Cuckoo spreads the magic of director Tilman Singer, quadruples down on Dan Stevens’ weird little dude era

Cuckoo. // Courtesy Neon Films

Back in 2018, Tilman Singer’s 16mm student film Luz captured festival audiences with its off-kilter throwback vibe, feeling like a lost film from another dimension. While it was certainly divisive, it was clear that Singer was a director to watch. It’s taken Singer a few years to deliver a follow-up, but his sophomore effort, Cuckoo, delivers on his initial promise.

Singer’s latest is, by turns, extremely tense, gross, awkward, queer, delightful, and exquisitely crafted.

When we first meet teenager Gretchen (Hunter Schafer), her father (Márton Csókás), stepmother Beth (Jessica Henwick), and half-sister Alma (Mila Lieu), they’re driving to their new home, near a dilapidated resort in the Bavarian Alps. Her parents have been tapped to rebuild a new facility on the land and have been given a sizable house to stay in the meantime. This is all through the generosity of Herr König (Dan Stevens), the owner of the property.

Shortly after the family’s arrival, the mute Alma suffers a series of seizures. Gretchen takes a job at the resort’s front desk, where she witnesses a series of female guests spontaneously vomiting in the lobby. To top it off, Herr König warns her not to go out after dark, for cryptic reasons. Of course, when she decides to ride her bike home one evening, she comes face to face with a red-eyed, screeching hooded figure, who may or may not be at the center of everything going on.

If Luz was Singer picking liberally from the works of Lucio Fulci’s aesthetics and dream logic, Cuckoo sees him playing in the sandbox of Dario Argento. There’s an 80s Giallo-esque vibe to the proceedings captured stunningly through great cinematography and colors that pop and wash over the screen. At times it feels like Singer threw sample swatches out in a given scene, and then matched furniture and costuming to whatever was on the floor.

Singer’s pulling more than just visual inspiration from Argento. The plot of Cuckoo includes an off-the-books investigation by a grizzled detective (Luz’s Jan Bluthardt). Small events take place in the background that later hold bigger significance. Like many an Argento lead, Gretchen is an outsider who’s perpetually in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Singer’s got the mechanics down, but the film’s cast (particularly its two aces, Schafer and Stevens) take Cuckoo from genre exercise to something more textured and interesting.

Cuckoo. // Courtesy Neon Films

As an anxious, rebellious queer teen reeling from a recent tragedy, Schafer makes Gretchen uniquely compelling. She also throws herself (literally) into the role with wince-inducing physicality, at various times bandaged, hobbled, and nearly unconscious.

It’s a testament to Stevens’ craft that even after years of using his leading man looks and charisma to make wildly unexpected choices that he can do so much with so little. Herr König has goofy glasses, a little wooden flute, a hissing accent and a sneering smile, but it’s Stevens’ uneasy, quiet menace that elevates the character. Even his entering the frame could be considered a jump scare.

For only his second feature, Singer demonstrates an impressive amount of control throughout Cuckoo. Now that he’s out of film school and has studio backing, Singer’s got free reign of filmmaking toys. He mashes discordant story beats, logic and otherworldly elements into a glorious whole that against all odds is incredibly fun. It’s not a down-the-middle crowd pleaser—there are elements that are underexplained by design, and parts of Cuckoo are goopy, silly and seem to operate on their own internal logic. Regardless, it cements Singer’s reputation as a standout voice in horror.