Few people can portray a man’s slow descent into madness better than Nic Cage, and director Lorcan Finnegan seemingly knows this. He’s content to simply allow Cage to do his thing and go wild as a mild-mannered, white-collar yuppie suffering a maniacal and hallucinatory psychotic break in the face of toxic masculinity, framing it all in a sun-soaked, 70s exploitation aesthetic that radiates off the screen. I mean, you can almost feel the heat and sweaty grime of the Australian beach with every suspenseful revelation that drives Cage’s character further and further into the spiral. The Surfer has B-movie, grindhouse cult classic written all over it.