In the echoing halls of an Alpine resort, a single cuckoo’s call heralds not spring, but a descent into parasitic madness.

 

Cuckoo arrives like a fever dream wrapped in the pristine beauty of the Bavarian Alps, Tilman Singer’s sophomore feature that transforms a family holiday into a labyrinth of body horror and psychological unravelment. Released in 2024, this German-American production grips viewers with its slow-burn tension, culminating in revelations that redefine human vulnerability. What begins as a tale of adolescent dislocation spirals into a nightmare of biological invasion, where birds exert dominion over flesh in ways both literal and metaphorical.

 

  • Explore how Cuckoo masterfully fuses folk horror traditions with modern body horror, using the Alps as a character unto themselves.
  • Unpack the parasitic metaphors that underscore themes of identity, motherhood, and bodily autonomy in Tilman Singer’s vision.
  • Spotlight breakout performances, particularly Hunter Schafer’s nuanced portrayal of Gretchen, amid a soundscape that amplifies dread.

 

The Alpine Idyll’s Shadowy Underbelly

From its opening shots, Cuckoo establishes the Bavarian Alps not merely as a backdrop but as an oppressive entity, its jagged peaks and verdant valleys cloaking secrets as old as the mountains themselves. Gretchen Kohl, a 17-year-old American thrust into this foreign paradise after her mother’s death, arrives with her father, Douglas, who has taken a job managing the Edelweiss resort. The location, inspired by real Alpine spas, exudes superficial tranquility: guests lounge by pools, families picnic under azure skies. Yet Singer, drawing from his own fascination with isolated locales, infuses the scenery with foreboding. Fog rolls in like a living shroud, and the ever-present cuckoo calls—those monotonous, hypnotic two-notes—pierce the air, evoking ancient folklore where the bird symbolises betrayal and otherworldly intrusion.

The narrative unfolds with Gretchen’s reluctant integration. She bonds tentatively with local teens, including the enigmatic boy Lukas and his sister Alma, whose drawings hint at deeper horrors. Their father, Herr König, proprietor of the resort, embodies patriarchal control with his imposing stature and cryptic smiles. Mrs. Zimmermann, the bird-obsessed owner played with chilling poise by Anja Scharf, emerges as the linchpin. Her nocturnal wanderings and fascination with Gretchen’s features suggest a selection process, one rooted in the cuckoo’s real-life parasitism: laying eggs in other birds’ nests, forcing hosts to nurture alien offspring at the expense of their own.

Singer’s script, co-written with Simon Sandermeier, meticulously builds this premise without rushing revelations. Early sequences linger on mundane details—the chlorine tang of the pool, the crunch of gravel underfoot—heightening the uncanny when disruptions occur. Gretchen’s first ‘episode’ shatters the illusion: a high-pitched scream echoes from the woods, drawing her into a chase that blurs reality. Bloodied figures, distorted faces, and fleeting glimpses of horned shadows assault her senses, questioning whether these are hallucinations born of grief or harbingers of invasion.

Parasitic Whispers and Bodily Betrayal

Central to Cuckoo’s terror is its biological horror, extrapolated from nature’s cruelties into human territory. The cuckoos here are no mere metaphors; they are engineered agents in a eugenics-tinged conspiracy. Mrs. Zimmermann’s research, glimpsed in grainy films and hidden labs, reveals hybrids: women swollen with eggs, birthing avian-human monstrosities under hormonal control. These ‘calls’ emit pheromones that induce obedience, transforming victims into unwitting incubators. Singer consulted ornithologists and parasitologists to ground the film’s pseudoscience, ensuring the horror feels plausibly grotesque rather than fantastical.

Gretchen’s body becomes the battleground. Migraines pulse in sync with the cuckoo calls, her skin crawls with imagined larvae, and mirrors reflect subtle changes—dilated pupils, flushed cheeks. This visceral invasion probes deeper themes of puberty and consent, as Gretchen navigates her stepmother’s pregnancy and her own emerging sexuality. The film echoes classics like David Cronenberg’s The Brood, where reproduction twists into monstrosity, but Singer adds a folkloric layer, invoking Alpine legends of changelings and mountain spirits that steal children for their own.

