monroe employing irritating wobbly-cam and slo-mo, colour grading his film to within an inch of its life, and accompanying every scene with a soundtrack that is intended to convey pathos, but which only serves to irritate even further.
I find it hard to believe that MoniKa was made by director Steven R. Monroe AFTER his entertaining I Spit On Your Grave remake, the film bearing all the hallmarks of a debut feature from an inexperienced film school graduate who has yet to hone their directorial and writing skills: the script is an embarrassment of dumb clichés that ends with the biggest and dumbest cliché of them all—it was all a dream; the performances are, for the most part, awful, with lead Cerina Vincent clearly cast for her impressive physical attributes rather than her acting skills; and the direction is a massive case of style over substance, Monroe employing irritating wobbly-cam and slo-mo, colour grading his film to within an inch of its life, and accompanying every scene with a soundtrack that is intended to convey pathos, but which only serves to irritate even further.