Drewbicus

It is a true tragedy to think of the cinematic triumph we were robbed of with the cancellation of the planned trilogy. The final film, a symphony of four simultaneous exorcisms, would have been nothing short of genius. One can picture the split-screen effect now, a demonic "Brady Bunch" intro for the ages.

In the top-left quadrant, a Catholic priest. Top-right, a Baptist preacher. Bottom-left, the folk magic practitioner from the first film. And in the bottom-right, for that crucial global appeal, a Buddhist monk on a shaky satellite link from Nepal, trying to offer calming chants while the demon Pazuzu makes the router overheat.

And the cameos! Goodness, the possibilities. It's a crime we'll never see them. They could have brought back the little girl who tells the astronaut "You're gonna die up there" from the original. Now, she would be a bitter old woman running a tarot card stand in Suffolk, offering cryptic warnings to passersby.

Even long-departed actors would be no obstacle. With AI, the demon's original voice could be synthesized and channeled through a possessed smart speaker. Imagine the scene: "Alexa, play Desolation Row." A pause, and then: "I'm afraid I can't do that, Chris. But I can tell you what your mother is doing in the great beyond."

They absolutely would have found a way to have a spectral vision of Father Karras show up, nodding approvingly as the Power of Friendship finally overloads the demon's neural pathways. We were on the verge of a true, franchise-ending masterpiece of fan service. It would have been a cacophony of prayers, a mishmash of disconnected legacy characters, and a final, feel-good message about how the real exorcism was the friends we made along the way.

I'm genuinely bummed we have to settle for just the one terrible movie instead of three.

I was lured into watching this by an average rating that suggested, if not a hidden gem, at least a competent film. Let me be perfectly clear: that rating is a complete and utter fiction, and I am angry I was tricked.

What you will find here is not a real movie. I was honestly stunned by the quality, which barely reaches the level of a daytime soap opera. The acting is painful, the writing is full of cliches (and, as one reviewer pointed out, plagiarized lines), and the technical execution is bafflingly amateurish. It's the kind of film that makes you question your own judgment for continuing to watch it; as a completionist, I've rarely felt so tested by something so completely devoid of value. There is literally nothing to be gained by finishing it.

So, where do the high scores come from? My disbelief led me down the rabbit hole of its reviews, and the truth is more absurd than the film itself. The positive ratings are a masterclass in manipulation. You will find glowing 10/10 reviews that are actually for books, songs, and even Obsidian video games. You'll find beautifully written AI-generated poetry that says nothing specific about the film. You'll see a featured review from one of the filmmakers. It's a transparent, cynical, and frankly insulting campaign.

Meanwhile, every single genuine review-the ones with specific critiques and a frustrated, human voice-gives this a 1/10 and is overwhelmingly voted as "Helpful" by the community. That is the real audience score.

Don't make my mistake. This project doesn't just waste your time; it disrespects your intelligence by assuming you won't notice the scam. You will.

I'm not sure why The Surfer resonates more deeply with me than its clear inspiration, Wake in Fright (1971). Perhaps I can simply trace the descent of Nicolas Cage's eponymous Surfer more readily, and find this film's final moments more conclusive and revealing. Watching the repeated indignities and suffering heaped upon the Surfer was far from pleasant. Yet, the journey proves both mesmerizing and haunting. The existential angst, often baked into the sun-drenched, yet menacingly stark, Australian landscape, felt palpable, anchored by Cage's dynamic performance. His trademark volatility and unhinged breakdowns are still present, but they blend effectively with The Surfer's white hot intensity and hallucinogenic stylings. Every grain of sand and sweat-slicked brow seems to amplify the psychological pressure.

Perhaps part of what truly differentiated The Surfer for me was the raw humanity on display amidst the chaos. Set in Western Australia, the film's atmosphere, thick with unrelenting heat and simmering menace, initially felt somewhat akin to First Blood. I found myself bracing, waiting for the abused Surfer to finally reach his limits and unleash his rage on the local surf gang that aggressively refuses to allow non-locals to use their beach.

Director Lorcan Finnegan and writer Thomas Martin relentlessly skewer extreme male subcultures. With mesmerizing yet icy charisma, Scally (Julian McMahon) repeatedly calls for men to reclaim agency through visceral and intense suffering. The ease with which the community, including a local cop (Justin Rosniak), shrugs off the gang's violent tendencies-even their sleeping with underage girls-as "men doing men things" shows clearly what Finnegan and Martin really think of Scally's gang. However, a critical twist at the two-thirds mark left me half expecting the Surfer to join the surfer gang, showing how any man can be swayed by the desire for dominance and the blueprint for identity offered by men like Scally. Without spoilers, the resolution is decidedly more complex than that.

The Surfer ultimately resolves with an aching cry for human connection. The protagonist eventually remembers the simple desire to surf with his son that he lost sight of amid all the toxic one-upmanship. This theme of relationships is echoed by an old Bum (Nicholas Cassim) who lost his own son and dog to Scally's gang. Where Wake in Fright was defined by the bleak absence of connection and meaning, The Surfer embraces human relationships and the purpose they can provide. Scally's masculine ideal leads to retributive violence, but the Surfer finds his humanity and a measure of peace amid the chaos.