The ever-versatile Nicolas Cage remains one of cinema's most unpredictable delights. For some, his grounded turns in films like 'Pig' and 'Adaptation'- the latter giving us two Cages for the price of one- are unforgettable. For others, it's his unhinged, over-the-top performances that dazzle: 'Vampire's Kiss', 'Snake Eyes', 'Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans'- there are too many to name. Sometimes, as in 'Mandy,' he manages both, veering from understated to full-blown berserk, giving each side of his fanbase exactly what they want.
In his latest, Lorcan Finnegan's 'The Surfer,' Cage plays the titular surfer, returning to his Australian hometown to repurchase his childhood home. While there, he decides to take his son to the idyllic beach where he spent most of his youth. All he wants to do is surf. However, after running afoul of the local beachgoers, what begins as a nostalgic trip turns into something far stranger- and far more intense.
Written by Thomas Martin, it's a wild, darkly comic ride, playing a bit like 'Wake in Fright' mixed with 'Point Break.' Entertaining and engaging, the film features many madcap moments Cage fans will love. However, its narrative isn't just an excuse for another of his crazy performances. Beneath the sun-drenched chaos lies something more pointed: a surreal descent into the warped rituals of masculinity. As in 'Wake in Fright', it explores a kind of sunburnt male madness- paranoia, posturing and violence, all unfolding in a setting that should feel like paradise but quickly becomes hell.
The titular surfer finds himself in a bizarre, increasingly hostile stand-off with a tribe of aggressive locals, where posturing, pride and dominance are the only accepted currencies of power. The absurdity of the situation lends the narrative a Kafkaesque quality: he's trapped within a set of unwritten social rules (about who gets to surf) that are both arbitrary and inescapable. It's a funny, yet unnerving satire of macho bravado with an absurdist edge, where one can't be sure what is real and imaginary.
Martin's characterisation is also deft. The central character makes for a fascinating avatar for wounded pride, entitlement and stubbornness. He can be seen as a kind of symbolic figure, or a stand-in for a particular strain of masculinity in freefall. The locals, meanwhile, are sketched with broad strokes- almost archetypal in their menace- but that works in the film's favour, enhancing its dreamlike, allegorical tone.
However, proceedings do falter in the third act. After so much unnerving build-up- where threat and absurdity are perfectly balanced- the climax feels comparatively tame. The ambiguity that made earlier scenes so compelling suddenly gives way to something more conventional. While the finale still carries a surreal energy, it doesn't land with the same dizzying, uneasy punch, and the film fizzles out instead of delivering a knockout blow.
Conversely, the visuals are stunning throughout. Radek Ladczuk's cinematography cleverly contrasts vibrant, sun-soaked hues with washed-out tones, underscoring the film's surreal and unsettling tone. Early scenes are bathed in the lively colours of turquoise waters and golden sands, evoking nostalgia and warmth. As the story progresses, these vibrant hues fade into desaturated, grittier shades, reflecting the protagonist's psychological and emotional unravelling.
This clash between vibrant and muted tones heightens the absurdity of the situation, amplifying the tension as it escalates. Sweeping wide shots, meanwhile, emphasize the expansive beach, while close-ups- particularly of Cage's increasingly unhinged face- capture the growing madness of the conflict. As things progress, this visual dissonance deepens the sense of unease, transforming the beach from a paradise into a distorted, oppressive landscape, blurring the line between the natural world and the protagonist's psychological chaos.
Further, Tony Cranstoun's editing strikes a perfect balance, shifting from breezy, dreamlike sequences to tighter, more frenetic cuts as the tension rises. Early scenes mirror the protagonist's carefree nostalgia, while the later moments of escalating violence and hallucination are marked by quick, disorienting edits. This contrast not only reflects the character's unravelling state but also deepens the sense of entrapment, netting both the surfer and the audience in an increasingly hostile, surreal world.
However, had the talents of Nicolas Cage not been secured, the film could easily have faltered. He is perfectly cast, bringing an escalating mania to the central role that swings from quietly wounded to righteously unhinged. For the most part, he plays it straight, anchoring the film's absurdity with an oddly sincere intensity. However, when it's time to go full Cage, he doesn't hold back. It's that perfect mix of grounded chaos and unrestrained weirdness that makes him indispensable- to this film specifically, as well as to cinema in general.
The supporting cast lean into the heightened tone, with stellar performances all round. Of particular note is Julian McMahon, who shines as the insidious surfer-dude-cum-cult-leader Scally, who is as sinister as he is pretentious. Never setting a foot wrong, McMahon makes for a magnificent sun-drenched menace, delivering his lines with the smug cadence of a man who has read half a philosophy book and decided he's God. His scenes with Cage crackle with a warped, alpha-male energy- a battle of egos on waxed boards.
Lorcan Finnegan's 'The Surfer' is not just another entry in the ever-expanding Cage canon of craziness- it's a sunburnt fever dream of ego, absurdity and surf etiquette gone violently wrong. With its warped take on masculinity, stunning visuals and a central performance that lands somewhere between Hamlet and a man shouting at seagulls, it entertains even as its final act wobbles. In other hands, it might've been a mess. With Cage, it's divine chaos. So, despite some choppy waters, 'The Surfer' still makes waves.
