The Surfer review – Nicolas Cage rides a wave of desperation

Last month we said goodbye to director Ted Kotcheff. The veteran Canadian was prolific in both film and TV so the headlines zeroed in on his most recognisable works: First Blood (1982), the movie that introduced the world to traumatised one-man army John Rambo, and Weekend at Bernie’s (1989), a broad farce about two doofuses puppeteering a corpse. 

But I reckon the most indelible entry in Kotcheff’s filmography is Wake in Fright (1971), a harrowing Aussie fever dream where a semi-respectable teacher descends into depravity during a stopover in a hardscrabble Outback town. Featuring genuinely upsetting footage from a real-life kangaroo cull, the movie’s status as an enduring cult object was secured when the original negative went missing for decades (a restored version premiered in Sydney in 2009). 

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Some of the rowdy spirit of Kotcheff’s crack-up classic lives on in The Surfer, although initially it does not seem that obvious. With its gorgeous Aussie surf breaks shot in a vivid, colour-saturated style, the film – from Irish director Lorcan Finnegan – evokes the golden age of cinematic melodramas. That feeling of hypnotic sensory overload and heightened emotion is underlined by François Tétaz’s lush, old-fashioned score and the retro style of the opening credits, including a throwback title card that identifies Nicolas Cage as The Surfer.

Cage is introduced enthusing about his childhood surfing spot Luna Bay to his teenage son (played by Yellowstone’s Finn Little) as he drives them there. Christmas is looming and it is clear that Cage’s character – a financial type in a Lexus – wants to do some bonding on the beach. He is also poised to buy back the nearby house he grew up in, which could represent a fresh start for his obviously fractured family.

But when father and son head down to shore with cute matching surfboards, they are immediately confronted by a furious and physically intimidating local sporting a rather incongruous Santa hat. “Don’t live here, don’t surf here!” he repeatedly barks, clearly ready to throw down.

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The situation is defused by a cheery passer-by who wears his hooded red beach towel like Jedi robes. This is local guru/ringleader Scally (Julian McMahon from Nip/Tuck, radiating matey but deeply sinister charisma) who sends the interlopers packing with a combination of homespun wisdom and not-so-veiled intimidation. 

Back in the Luna Bay car park, Cage’s humiliated dad nurses his resentment. He is required to stay put to try and shepherd through his house deal but sends his non-plussed son home in a taxi with a promise that it will all work out. From his fractious mood and the way the baking sun makes the landscape shimmer and shift, it feels far more likely that things are going to go sideways.

What follows is one of those paranoia-inducing scenarios where the whole world seems to be plotting against you. A series of careless decisions – and the way tetchy locals refuse to help – begin to strip away all the modern conveniences that Cage’s bullish dealmaker has come to rely on. An ill-advised tit for-tat war with the aggressive “bay boys” who worship Scally does even more to chip away at his veneer of civilisation. The shrieking kookaburras and other wildlife, like porcupines, snakes and a particularly obstinate rat also make it tricky for him to maintain any kind of mental equilibrium. 

If you’re going to spend an entire movie experiencing the nightmare of an everyman spiralling into abject madness it certainly helps if they are played by Cage. Here he is in practically every scene and gives a committed and impressively calibrated performance that ascends to meme-ready operatic extremes while also remaining relatable enough to ground the hallucinatory action. As the sun beats down relentlessly, his increasing levels of desperation are palpable.

With its strong visual aesthetic and Tétaz’s sweeping score The Surfer is an admirably distinctive vision that makes the most of its limited locations. Perhaps some of its finer points about masculinity in crisis get a little lost in the prickly heat haze. But as events ratchet up to the inevitable reckoning on the idyllic beach of Luna Bay, it feels like viewers have been put through the wringer almost as much as Cage’s thwarted surfer. The late Kotcheff, who knew a thing or two about damaged lead characters, would likely approve.

The Surfer is in cinemas now.

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