As I’ve hinted at in the past, the vibe-based horror film is in vogue, where logic, reason, thematic construction, tonal resonance, narrative coherence, and overall questionability (I know that’s not a word, but bear with me) take a back seat to the smooth sailing of a “just let it go, bro.” It’s interesting how one could read it as a reaction to the Ari Asters of this world, who are hollow but strong neat facial features that command a certain tonality but still have the substance of cotton candy. Mood-based horror doesn’t even pretend to have that kind of weight, as it’s all about the sensory experience. Occasionally, it can be like eating nigiri: a sensory pleasure, however fleeting – not physiologically satisfying unless you have the stomach of a Pomeranian, but spiritually, yes. Films like Tillman Singer’s cuckoo lacks that satisfaction. You know how an Insomnia Cookies shop pumps the scent of its freshly baked goods onto the street? Imagine walking past it and realizing you forgot your wallet at home. Sure, it smells good, but you just want something you can’t have.

Singer caused a stir with his film debut in 2018. Lightan exorcism film that was also his final project for school. At 70 minutes long, it was a rapid ride through hell, an aesthetic experience that made no claim to be anything other than an exploration of earlier genre styles and their modern echoes. Light as long as cuckooI doubt Singer would have had the chance to make something like this, packed with a few Hollywood classics, let alone have it bought for distribution by Neon. But Hunter Schafer’s name carries weight, and it’s very similar Hot summer nights was for Timothee Chalamet – a film that would probably have been eclipsed by everything else the star was doing in six months, but was a good enough vehicle for her at the time that buyers couldn’t help but notice it or have her face take up three-quarters of the space on the poster. She carries the film well, but imagine where she’ll be in six years and where people will know her from. It most likely won’t be like that, much to the chagrin of Sam Levinson haters like me everywhere.

cuckooThe first act of could be described as follows:Shining at home:” if there wasn’t already that awful miniseries favored by Stephen King in which we meet our protagonists. Gretchen (Schafer) is driving through the German Alps in a moving van, preferring to sit with the tradesmen rather than with her father (Marton Csokas), his new wife (Jessica Henwick) and her half-sister. At their destination – a remote resort – they are greeted by the owner of the place, Mr. König (Dan Stevens, relishing the chance to bring out the German once again), who almost immediately rubs Gretchen the wrong way, both metaphorically (he constantly mispronounces her name) and literally (he has a creepy way of putting his hand on her shoulder). He is her father’s new business partner – they are here to open a new resort in the mountains, after all – and he offers her a part-time job, which she takes to get the hell away from her family. In the meantime, strange things start happening. It seems as though her half-sister is developing supernatural powers, a strange woman in a headscarf and trench coat seems to be following Gretchen, and it looks as though time is spinning everywhere. What’s a freshly traumatized 17-year-old to do? Probably try to leave town with all the money in the till together with a cool-looking French woman (Astrid Berges-Frisbey), at least until Edie Beale over there screws everything up.

What is so frustrating about Singer’s work is how long it takes to get anything going, with the flimsy aesthetic only going so far to hold the viewer’s interest. Schafer is a dynamic and interesting actress, but she is cast in an angst-ridden role that prevents her from seizing the opportunity, aside from one or two stony reactions that provide laughs toward the end of the film. It seems as though Singer has realized that American audiences need a reason to care about what is going on – a claim that Long-legged torn to pieces a few weeks ago – and spends most of its time trying to find the right balance between anhedonic emotion and otherworldly terror. Even Kubrick, with Wendy Carlos on synths, knew it was a delicate balance to achieve.

That’s why his two leads – Shelley Duvall and Jack Nicholson – are such important assets: They’re fully drawn characters who must face something far beyond their understanding or resilience. Consider, too, how he foregrounds Danny’s view of the world, with the snippets of iconic images we catch in his extrasensory perceptions of his surroundings, much as if we were puzzling over a strange and odd image from his childhood decades later. None of that is on display here, as Singer assumes that the mere presence of his characters conveys the impression that they have inner lives or that their views are relatable to the audience. Lots of people played in dinosaur bass bands that couldn’t put a tune together even if they tried, but that’s the core of Gretchen’s personality, trauma aside. She just floats aimlessly through the uncanny, a trap that even the most strict mood-based horror films avoid.

What’s left is cliche in the most obvious way: There’s a conspiracy at the resort, gross and disgusting hints about what exactly is going on there, and a third-act reveal that comes far too late to be significant or satisfy our curiosity, all with so little detail that it could really stick in the imagination. The mystery here is dull, not tantalizingly creepy, which is about the most unforgivable sin imaginable in a mood-based horror film. The suggestion of smallness and the resulting loss of control – an attribute borrowed from notions of the sublime in uncanny and cosmic fiction – is nonexistent, and things end relatively neatly. But it isn’t fun enough or engaging enough to transcend its subgenre and enter the upper echelons of plot-centric horror storytelling, with the vagueness being its only advantage in keeping the precious bit of interest left in the viewer until the end credits. All you’re left with is cuckoo There’s a distinct feeling that there should have been something more, even if it might have been disappointing in the end. At least you could say that Singer tried and failed, rather than resting on the laurels.