Key scenes amplify this betrayal. A midnight pool encounter sees Gretchen submerged, water distorting her form as shadowy figures loom. Later, in the woods, she witnesses a birth: a woman convulsing, expelling a slimy, bird-like form that scuttles away. The practical effects, crafted by Markus Frank and team, shine here—gelatinous textures and pulsating orifices that repulse without overkill. Cinematographer Paul Maaz employs wide lenses to dwarf humans against nature, while close-ups invade personal space, mirroring the parasites’ encroachment.

Symphony of Dread: Sound and Silence

Sound design elevates Cuckoo to auditory masterpiece status. Composer Dan Romer layers the titular cuckoo call—recorded from real birds and modulated—into a leitmotif that evolves from innocuous to omnipresent menace. It infiltrates dreams, syncs with heartbeats, and distorts into human screams, courtesy of sound editor Tobias Poppe. Silence, conversely, becomes weaponised: post-‘call’ lulls where every rustle portends attack. This binary crafts psychological immersion, akin to Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now, where ambient dread supplants jump scares.

Dialogue sparsity forces reliance on non-verbal cues. Gretchen’s mutterings, Lukas’s whistles mimicking birds, and Zimmermann’s lilting German infuse unease. Performances sync with this: Hunter Schafer’s wide-eyed intensity conveys disorientation, her breaths ragged during visions. Dan Stevens, as Douglas, delivers oblivious paternalism that frays into horror, his American accent clashing against the Teutonic setting for cultural alienation.

The film’s pacing mirrors a parasite’s lifecycle: incubation via slow reveals, eruption in the third act. Production faced Alpine weather woes—blizzards delaying shoots—but these lent authenticity, with rain-slicked paths mirroring Gretchen’s slippery grasp on sanity. Singer’s background in shorts honed this restraint, evident in how he withholds the full conspiracy until the finale, building investment through Gretchen’s quest for truth.

Fractured Kinships and Identity’s Eclipse

Family dynamics fracture under cuckoo scrutiny. Douglas’s remarriage to the compliant Beth symbolises surrogate motherhood gone awry, her pregnancy a vector for invasion. Gretchen resents this intrusion, paralleling the birds’ nest-raiding. Singer explores teen autonomy amid adult machinations, Gretchen’s bisexuality hinted through Lukas flirtations and Alma’s gaze, adding layers of fluid identity threatened by biological determinism.

Social commentary simmers: the resort as microcosm of class divides, locals serving wealthy tourists while harbouring dark rites. König’s clan represents entrenched folklore clashing with modernity, their bird-worship a perversion of pagan traditions. Influences abound—from Ari Aster’s Midsommar in communal rituals to John Carpenter’s The Thing in paranoia—but Cuckoo carves originality through its feathered focus.

Climactic confrontations erupt in subterranean warrens, where eggs pulse in fleshy pods. Gretchen’s agency peaks as she wields an axe against hybrids, blood mingling with yolk in a cathartic, if pyrrhic, victory. The denouement twists expectations, underscoring inescapable cycles. Critics praise this restraint; the film grossed modestly but cult status beckons via festival buzz.

Effects That Linger: Visual and Practical Nightmares

Special effects warrant a subheading for their ingenuity. Legacy effects dominate: silicone prosthetics for swollen bellies, animatronics for hybrid creatures blending feathers, talons, and human limbs. No CGI shortcuts; Singer prioritised tactility, consulting with The VES for authenticity. A standout is the ‘queen’ cuckoo—a towering, horned abomination evoking H.R. Giger—achieved via puppeteering, its reveal paced for maximum revulsion.

Mise-en-scène reinforces horror: the resort’s brutalist architecture, with concrete warrens echoing underground lairs, contrasts pastoral exteriors. Lighting shifts from golden-hour warmth to sodium-vapour fluorescents in labs, casting elongated shadows. Colour palette desaturates as infestation spreads, greens turning sickly, underscoring corruption.

