Cuckoo

Tilman Singer's Cuckoo is not simply a horror film; it's a cinematic Rorschach test that refracts the viewer's expectations through a prism of unsettling imagery, layered allegory and visceral sound design. The German filmmaker, who first attracted attention with the minimalist and atmospheric Luz (2018), boldly embarks on larger-scale filmmaking with this richly textured and resolutely surreal second effort. Premiering at the Berlinale, Cuckoo stands out as one of the boldest works of contemporary genre cinema, one that simultaneously embraces and subverts the traditions of European art-house horror.

Right from its title, Cuckoo invites several levels of interpretation. The cuckoo's infamous practice of brood parasitism - laying eggs in the nests of other species, leaving unsuspecting foster parents to raise their offspring - resonates throughout the narrative. Similarly, the cuckoo, archetypal symbol of German precision and fantasy, reappears as a sinister motif, its chime evoking nervous laughter and existential dread. Finally, the slang meaning of the word cuckoo, meaning madman, gives the film its basic tone, as Tilman Singer crafts a story that oscillates between sanity and chaos.

At the heart of Cuckoo is Gretchen, a 17-year-old American girl mourning the recent death of her mother. Played by Euphoria star Hunter Schafer in a career-defining performance, Gretchen is an engaging yet enigmatic protagonist whose raw emotional vulnerability is juxtaposed with a growing physical resilience. Dragged to a Bavarian alpine resort by her father Luis (Márton Csókás), stepmother Beth (Jessica Henwick) and mute half-sister Alma (Mila Lieu), Gretchen finds herself not only out of place, but caught up in a spiral of inexplicable horrors.

The family's destination is the Resort Alpschatten, a strangely immaculate hotel nestled in the breathtaking yet oppressive grandeur of the Bavarian Alps. This establishment, conceived as a retreat from modern life, soon reveals itself to be the scene of deeply disturbing phenomena. The hotel is run by the enigmatic Herr König, played by Dan Stevens. König is a caricature of European aristocratic decadence, his impeccable suits, untraceable accent and bizarre rituals - including his penchant for playing the flute at unexpected moments - making him an archetype of polite malevolence.

Paul Faltz's cinematography plays a crucial role in creating Cuckoo's disconcerting atmosphere. Shot on grainy 35mm film, the images oscillate between the tactile and the surreal. The station's architecture, a fusion of brutalism and mid-century modernity, seems deliberately anachronistic, as if it exists outside conventional temporality. Smartphones and answering machines coexist in this world, creating a sense of temporal dislocation that mirrors the narrative's spiraling descent into madness.

The resort itself becomes a character in the story. Its immaculate interiors are interrupted by grotesque details: women vomiting uncontrollably in the living room, ominous noises emanating from the surrounding woods and the ever-present sense that time and reality are slipping away. Tilman Singer's meticulous attention to sound amplifies this unease. High-pitched screams, rhythmic pulses and disorientating echoes create a soundscape that gnaws at the nerves. Simon Waskow's score, which blends retro synths and dissonant orchestrations, adds yet another layer of tension, as if the film itself were beating with an ominous heartbeat.

Gretchen's journey is marked by physical and emotional transformations that redefine the Last Girl archetype. Schafer imbues her character with a mixture of vulnerability and defiance, making her both a survivor and a deeply flawed human being. Initially withdrawn and bitter, Gretchen is thrust into a series of escalating confrontations with the supernatural and the patriarchal forces embodied by König. Her wounds accumulate - broken bones, bruises and scars - but these physical wounds become badges of resilience. Schafer's performance is magnetic, her every movement and expression capturing the intensity of a young woman fighting for autonomy in an environment designed to deprive her of it.

The film's horror is as much psychological as it is visceral. Gretchen's sense of isolation is accentuated by her strained relationship with her family. Luis, her father, is emotionally distant, focused on his architectural ambitions and his sycophantic relationship with König. Beth, his stepmother, embodies a Stepford-like perfection that seems performative, while Alma's muteness becomes an ominous counterpoint to the chaos unfolding around them. The family dynamic underscores one of Cuckoo's central themes: the erasure of women's voices in patriarchal systems.

As Herr König, Dan Stevens delivers one of the most memorable performances of his filmography. His König is at once charismatic and grotesque, a character who exudes control while bordering on the absurd. Whether sniffing asparagus with disconcerting intensity or invading Gretchen's personal space with exaggerated charm, König is a figure of both ridicule and terror. Dan Stevens' commitment to the role elevates König from a mere antagonist to a symbol of systemic oppression, his every action imbued with a sinister purpose that only becomes fully clear in the film's shocking final act.

Cuckoo is not without its faults. Its narrative, though rich in symbolism, often veers into incoherence. The film's third act, a mix of body horror, psychological disintegration and action thriller, seems overloaded, its revelations both under-explained and overblown. Yet these imperfections are part of the film's charm. Tilman Singer's refusal to provide easy answers or neat resolutions forces the audience to engage with Cuckoo on a deeper level, wrestling with its ambiguities and contradictions.

Cuckoo is a real meditation on grief, identity and the monstrous forces that shape our lives. It's a film that rewards patience and interpretation, its layers of meaning revealing themselves long after the credits roll. For those willing to embrace its strangeness, Cuckoo offers an experience as unsettling as it is unforgettable - a triumph of modern horror that establishes Tilman Singer as one of the most daring auteurs in cinema today. One of our editors' favorites, the film will be screened in Paris as part of the PIFFF festival, which, as in previous years, will be held at the Max Linder Panorama.

Cuckoo
Written and directed by Tilman Singer
Produced by Markus Halberschmidt, Josh Rosenbaum, Maria Tsigka, Ken Kao, Thor Bradwell, Ben Rimmer
Starring Hunter Schafer, Jan Bluthardt, Marton Csokas, Jessica Henwick, Dan Stevens
Cinematography : Paul Faltz
Edited by Terel Gibson, Philipp Thomas
Music by Simon Waskow
Production companies : Neon, Fiction Park, Waypoint Entertainment
Distributed by Neon (United States)
Release dates : February 16, 2024 (Berlinale), August 9, 2024 (United States)
Running time : 103 minutes

Viewed on September 20, 2024 (VOD)

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