Nicolas Cage’s latest venture, The Surfer, plunges into the depths of toxic masculinity, set against the backdrop of Western Australia’s coastline. Cage is magnetic as a man teetering on the brink of sun-induced insanity. While a touch of Aussie accent might have added authenticity to his portrayal, his American drawl doesn’t distract—he blends seamlessly with the beach setting and the local cast, particularly Julian McMahon, who is brilliantly menacing and a joy to watch as the ringleader of a gang of “bratty bay boys.”
In the story, a disillusioned man returns to his coastal hometown after years of living abroad, only to find that his childhood beach has been claimed by a brutal gang of local extremists. As they test his identity and manhood, he spirals into a psychological battle to reclaim both his sense of self and the shoreline.
The film carries a disorienting, dreamlike quality, reminiscent of Roman Polanski’s The Tenant and Repulsion. Like those films, The Surfer blurs the line between psychological collapse and external reality, casting the viewer into a maze of paranoia and unease. Homage is clearly paid to Wake in Fright, but unlike that Australian classic, this film occasionally goes off course, leaving the viewer adrift, wondering what the heck is going on. The frequent use of extreme close-ups and skewed angles reinforces the characters’ fractured state of mind, though at times, it distances the viewer from the onscreen drama.
Some narrative threads, like the subplot involving the protagonist’s son—his initial emotional anchor—feel frustratingly underdeveloped. By the second act, the boy is almost forgotten, and his reappearance toward the film’s conclusion feels more symbolic (a yearning for home) than narratively earned. A more complete arc would have added emotional depth and resonance to Cage’s descent into paranoia.
Still, even though it left me scratching my head at times, The Surfer holds you in its undertow. It may not be everyone’s beach to surf at, but Nicolas Cage fans are bound to revel in the film’s stylistic bravado and his twisted “rat-eating” performance. Cage has become legendary for this kind of role—surfing the edge of camp and catharsis and somehow never wiping out. The film’s ’70s aesthetic, saturated cinematography, and retro-sounding soundtrack all contribute to a hypnotic and wild ride. It doesn’t just depict masculine toxicity; it soaks every frame in it, revealing the lurking threat of toxic nationalism beneath the sunlit Australian surf.
The Surfer, flaws and all, is a wave worth riding. Childhood memories of home hold a special place in our hearts, but are they worth fighting for? The Surfer believes they are.
Harlequin ink 
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