Cage catches a whacked-out wave in ‘The Surfer’
Nicolas Cage charging into the breach on a beach and blowing your mind is just what “The Surfer” ordered. And, boy, does he deliver with one of his wackiest creations yet in a film catching a wave amid a rising tide of toxic masculinity and broken dreams.
It’s classic Cage, casting sanity to the wind and paddling out for a wild ride into the depths of a troubled soul so far adrift that neither he nor we are sure what is real, or the manic hallucinations of a raving lunatic. Knowing Cage, my money is on the latter. And I suspect that was the intent of writer Thomas Martin and director Lorcan Finnegan, two Dubliners who’ve decided to escape their comfort zone by traveling south of the equator to plant their unpredictable star upon a pristine Australian beach.
Drawing inspiration from Burt Lancaster’s often overlooked gem, “The Swimmer,” the two Irishmen have crafted a Kafkaesque surfer-out-of-water scenario in which their protagonist is certain he’s on the path to eternal bliss – if only life would stop getting in the way. It’s a tale of self-entitlement on steroids, as Cage’s surfer with no name returns to the idyllic beach he believes is his birthright.
He grew up there … until tragedy forced him and his mother to resettle in Southern California, where he built a successful business, got married and had a son. Unable to further delay his pending divorce, he’s devises a desperate scheme to repurchase his childhood home Down Under and use it as a means of inducing his wife and son to declare bygones and move back in with him.
It’s with that in mind that he’s brought his son (Finn Little) to the beach where Dad surfed as a youth, hoping to get the boy hooked on Australia, and in turn persuade his mother to join them. But as they approach the water’s edge, father and son are confronted by a wild-eyed hulk, threateningly suggesting the “trespassers” turn around and not return. “Don’t live here, don’t surf here,” he repeatedly warns. The Americans dutifully retreat. But after dispensing with his son, The Surfer, as we come to know him, returns to the beach in a lame attempt to reclaim what he believes is his.
Again rebuffed, this time by the beach’s big kahuna, Scally (Julian McMahon of “Nip/Tuck” fame), the intruder heads back to his Lexus to stew and plot his next move. Thus begins an escalating war between the American and the locals, who outnumber him about 20 to 1. Theft, vandalism and dirty tricks abound, and the local sheriff (Justin Rosniak) does nothing to stop it.
It feels like everyone is against The Surfer. And this simply can’t stand. He’s rich, has connections and all the power invested in him by his swollen ego. But a blazing sun and a growing lack of food and water are forcing him further down the rabbit hole, exposing what a loser he is when cut off from his materialistic possessions and status.
I must warn you that this descent into madness is accompanied by some highly effective gross-out moments involving a rat, strategically deposited excrement and imbibing some of the most polluted water on the planet. But is any of it real? Is The Surfer’s car a snazzy silver Lexus? Or, is it the dilapidated red station wagon he’s started calling “home”?
And are the other surfers the thugs they appear to be, or are they victims of the same warped notion of what it means to be “manly” in a world that no longer recognizes male dominance? The longer the film runs, the more the questions mount. And what exactly is it that Finnegan and Martin are attempting to say? After much thought, I’m still not sure. But what is clear is that the movie provides the ideal stage for Cage to unleash a surreal odyssey into a realm where derangement and acid trips co-exist.
There are times when “The Surfer” goes frustratingly bonkers, but there are just as many moments when it exudes profundity. And through it all, it’s Cage being Cage. That used to be code for off-putting. But ever since his renaissance with “Pig,” the guy who’s long been the target of ribbing by comedians has re-emerged the gifted, risk-averse actor we so adored in his youth. His once lucrative career may have ebbed, but with films as daring as “The Surfer,” he comes crashing back on shore, leaving you awash in the brilliance that is Nicolas Cage.
The Surfer
Rated: R for some violence, drug content, sexual material, language and suicide
Cast: Nicolas Cage, Julian McMahon, Nicholas Cassim and Miranda Tapsell
Director: Lorcan Finnegan
Writer: Thomas Martin
Runtime: 103 minutes
Where: In theaters May 2
Grade: B
