Who knew Hunter Schafer could take so much blunt-force trauma? Despite a comically constant battering throughout Tilman Singer’s Cuckoo, Schafer miraculously stands tall with standout performance. But a powerful lead isn’t enough to carry a film. Cuckoo flies the coop more than once, though it isn’t incoherent to a fault. Rather, it sort of circulates clarity, letting its mystery glide just enough to land on an ultimately satisfying place.

Gretchen (Schafer, Kinds of Kindness) finds little motivation in anything, save remotely practicing with her band, as her family relocates to a mountainside resort in Germany. Her dad (Marton Csokas, 2014’s The Equalizer) and stepmom (Jessica Henwick, Glass Onion) work for Herr (Dan Stevens, Abigail), the resort’s owner and a strange bird in his own right. Peculiar, overbearing employers become the least of Gretchen’s worries, however, as she’s relentlessly stalked by a bizarre “woman” wearing shades and trench coat.

Singer’s writing isn’t particularly coherent, though the big picture is never completely lost. Rather, it suffers from frequent detours that, while stylistic, tend to create more confusion than terror. Conceptually, the monster at the center of Cuckoo is intriguing, but Singer (Luz) can’t quite strike the balance between explanation and mystery. It’s like the filmmaker tried to delicately pull back the curtain, only to stumble and reveal a gaggle of puppeteers. It doesn’t ruin the film, but it also strangles the power its ambiguity could have had.

That said, the creature of this feature is secondary. Gretchen, firmly caught between grief and apathy, gives Cuckoo its legs. Schafer nails the malaise of late-stage adolescence, channeling a realistic portrayal without veering into just another whiny kid. Against Stevens and Luz star Jan Bluthardt’s increasingly deranged acting, Schafer serves as an anchor that allows every other character to go utterly off the rails. Without her establishing what’s normal, Cuckoo’s alluring strangeness would just be nonsensical.

What Singer could benefit from most, ultimately, is even just a basic amount of restraint. The film’s violence is mostly well-choreographed, but it doesn’t always feel earned. It often seems like Cuckoo is a compelling coming-of-age drama that has a weird contractual obligation to moonlight as a horror movie. (Though, admittedly, its cold opening does a decent job of keeping the thought of some malicious force at the back of your mind, sort of like the first scene of Valdimar Jóhannsson’s Lamb.)

This makes Cuckoo a bit difficult to qualify. On one hand, it more than establishes Schafer as a capable lead. With any luck, this won’t be her last appearance at the top of a cast. However, it probably won’t be for another one of Singer’s pictures. His premise is intriguing, but Cuckoo itself seems to be locked in an identity crisis that style and strong performers can’t manage to shake. If the director insists on remaining horror, they should rightfully keep swinging for the fences. Likewise, he’d be wise to remember that not every “high concept” needs to float in the stratosphere. We’ll receive him with open arms back on Earth. —Daniel Bokemper

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Add Ti West’s MaXXXine to the list of exploitation flicks Joe Bob Briggs would insist you check out. The much-anticipated, giallo-inspired climax to the X trilogy (2022’s X and Pearl) features voyeuristic knife-fu, car compacter-fu and, of course, stiletto-dick-stomping-fu. Despite the compelling and outrageous boxes it checks, MaXXXine provides a conclusion that — while in many ways incomparable — feels limp in the shadow of its predecessors.

Six years removed from X’s bloodbath, final girl Maxine Minx (Mia Goth, Infinity Pool) vies to move from porn to blockbusters. She’s made a name for herself in Hollywood’s underbelly, but her dreams have quickly outgrown the back alleys, strip clubs and peepshows where she finds herself. She nails an audition for a much-anticipated horror movie, The Puritan II. Unfortunately, a shady, annoying private investigator (Kevin Bacon, Tremors) and a serial killer targeting her closest friends muffles her celebration. Oh, and Pearl haunts her.

