Cuckoo

The German Alps are usually the backdrop for two things: high-end ski gear advertisements or Julie Andrews spinning in circles. Tilman Singer, the director who previously gave us the lo-fi demonic possession trip Luz, clearly had a third option in mind: a neon-soaked, biological nightmare that feels like it was grown in a petri dish in 1977 and then forgotten in the back of a freezer. I watched this while wearing one wool sock and one cotton sock because I couldn’t find a matching pair in the dark, and honestly, that sense of being slightly off-balance was the perfect way to experience the jagged, rhythmic insanity of Cuckoo.

In an era where every second horror movie is either a "legacy sequel" or a metaphor for grief that’s about as subtle as a sledgehammer, Cuckoo is a refreshing weirdo. It doesn't care about your trauma. It cares about bird logic, strange frequencies, and making you feel like you’ve accidentally joined a cult while trying to find the hotel breakfast buffet.

The Alpine Glitch

We meet Gretchen, played by Hunter Schafer, who is essentially the patron saint of Gen Z angst here. She’s been dragged to a resort by her father (Marton Csokas) and his new wife (Jessica Henwick), and she’s not exactly hiding her misery. Hunter Schafer (of Euphoria fame) has a way of looking perpetually exhausted and hyper-alert at the same time, which is the exact energy you need when your new home looks like a brutalist dollhouse nestled in the mountains.

The film wastes no time getting to the "What the hell was that?" of it all. There’s a repeating "glitch" in time—a looping sound and visual stutter—that feels less like a jump scare and more like a skip in a vinyl record. It’s a bold technical choice by Tilman Singer, and it works because it’s so physically annoying. It triggers a fight-or-flight response that most "boo!" scares can’t touch. The cinematography by Paul Faltz captures the resort with a clinical, sterile beauty that makes the sudden bursts of violence feel even more intrusive.

The Stevens Factor

If there is a God of Contemporary Character Actors, His name is Dan Stevens. In Cuckoo, he plays Herr König, the resort’s owner, and Dan Stevens looks like he’s having more fun than any human being should be allowed to have in a movie about bird monsters. Whether he’s playing a flute like a deranged Pied Piper or explaining complex biological parasitism with the breezy confidence of a TED Talker on meth, he is the glue holding this madness together.

He brings a specific brand of "Euro-trash elegance" that reminds me of the golden age of weird genre cinema. This is a movie that leans into its own absurdity without ever winking at the camera. It’s played dead serious, which only makes the sight of a woman in sunglasses shrieking like a predatory bird even more hilarious and terrifying. Dan Stevens plays his character like a man who has been personally offended by the concept of sanity.

A Cult Classic in the Making

Why hasn’t everyone seen this yet? Well, we’re living in a weird theatrical moment. While franchises like Deadpool & Wolverine hog the screens, original, mid-budget swing-for-the-fences like Cuckoo often get lost in the shuffle. It’s a 2024 film, but it possesses the soul of an obscure 70s "Euro-horror" flick you’d find on a dusty VHS tape in the back of a rental store.

It’s not interested in being "elevated" or making a grand social statement. It’s a movie about the terrifying reality of biology. It uses the concept of the cuckoo bird—which lays its eggs in other birds' nests—and turns it into a conspiracy of nesting and nurturing that is genuinely icky. The makeup effects and the "Woman in Sunglasses" are practical, tactile, and gross in all the right ways. Apparently, Tilman Singer insisted on shooting this on 35mm, and you can feel that texture; it has a grain and a weight that digital horror usually lacks.

I’ll admit, the plot eventually gets so tangled in its own mythology that the third act feels like it’s sprinting toward a finish line it hasn't quite mapped out. But by the time Hunter Schafer was brandishing a butterfly knife and facing down a biological conspiracy, I didn’t care about logic anymore. I was just happy to be watching something that didn’t feel like it was written by a committee of social media analysts.

If you’re tired of horror movies that feel like therapy sessions, Cuckoo is the antidote. It’s loud, it’s rhythmic, and it’s deeply, purposefully strange. It’s the kind of film that might not break the box office today, but five years from now, it’ll be the movie everyone is "discovering" on a late-night streaming binge. Catch it now so you can say you were there before the call became a chorus.