‘The Surfer’ – Review
Nicolas Cage, the mad king of cinema, is back – and this time, he’s riding a wave of vengeance in the sunburnt, psyche-shattering thriller The Surfer. Helmed by Irish auteur Lorcan Finnegan, and shot with blistering intensity under the sweltering Australian sun, The Surfer is a gnarly descent into masculinity, madness, and moral decay.
A man (Nicolas Cage) returns to the idyllic beach of his childhood to surf with his son. But his desire to hit the waves is thwarted by a group of locals whose mantra is “don’t live here, don’t surf here.” Humiliated and angry, the man is drawn into a conflict that keeps rising in concert with the punishing heat of the summer and pushes him to his breaking point.
Lorcan Finnegan’s setup for The Surfer is deceptively simple: an unnamed man (Cage) returns to the beachside paradise of his youth with his teenage son, seeking solace and perhaps a fresh start. But things go sour fast when he attempts to reclaim his old surf spot – only to be laughed off the beach by a cabal of bronzed, sun-bleached locals who rule the shoreline like a Nietzschean surf cult. Their leader, Scally, played with feral menace by Julian McMahon, is pure Aussie venom in boardshorts, and he makes it clear: Cage’s character isn’t welcome here.
From that sun-drenched humiliation, The Surfer becomes a taut, pulpy battle for dignity and sanity. Cage spirals from laid-back dad to broken man to something far darker, and Finnegan never lets the tension dip. Every frame radiates heat, paranoia, and a sense that something very bad is lurking just beneath the sand.
Visually, this film rips. Cinematographer Radek Ładczuk captures the Western Australian coastline in all its sun-bleached, apocalyptic glory. The film radiates an uneasy nuclear-haze colour palette of burn yellows and sickening yellows, and this draws you further into the general level of unsettling-hypnotic energy that you feel wash over you. The beaches are beautiful, yes, but there’s something off about them. Empty waves crash like drumbeats of dread. Flaming trash barrels dot the night. And Cage, gaunt and twitching, becomes a kind of Mad Max meets Point Break anti-hero: barefoot, bloodied, and slowly baking in his own psychosis.
But make no mistake, this is Cage’s movie, front to back. And he goes FULL Cage. There’s a moment, deep into the third act, where he delivers a sand-caked monologue about freedom, rage, and waves that is so intensely bizarre and brilliant you’ll either laugh out loud or cheer from your seat. Maybe both. It’s the kind of performance that reminds you why we love this man; because no one else would dare go this far into the absurd and still make it feel real.
Tonally, The Surfer walks a tightrope between surrealist thriller and down-and-dirty revenge flick. Finnegan keeps the pacing tight but patient, allowing tension to simmer like an exposed nerve. The script is minimal but razor-sharp, leaning into allegory and masculine archetypes without ever feeling self-important. Underneath the sweltering madness, The Surfer is ultimately a story about ego, ageing, and the primal need to belong.
But let’s be clear: this isn’t a film for everyone. It’s strange. It’s a slow-burning watch. It feels like an anxiety-dripping fever dream on acid. But if you’re a Cage devotee, a fan of sunburnt psychological horror, or just someone who loves watching toxic men tear each other apart in paradise, The Surfer is an essential, blistering ride.
The Surfer is a genre-defying fever dream of heat, hostility, and head trauma. Nicolas Cage is a force of nature, and Lorcan Finnegan lets him off the leash in the best possible way. It’s bold, brutal, and unlike anything you’ve seen this year.
Image: MadMan Films