It can’t be understated: Each entry in the X trilogy has something to appreciate. X was an excellent homage to classic slashers supported by a phenomenal, dual performance from Goth. Pearl was a fascinating character study that combines the best parts of The Red Shoes and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. MaXXXine, on the other hand, has an undeniably distinct style splattered across a living and breathing (and profusely bleeding) world.

But style alone can’t carry the film. It clearly defines what it’s examining, and the main idea it leans into — “fame’s a killer” and the sharp edge of stardom — yet only touches the surface. It’s like MaXXXine’s afraid to say anything challenging, so it instead opts for the most narratively convenient off-ramp it can scrape for. Similar to what made Nicolas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon and Alex Garland’s Men lackluster, an uninspired climax rarely earns what those films’ effective first halves vie to accomplish.

That’s not to say MaXXXine is irreparably ruined by its final act. Goth still emerges as the backbone of all three Xs. She has a vast range that, though best showcased in Pearl, remains firing on all cylinders here. And West’s ability to keep dialogue snappy and natural is only exceeded by his talent for shooting captivating and alluring frames. Unfortunately, none of those exceptional traits can mask disappointing ends. It doesn’t matter how many times you punch Kevin Bacon in the face. Sequences pop an audience, but a thoughtful and well-rounded plot gives a flick permeance.

That said, you should still see MaXXXine; at the end of the day, even the weakest of the X trilogy is still far from schlock. True, what it does manage to say about an artist’s meteoric rise doesn’t carry the same weight as Pearl’s showstopping dance into a cruel reality. Still, like virtually all of West’s work, it clearly captures the tone it pursues. It’s just hard not to wish that aesthetic was part of a more realized package. Please don’t tease us like this next time, Ti. Please. —Daniel Bokemper

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While watching any of the 10 Friday the 13th sequels, have you ever wondered how Jason Voorhees conveniently winds up at exactly the right place to impale a promiscuous camper? Chris Nash’s deconstructionist slasher, In a Violent Nature, provides an undeniably poignant answer: He just walks.

Well, he walks after a random camper nabs a necklace that kept the monster buried beneath a charred sawmill. The plot is intentionally bare bones: The killer wanders into town, then finds an iconic mask and weapon before brutally dismembering folks with blood-chilling creativity.

The film rebukes most of the genre’s typical quick cuts and relentless jump scares. Instead, it favors a slow, methodical and over-the-shoulder approach that follows a reanimated serial killer as he slaughters foul-mouthed farmers, angsty campers and a lawman with a narratively convenient legacy. It’d be easy to compare the shifted focus to Scott Glosserman’s Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, though even that mockumentary falls headfirst into the conventions it tries to critique.

That’s not to suggest In a Violent Nature doesn’t lean on tropes, but it at least juggles and harnesses them in a unique and mostly satisfying way. Its contemplative pace and unflinching cinematography don’t beg questions, but evoke a feeling like David and Nathan Zellner’s Sasquatch Sunset. The film only wanes when it gives into slasher norms — specifically breaking away from the killer’s perspective — in what is presumably an attempt to break up the monotony. And though the frequent, slower sequences sometimes border meandering, they also allow the film’s bloated zombie to float above a swamp of nameless, uninspired killers.

In dissecting slashers, however, the flick also must lean into them. This means campy dialogue runs rampant. At times, it works to cast historically poor lighting in a different light, sort of like the ineffable chirps of some finches before they’re snagged by a bird-eating spider. A particularly egregious campfire scene almost squanders this effect, as the film spends a bit too long removed from its subject for the sake of dumping some ultimately unnecessary exposition. It’s as though Nash didn’t trust his premise, fearing it would veer into Skinamarink territory and bore the audience. While he might be right, leaning into the gory nature doc vibe a bit more could’ve help the film garner a little more permeance.

Some small stumbles aside, In a Violent Nature still manages to carve a path that should intrigue even those less inclined to slashers. Its clinical approach to kills paired with a genuinely haunting ending makes it a clear frontrunner (or maybe “frontwalker”) for the best horror film of 2024. —Daniel Bokemper

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