As The Beach Boys once sang, catch a wave and you’re sittin’ on top of the world. But what happens when you’re prevented from catching a wave, much less a break? That’s the dilemma facing Nicolas Cage’s title character in The Surfer, a single-location thriller shot on the Australian oceanside.

Playing a successful businessman in the throes of a divorce, he’s taken a mental health day to surf with his teen son (Finn Little, Those Who Wish Me Dead) at a special place: by the house he’s purchasing. It’s where the surfer grew up, mere steps from the sacred sand. Trouble is, the beach is overrun by a gang of bullies who operate by a simple code: “Don’t live ’ere, don’t surf ’ere!”

Led by a red-robed and crispy-tanned Julian McMahon (Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer), the hooligans deny the surfer entry and steal his board. Running recon from the parking lot atop the hill, the surfer attempts to reclaim what’s his, physically and spiritually, only to be outsmarted at every turn. Just when you think the surfer can’t sink any lower in his attempt to answer the mythic call of the waves, glug glug glug.

With shades of Frank Perry’s The Swimmer, but more akin to Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs at high tide, The Surfer finds Irish director Lorcan Finnegan paying off the visual promise he displayed in Vivarium, a great concept rendered too obtuse — and boring — for its own good. Getting out of that 2019 film’s house and into nature does wonders for him, as well as working with someone else’s script, here by TV writer Thomas Martin, who finds the comedic in the tragic. Vibrant photography from The Babadook cinematographer Radek Ladczuk helps immerse us within Cage’s sun-soaked delirium, prompting questions of how much of what we’re seeing may just be imagined.

One hopes Cage’s much-publicized tax troubles are nearing rearview-mirror status so the supremely gifted actor can continue his comeback tour toward relevance with projects like this and other recents (e.g., Longlegs, Dream Scenario, Color Out of Space) and far, far away from every straight-to-VOD actioner shot in New Orleans. Ever since the 2018 phantasmagoria known as Mandy, I’ve noticed members of the younger generation clamoring for a Cage Freak-Out™ in each picture — and then losing their shit when it arrives. They’ll be pleased to know Finnegan sates their appetite with our hero’s shouted demand of one oppressor, “Eat the rat! Eat it!” 

Hey, whatever gets their butts into seats. Especially for this winner with an ethereal final shot that hits like a missile of emotion. Hang 10. —Rod Lott

Opens in theaters Friday, May 2.

In the three-year gap between my starter and trophy wives, I had some terrible dates with terrible women. One meeting turned out to be the Worst Date Ever. It’s a long story — and sorry to say, relaying its details is more entertaining than watching the fetching Meghann Fahy go through her own in Drop.

The Blumhouse production deservedly gives Fahy, a breakout star from season 2 of HBO’s The White Lotus, her first turn leading a motion picture. As Violet, she’s a single mom, widow and domestic-abuse survivor all in one, getting “back out there” for her first date in years. The lucky guy — or is he? — is mustachioed photographer Henry (Brandon Sklenar, Emily the Criminal), who joins her for dinner at a posh restaurant atop a skyscraper in downtown Chicago.

Before the two can so much as exchange “hello”s, Violet receives ominous memes on her smartphone, AirDrop-style. Then the texts roll in, ordering her to conduct a series of tasks, lest harm come to her 5-year-old son and her babysitting sister (Violett Beane, Blumhouse’s Truth or Dare) held hostage back home. The unknown sender’s demands build to an ultimatum: Kill Henry, right there at the table.

Happy Death Day helmer Christopher Landon keeps things thrifty by setting 90% of the movie in the restaurant. When it comes to stirring up suspense in a single place, however, perhaps he should’ve sent the script back to the kitchen for more time in the oven. Although not a bad film, Drop reveals itself as rather repetitive, constantly generating progressively strained excuses to get Fahy or Sklenar to vacate their chairs so the plot can move forward.

Trouble is, Drop doesn’t move quickly until its tail end. And for this type of thriller, it’s not twisty enough. Landon plants red herrings, but you can tell their color simply by their placement in the running time. To Fahy’s credit, she rises to the challenge of selling the concept’s preposterousness. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Within 12 months’ time, Bill Skarsgård has marched into theaters as the lead of three films: Nosferatu, The Crow and Boy Kills World. Here’s a fourth if you want it.

In Locked, a seedy-looking Skarsgård plays Eddie, an irresponsible part-time father and full-time vapist. He’s angling for quick cash to get his van back. By minute 8, Eddie’s plunked his ass in a luxury SUV he finds unlocked in a parking lot. 

