One of the more bizarre aspects of my grad school experience was the time I took a course entitled “Future Cinema I.” It was mostly dedicated to three-dimensional and immersive forms of media – like VR, AR and video games – with very little attention actually paid to two-dimensional forms, like, say, cinema. In other words, false advertising. The real bizarre aspect is that we never really talked about algorithms, brand synergy, and the impending rise of data driven moviemaking.

This was in 2018. While it’s impossible to suggest that one can predict exactly cinema’s trajectory half a decade – and one pandemic – later, there was enough out there to suggest that future versions of that class must include data’s input on cinema. My Netflix thumbnails were all warped because I accidentally left The Kissing Booth on pause for twenty-five minutes one time. Surely, there was enough cause to suggest that data was going to a major part of the moviemaking apparatus.

In that vein, the two true successes of the late 2010s/early 2020s are A24 and NEON: two mid-majors who weaponized a response to the tentpolization of studio filmmaking at the time. The recipe was simple: find young, up and coming filmmakers with some visual eye; make a lot of small, write-offable bets on those filmmakers; market the hell out of those with a chance of hitting. Rinse and repeat. Really, there is no such thing as “an A24 film” or “a NEON film,” but there is the illusion of such. To the algorithm, that’s what really matters.

Watching Cuckoo, the Luz follow-up from German auteur Tillman Singer, I was struck by the feeling that there were a number of concessions he made to secure the NEON bag. Chief among these is the film’s reliance upon a trauma plot, for reasons that feel unclear aside from brand synergy. Haters and fans alike bemoan and laud the grief and trauma elements of mid-major cinema at this time. This ain’t the exception to the rule.

In Cuckoo, Gretchen (Euphoria’s Hunter Schafter) is grieving. Grieving the move with her father and her step-mother away from her mother, and the loss of her old life. Largely, this grief manifests itself in a Gen Z disdain for the world around her. Everything sucks, particularly her mute sister, Alma (Mila Lieu), who her family dotes on. Trapped at a mountain resort in the Bavarian Alps, Gretchen takes a job working the counter for Herr Köing (Dan Stevens), the resort owner.

Köing calls the front desk on Gretchen’s first night there, and frantically attempts to get her to lock the doors and wait for his arrival. Stubbornly, Gretchen refuses, choosing instead to pedal home on her six speed, whereupon she is chased by a freakish, screaming woman. From here, Cuckoo devolves into a – occasionally incomprehensible – conspiracy thriller-cum-21^st Century-giallo.

From Cuckoo’s outset, it’s clear that Singer is aping giallo aesthetics reminiscent of the Argento classics of the 1970s and 80s. Meticulously crafted in 35mm, most of the film is maddeningly beautiful. There’s one shot in a hospital which features one of the most gorgeous colour palettes of the year; seven shades of mint and pistachio dazzlingly assault the eye. In a sense, I’d really like to own the Cuckoo coffee table book.

Because, let’s be real here: nobody actually reads the coffee book. You look at the pictures, ogle the images. Nice for conversation, but almost certainly not for deep analysis. The more I think about Cukcoo the less I care for what it’s trying to say and do. Singer’s real issue is that the arc of his characters relies very heavily on about two or three narrative contrivances. The heart of the film is the relationship between Alma and Gretchen, and yet, the two are in exactly four scenes together before the third act.

On one hand, it’s the lack of time afforded to a crucial component of the film that causes Cuckoo to collapse; on the other, it’s Gretchen. Canonically, I refuse to accept any reality in which Singer’s direction was anything other than “brat summer.” Yes, I know the film has been bouncing around the festival circuit since February; however, Gretchen may think that Alma sucks, but it’s actually her that sucks. The film relies upon a transformation that feels largely unearned for its themes to work.

Yet, the film’s third act is actually quite fun. As the film goes off the rails, Singer expertly crafts a sense of tension felt throughout the picture. Cuckoo is going to have fans; most of those fans are going to throw out phrases such as “really fun” and “really stylist” and “Hunter Schafter has a butterfly knife” and “Dan Stevens is unhinged.” Read that list back to yourself, search your feelings, and you’ll probably have a pretty good sense if this is up your alley or not. None of these fans are going to talk about the film’s half-baked thematics, because…well…they’re bad. They’re going to talk about the giallo parts.

Which begs the question: why couldn’t Cuckoo have just been a stylish – albeit nonsensical – giallo film? Cattet and Forzani exist, you know? Perhaps this is the unadulterated film that Singer wants to make. Perhaps there was some studio involvement that pushed the film in a specific direction for brand synergy purposes. We’ll never know, but much like the actual existence of an A24 film or a NEON film, the perception of such is more important than the reality. Cuckoofeels like two films: one that’s a fun and hip giallo-esque thriller, and one that’s a deeply serious™ exploration of trauma and a loss of voice. They don’t necessarily meld well together. The coffee book is probably beautiful, but I only have the film version, and unfortunately, I have to read that one.