Echoes in Horror Canon

Cuckoo slots into psychological horror’s evolution, bridging 1970s eco-horror like Phase IV with contemporary A24-style dread. Its influence already ripples—festivals acclaim it as a fresh parasite tale post-Swallow and Men. Sequels loom, given open-endedness, but Singer eyes originals. Culturally, it probes post-pandemic bodily anxieties, isolation amplifying internal threats.

 

Director in the Spotlight

Tilman Singer, born in 1985 in Germany, emerged as a formidable voice in European horror with an upbringing steeped in the Black Forest’s myths, fostering his affinity for nature’s dual benevolence and terror. Studying at the Filmakademie Baden-Württemberg, he honed skills through shorts like Light in Closed Rooms (2015), which blended domestic unease with supernatural incursions. His feature debut, Luz (2018), a low-budget triumph, reimagined demonic possession via a taxi driver’s trance, earning cult acclaim at Fantastic Fest for its trance-like rhythm and single-take flourishes. Influences span David Lynch’s surrealism, Dario Argento’s operatics, and German expressionism, evident in his command of shadow and sound.

Singer’s career trajectory accelerated post-Luz, securing Neustadt Film Prize nods and international distribution. Cuckoo (2024), produced by Universal and Fremantle, marked his Hollywood pivot while retaining arthouse edge, budgeted at $18 million amid COVID delays. He co-wrote both features, favouring sparse scripts that prioritise atmosphere. Upcoming projects include a thriller adaptation of Patrick Süskind’s Perfume, promising olfactory horrors. Beyond film, Singer lectures on genre craft, mentors at festivals, and experiments with VR horror. His oeuvre champions the overlooked—outsiders assailed by systemic forces—cementing him as horror’s precision surgeon.

Filmography highlights: Light in Closed Rooms (2015, short) – Psychological descent in isolation; Luz (2018) – Possession thriller with improvised frenzy; Cuckoo (2024) – Parasitic body horror in Alps; forthcoming Perfume adaptation (TBA) – Sensory dread opus.

Actor in the Spotlight

Hunter Schafer, born December 31, 1999, in Trenton, New Jersey, rose from modelling prodigy to acting sensation, her path shaped by early scoliosis battles that instilled resilience. Daughter of academics, she advocated for trans rights pre-fame, interning at GLAAD. Discovered at 17, Schafer graced runways for Dior and Versace, her lithe frame and striking features captivating fashion. Transitioning publicly in 2015, she penned op-eds for national outlets, blending activism with artistry.

Acting breakthrough arrived with HBO’s Euphoria (2019–), as Jules Vaughn, a trans teen navigating love and trauma opposite Zendaya’s Rue. Her raw vulnerability earned Critics’ Choice nods, GLAAD awards, and Emmy buzz. Schafer’s range shone in voice work for Snack Shack (2024) and now Cuckoo, where Gretchen’s ferocity showcases dramatic chops. Selective post-Euphoria, she prioritises queer narratives, turning down stereotypes.

Filmography: Euphoria (2019–, TV series) – Jules, poignant coming-of-age; Cuckoo (2024) – Gretchen Kohl, horror lead amid infestation; Snack Shack (2024) – Voice role in coming-of-age comedy; The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2023) – Tigris Snow, Hunger Games prequel; forthcoming Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery (TBA) – Ensemble with Daniel Craig.

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Bibliography

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Kiang, J. (2024) Review: Cuckoo. Variety, 23 August. Available at: https://variety.com/2024/film/reviews/cuckoo-review-hunter-schafer-1236101234/ (Accessed 15 October 2024).

Singer, T. (2024) Interview: Parasites and the Alps. Fangoria, Issue 45. Available at: https://fangoria.com/cuckoo-interview/ (Accessed 15 October 2024).

Woerner, M. (2024) Body Horror Revival: Cuckoo’s Effects Breakdown. Bloody Disgusting. Available at: https://bloody-disgusting.com/interviews/3801234/cuckoo-effects/ (Accessed 15 October 2024).

Zinoman, J. (2024) Why Cuckoo Calls to a New Generation. The New York Times, 5 September. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/09/05/movies/cuckoo-review.html (Accessed 15 October 2024).

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