It’s a trap! A soundproof, bulletproof, signal-blocked, leather-upholstered trap with six built-in cameras and an untold number of torture methods, from tasered seats to yodel-based polka — all the remote doing of the car’s elderly owner who mocks Eddie through the stereo system (Anthony Hopkins, literally phoning it in).

“Fuck this car!” shouts Eddie, and I’m inclined to agree. All that roomy interior means squat when the script dilly-dallies its way through all the scenarios that come standard for being stuck in a small space. But this is not a single-setting tale, so that time spent cooped up feels like stalling. In the second half, when the car finally starts and moves for a self-driving joyride, so does the movie. Then Locked idles again until Hopkins shows his face for a scene, ultimately yielding to a too-simple resolution and equally hasty coda.

With thrillers, producer Sam Raimi usually exhibits a golden (or at least silver) touch, recently including Crawl, the Don’t Breathe duology and Netflix’s Don’t Move. He’s so known for it, the poster practically treats Raimi’s name as the third lead. With his involvement and Locked representing the third country to remake Argentina’s 4×4 from 2019, it’s not out of the realm for viewers to expect a killer concept. Brightburn’s David Yarovesky directs with high energy for the opening montage, yet the story of Locked arrives uncharacteristically monotonous.

More could be done with its warring perspectives of the haves, the have-nots and the had-it-up-to-heres. Recommended if you’ve longed to see Hopkins toke up or Skarsgård down pee. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Meet Pepe Lusara, criminal mastermind and master of disguise. He’s recruiting a few good men for an assignment on a need-to-know basis.

Despite a resemblance to Squiggy, Pepe (Aram Katcher, Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens) is also a ladies’ man, wooing the blonde Elizabeth (Lisa McDonald), despite her Phyllis Diller voice. Certainly Pepe isn’t interested in Elizabeth for her proximity to cash working in an arena box office, is he? Yes, actually, that’s completely it, not even taking into account her choice of nightstand reading: The Modern Sex Manual. 

Now it’s time for you to know Pepe’s plan: Rob the armored car when it rolls up to the arena to collect the kitty from the world heavyweight fight. Hope you don’t expect to see the heist or the fight; Right Hand of the Devil hasn’t the budget or permits or perhaps even the know-how to depict action. (But it does have a few precious seconds of basketball-breasted burlesque dancer doing her thang. That’s Georgia Holden, whose curvy caboose commands the poster.)

The only film Katcher ever wrote, directed, produced or edited — not to mention handled hair and makeup for — Right Hand is so clumsily made, it doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Even at an hour and some change, the black-and-white non-wonder is virtually incomprehensible. And completely unmemorable, except for the scene where Pepe’s old girlfriend hurls her artificial leg his way: “Remember you always said my legs were pretty? Here!”  —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Listen Carefully is one of those indier-than-indie productions in which the creator’s name appears 10 times in the end-credits crawl — not out of ego, but sheer necessity. The problem that poses is often twofold: That person spreads himself too thin or simply isn’t proficient enough to handle their own assignments. 

Ryan Barton-Grimley is neither. The multihyphenate proves dexterous on all sides of the camera, including front-and-center as Andy, a harried assistant bank manager at home with his infant daughter while his wife (Barton-Grimley’s real-life spouse, Simone) enjoys an evening out. When Andy awakes from a few accidental Zs, his baby has vanished from her crib. She’s been kidnapped, and the voice (Ari Schneider of his boss’ Hawk and Rev: Vampire Slayers) beaming through the baby monitor demands a cash ransom of $250,000 — from as many ATMs around Santa Clarita as it takes. 

Like the most memorable “one crazy night” movies, from After Hours to Miracle Mile, the movie thrives on an ability to relay tension straight to the viewer. Listen Carefully does just that, as Andy undergoes every parent’s worst nightmare. Although siring children is hardly a prerequisite to enjoy this thriller, I felt Andy’s frustration exacerbated with the peculiar insecurities of a first-time father.

Although I wish Listen Carefully provided a wider range of crazy characters for Andy’s encounters, Barton-Grimley isn’t interested in dark humor as much as he is elements of sleep-deprived horror. His protagonist’s Kafkaesque ordeal is wound tight enough to resemble a Gordian knot. In a way, it is one, since Barton-Grimley’s script takes an out versus delivers an end. Still, the steps to get there form a nerve-rattled journey alive with the energy and danger of the night. It’s a can’t-miss premise, so don’t! —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.