‘Cuckoo’: Berlin Review

Dir/scr: Tilman Singer. Germany/US. 2024. 102 mins

Still grieving the recent death of her mother, 17-year-old Gretchen (Euphoria star Hunter Schafer) is painfully ill at ease as part of her father’s new family with her stepmother and half-sister. Even more so since she has been wrenched from her home in America and forced to relocate to a faded spa resort in the Bavarian Alps. She takes a job as the hotel’s part-time receptionist, hoping to earn enough money to buy her way out of this picturesque backwater. But then things start to get weird. Tilman Singer’s buzzy second feature goes all out on its queasy, grubbily down-at-heel atmosphere but, despite an exposition-laden third act, it is rather less successful when it comes to coherent plotting.

A certain sloppy lack of clarity in the storytelling

The film’s premiere as a Special Gala in Berlin marks a return to the festival for Singer: LUZ, his 2018 micro-budget 16mm horror about demonic possession, also screened at the festival. And the festival circuit – specifically midnight movie slots – should be a natural home for this film, which delivers a decent helping of gore and gross body horror as Gretchen starts hearing a curious noise with a hypnotic power; time begins to glitch and loop; and a feral middle-aged woman with glinting red eyes appears to be hunting her.

Whether the picture will garner the word-of-mouth support required for success outside of festival play is another matter. What’s not up for debate is the quality of the lead performance. Schafer delivers a stellar turn, and her combination of androgynous frailty and tough-girl attitude works terrifically well. She carries the film, and will likely be its key selling point. Also a lot of fun is Dan Stevens, chewing his way through his dialogue and a sizeable chunk of the Bavarian Alps as Mr König, the resort’s unnerving, unblinking owner.

It is tempting to assume that Gretchen, with her hipster wardrobe, her earphones clamped over her ears and her accent that sets her far apart from the clipped British voice of her stepmother Beth (Jessica Henwick), and from the geographically fluid tones of her father Luis (Marton Csókás), is the eponymous cuckoo in the nest. But, without giving too much away, let’s just say that she is not the only contender for this particular title. What’s clear is that Gretchen doesn’t belong in this stuffy spa resort, which feels as though it was ripped from the past and exists uneasily, out of its time.

Location and design departments contribute significantly to the atmosphere here. The resort, with its bungalows painted, long ago, in cheerily festive colours, is a remnant of mid-century kitsch. The piped muzak that swirls through the lobby feels as though it is being broadcast directly from the Overlook Hotel. The other receptionist, Trixie (Greta Fernández), is dressed in a fussy blouse that would have looked dated in the 80s. And the decision to shoot on film further distances the picture from the present day. The main indication that the story is contemporary is the use of technology: Gretchen repeatedly calls her dead mother’s answering service to listen to her voice; and Gretchen’s non-verbal sister Alma (Mila Lieu) uses her phone to communicate. 

In the creepily evocative atmosphere and suggestion of unorthodox activities in a mountain health spa, the film bears similarities to Gore Verbinski’s A Cure For Wellness. And it is fair to say that both pictures also suffer from a certain sloppy lack of clarity in the storytelling. Cuckoo’s plotting is uneven and incoherent; key characters disappear for long chunks of the film, only to reappear in time for the bloodbath of a climax. Themes boil down to some fairly familiar messages about female bodily autonomy and the threat posed by unregulated scientific experimentation placed in the hands of a maniac. But while it is messy and frequently bewildering, Cuckoo does at least live up to its title, with a commitment to gleefully bonkers twists and a collection of entertainingly deranged supporting performances.