Cuckoo 2024

Unlike Longlegs, also released by Neon in July, a film that’s grip on me and my nerves grew tighter the longer it went, Cuckoo let me slip through its fingers about halfway through, and never regained me.

Following his acclaimed Luz from 2018, Tilman Singer’s latest is an opaque and frustrating movie that confuses the more it tries to give its madness a purpose. Its aggressively stoic tone almost entirely invalidates its light comic touches, something it no less needed. This is a horror mystery anchored by a strong lead performance and some technical mastery, both of which we hope to find again in a more complete package.

Hunter Schafer is Gretchen, a 17-year-old American who, in the middle of drowning in grief, is taken to live with her father (Marton Csokas), his new wife (Jessica Henwick), and their young, mute daughter (Mila Lieu) at a resort in the Bavarian Alps. It’s less an idyllic escape and more of a prison complex, shrouded in secrecy by the towering mountains that hog the region. It’s run by Herr König (Dan Stevens), who has invited Gretchen and her family to stay there while him and dad work on his next real estate development project. Meanwhile, Gretchen goes to work the reception desk at a hotel, witnessing all sorts of bizarre behavior from its dwellers.

Gretchen starts to experience the unexplainable, most notably on a late-night bike-ride home where she’s chased by a demonic woman. In what is the film’s most chilling sequence, Gretchen frantically pedals through the winding German countryside while the figure chasing her is only illuminated for mere seconds when passing under the glow of streetlights. Throughout, Gretchen phones her late mother’s still-active cell-phone, not only to hear her voice on the answering machine, but to leave her sad and sometimes frightened messages she knows her mom will never hear. Such a striking, beautifully articulated grieving process still manages to hold weight despite an otherwise floundering picture.

Cuckoo frequently employs an offensive sonic device that generates more annoyance than fear. Cords shimmer and shriek until an ear-piercing crescendo goes off like a raid siren. Its roots prove to be diegetic, but by the time its source is revealed, you’re already bothered to the point that you’re just relieved you won’t have to hear it again.

Hunter Schafer takes a great deal of physical and mental abuse throughout Cuckoo. She reminded me of Agathe Rousselle in the controversial and divisive Titane insofar that repeated blows to the head and face begin to slightly alter her appearance. Perhaps a metaphor for the human body’s capabilities to change and adapt? You wouldn’t know, for when Singer tries to explain what is going on with Cuckoo, not only has its rampant dullness bred apathy, but it’s too convoluted to make sensible for most.

The ultra-serious tone marries itself to deadpan dialog to the point that the film therein adopts a monotonality that compounds one’s ability to be set adrift in a sea of third act exposition. It takes a lot for a screenwriter to make Dan Stevens — who, this year alone, has been boundlessly charismatic in both Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire and Abigail — aloof and uninteresting in a villain role, but Singer has effectively managed such a feat. In an attempt to get Cuckoo to captivate with elements that make up some of the best of its genre (including dread, mystery, and initial vagueness), Singer fails to reward patient viewers with a worthy climax. One that doesn’t have everything crumbling into a muddle of incoherence would’ve been best, but once my interest was permanently lost, the only thing I anxiously awaited were the closing credits.