The misuse of Nicolas Cage as a meme throughout his career is an epidemic. Yes, he's accepted less desirable roles for financial reasons, but there's so much more to the Oscar-winning actor than "NOT THE BEES!" or "BLACK IT OUT!" Luckily, surrealist filmmaker Lorcan Finnegan understands how to maximize Cage's wildness while allowing his talents to shine. The Surfer is a strange, salty brew with exploitation vibes aimed at bullheaded toxic masculinity. It's a cringe-coded beach bum thriller that might not be totally successful as a sunstroke hallucination of dangerous heteronormativity, but the film's wayward primality is entertaining nonetheless.
Cage stars as "The Surfer," an Australian-born man who returns home after becoming successful and wealthy enough in California to afford his family's million-and-change coastal estate. It's the only way he envisions winning back his ex-wife and son, proving he can be the father and husband both desire. Before closing the deal, Mr. Surfer takes his "Kid" (Finn Little) to shred some waves, but a band of wet-suit-wearing bullies refuses the "outsider" access. Cage's pushover tries to reason but is forced back to the car park without touching the ocean. So begins one man's descent into reclaiming his pride, with the red-robed cult leader of a surfer mafioso "Scally" (Julian McMahon) standing in his way.
That's the entire movie. It's a series of unfortunate events as Scally's crew of Surf Ninja wannabes push Cage to the brink of sanity. The Surfer gaslights its main character while we try to comprehend whether Cage's character is a victim or just going insane. Finnegan doesn't care to confirm either way, as the sun's scorching rays roast Cage's skin into a painful, crackly leather. Writer Thomas Martin calls upon technicolor psychological thrillers from yesteryear to paint a hazy picture of one man's sorrowful breakdown, as Scally's cruel, alpha-bred treatment of the longtime American brings to light all the ways Cage's workaholic has failed elsewhere.
The Western Australian beachside town of Yallingup is a character in itself. Cinematographer Radzek Ladczuk embellishes the picturesque location as Cage peers over the water, seafoam waves cresting then crashing against rocky juts. Scally's dojo is a wooden hut dubbed the "Sanctuary" (written on Cage’s stolen board), which creates a little bit of a Miyagi-Bro vibe. Colors pop: the baby blue skies, yellowish sandy dunes, or pristine waters out of exotic resort pamphlets. It's a visual brand of disillusion that welcomes us into vacation idyllics and then pulls the rug like, say, Psycho Beach Party. The presentation is immaculate, but the vibes are in disarray.
Scally's crew of manly men are bred from the Andrew Tate handbook, asserting dominance as their gendered right. Cage is their plaything, as they strip the wealthy businessman down to being a homeless vagrant, whimpering for someone to treat him nicely. He's physically assaulted, embarrassed, and manipulated into becoming a shell of himself because that's what he allows. Finnegan breaks away from reality as Cage deliriously yells at strangers or tries to eat dead rats, refusing to leave until he closes on his property and goes surfing. It's a dizzying display of absurd and asinine psychological warfare, which might become a chore for some viewers.
Cage is, as expected, in good hands with Finnegan. He's so often a caricature in real life, which fits the aggressive pandemonium of The Surfer. Cage lets himself sink into a scenario that becomes increasingly ungraspable by the second, losing to fits of madness as Australian locals make him feel as unwelcome as possible—but he's wholly aligned with Finnegan's tonal signatures. You can laugh at Cage, but not because he's a joke in the role. Cage participates in screaming fits or gets his ass kicked and it's undeniably zany, but there's such tragedy behind his character's breakdown. The Surfer is a funny, abundantly trippy power struggle that also lets McMahon shine as the toasty-toned villain, but Cage is the true alpha of Finnegan's crazed project.
The Surfer is a chest-beating assessment of what it means to be a man in today's exceedingly toxic culture. Nicolas Cage has a few "memeable" moments, but that's not the crux of his performance. Lorcan Finnegan's experimental cocktail of sunscreen, reprehensible machismo, and dog shit is an alluring warning against the wave of patriarchal control that's resurging in Donald Trump's America. It's an Australian-Irish co-production, but commentary speaks loudest to us here in the States. The Surfer has some hiccups—I'm not entirely sold on the ending, and it requires blind investment in the bit—but this is what Finnegan does best: take us on a ride that's impossible to predict. [3/5]
