Cuckoo Review: A Visceral Descent into Terror with Mixed Results

Tilman Singer’s Cuckoo is a visually arresting and thematically ambitious horror film that attempts to weave psychological dread, body horror, and folklore into a compelling narrative. With a cast led by the enigmatic Hunter Schafer, the film ventures into the eerie landscape of the German Alps to explore the mysterious and unnerving happenings surrounding a grieving family. While Cuckoo successfully builds an atmosphere drenched in tension, its ultimate payoff leaves some narrative threads unresolved, resulting in an experience that is equal parts engaging and frustrating.

One of Cuckoo’s greatest strengths is its sense of atmosphere. The film’s setting is a remote resort town in the Bavarian Alps, providing a natural backdrop for the unsettling events. The isolation of the mountains, combined with the cold, imposing architecture of the resort, creates a sense of claustrophobia that serves to heighten the tension as Gretchen (Hunter Schafer) becomes increasingly disturbed by the strange occurrences around her. Singer effectively uses the environment to evoke dread, and the film’s sound design plays a pivotal role in amplifying that atmosphere. The sharp screeches and reverberating sounds associated with the hooded woman, in particular, are genuinely disturbing, adding a layer of discomfort that lingers long after the scene ends.

Visual style:

The film’s visual style also stands out, blending natural beauty with the grotesque. Singer and his cinematographer capture the sweeping majesty of the Alps, juxtaposed with the sterile, almost clinical feel of the resort. The result is a disquieting contrast between the external world and the internal chaos that Gretchen experiences. The practical effects and creature design, particularly in the film’s later stages, are horrifyingly effective, showcasing Singer’s ability to craft visceral horror moments.

Lead performances:

Hunter Schafer’s portrayal of Gretchen is the emotional core of Cuckoo. As a teenager dealing with the death of her mother and the tension within her new family dynamic, Schafer imbues the character with a mix of vulnerability and defiance. Her descent into paranoia and fear feels authentic, even as the film’s plot becomes more outlandish. Schafer’s performance is particularly effective in the more intimate scenes, where the emotional weight of Gretchen’s trauma comes through in subtle but powerful ways.

Dan Stevens delivers a memorable performance as Herr König, the enigmatic and sinister overseer of the resort project. His portrayal balances charm and menace, keeping the audience on edge about his true intentions. However, there are moments where the character veers into caricature, particularly in the third act, where the film’s more surreal elements take center stage. Stevens does his best with the material, but König’s motivations remain murky, leaving his character feeling underdeveloped.

Supporting cast:

The supporting cast, including Jessica Henwick as Beth and Marton Csokas as Luis, do a fine job, but their characters are largely relegated to the background. They exist more as plot devices than fully realized individuals, and while Henwick and Csokas bring depth to their performances, they are not given enough screen time to truly shine.

Narrative:

The narrative of Cuckoo is where the film begins to falter. At its core, the film deals with themes of grief, family, and identity, but these are overshadowed by the increasingly convoluted plot involving the hooded woman and the bizarre experiments taking place at the resort. The mystery of the creature at the heart of the story is intriguing, and the parallels drawn to the cuckoo bird’s parasitic nature add an interesting layer to the film’s mythology. Key information is introduced unevenly and disjointedly, with late revelations.

While Cuckoo builds tension effectively in its first half, the second half of the film spirals into chaotic territory. The introduction of time loops, parasitic slime, and near-human species feels like too much all at once, leaving little room for the audience to process the film’s core emotional beats. Gretchen’s relationship with her father and half-sister, which is crucial to the film’s thematic exploration of family, is sidelined in favor of increasingly outlandish plot developments.

Effective horror moments:

One thing Cuckoo does consistently well is its horror. Singer has a keen eye for crafting unsettling imagery, and the film’s most terrifying moments are genuinely chilling. The hooded woman, with her eerie screeches and relentless pursuit of Gretchen, is a haunting antagonist, and the body horror elements involving the parasitic slime and the near-human creatures are gruesome in all the right ways.

However, while these moments of horror are effective, they feel disconnected from the film’s emotional core. The horror in Cuckoo is visceral and often disturbing, but it doesn’t always serve the larger narrative. The film’s attempts to explore deeper themes, such as the trauma of loss and the fragility of identity, get lost in the spectacle of its more grotesque elements. As a result, while Cuckoo delivers on its promise of unsettling horror, it struggles to tie these moments back to the emotional journey of its protagonist in a satisfying way.

Overall:

Tilman Singer’s Cuckoo is a film brimming with potential but ultimately held back by its overly ambitious narrative. The film excels in its atmosphere, sound design, and visual horror, and Hunter Schafer’s performance anchors the film’s more surreal moments. However, the story’s pacing issues, coupled with a muddled third act, prevent the film from reaching its full potential. Fans of atmospheric horror and body horror will find much to appreciate in Cuckoo, but those looking for a more coherent and emotionally resonant story may walk away disappointed.