Film Review: The Surfer
Film
The Surfer
Director: Lorcan Finnegan
Saturn Films, Aranamedia, Tea Shop Productions
In Theaters: 05.02.25
Whenever Nicolas Cage makes a theatrical release with artistic aspirations, I start salivating. The larger than life actor and wholly unique movie star has become a cinematic legend like no other. To liberally paraphrase Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: When he’s good, he’s very, very good, and when he’s bad, he’s cosmically fucking gonzo AWESOME. The Surfer is neither a top tier “Nic Cage the great actor” performance nor an unforgettable “Nic Cage the salivating and screaming, wild-eyed ham” performance. But it’s got enough of both to be enjoyable.
Cage plays a man identified only as “The Surfer” who returns to the sun-drenched Australian beach of his childhood, eager to surf with his son, “The Kid” (Finn Little, Storm Boy, Those Who Wish Me Dead), and reclaim a piece of his past. But his nostalgic homecoming quickly sours when a gang of aggressive locals, the Bay Boys, led by a brawny yuppie guru called Scally (Julian McMahon, Nip/Tuck, Fantastic Four), defends their territory with the mantra: “Don’t live here, don’t surf here.” Humiliated and seething, The Surfer refuses to back down, igniting a tense standoff that unfolds in the beachside parking lot as the punishing summer heat bears down. As time goes on and the heat and dehydration take their toll, small incidents build up, particularly several encounters with a police officer, “The Cop” (Justin Rosniak, Wolf Like Me, War Machine), who is constantly contradicting The Surfer’s account of their previous interactions. When The Surfer’s Lexus (“The Car”) gets stolen, The Cop tells him that no such vehicle ever existed; a beat-up wreck sitting in the parking lot was his only vehicle the entire time. As the situation drags on, our protagonist starts to lose his grip on reality and question his sanity.
The Surfer is a psychedelic fever dream of a thriller that captures a dreamy sense of disorientation, and with its pointed commentaries on modern masculinity and “bro culture,” all presented in the most in-your-face manner possible, it plays more than a little like a mix of Fight Club and the works of Charlie Kaufman and Coralie Farget, with touches of ‘70s art house films and The Twilight Zone. Director Lorcan Finnegan (Black Mirror) is artistically ambitious, but the screenplay by Thomas Martin (Ripper Street) isn’t nearly as clever as it thinks it is, resulting in a film that’s intriguing but often as confused and aimless as its protagonist. The visuals are very picturesque and pretty — even Cage’s hair looks pretty good — and for the most part it flows nicely, and the question of what exactly is going on is almost interesting, but not quite. There are some interesting moments of interaction between The Surfer and a homeless man, The Bum (Nic Cassim, Mr. Inbetween), though it plays out as such a tease that by the time The Surfer finally learns the true identity of The Bum, it is so underwhelming that The Audience may be headed for The Lobby to request a refund for The Ticket.
The major draw here is the leading man, and though it’s neither a classic “good Cage” or “bad Cage” performance, it’s a Cage performance nonetheless. Love him or hate him, it’s nearly impossible to deny that he’s an actor with a smoldering presence that keeps your attention and, despite the slickness of direction, The Surfer would sink rather quickly with anyone riding these waves. McMahon is commanding and intriguing as Scally, and it’s a performance that could bring him back to some degree of relevance if the character were given some texture. The Bay Boys could have played out as interesting commentary on bro culture and the men’s movement, but in the end they are just generic villains giving the film a semblance of story but little insight or social commentary.
The Surfer is like catching a small wave that looks promising at first — enough to keep you upright and coasting, but it fizzles out before it ever crests, leaving you drifting aimlessly back to shore and wondering if that ride was worth paddling out for in the first place. —Patrick Gibbs
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