For some years now, Nicolas Cage has been a genre unto himself: desperate, deranged, deliciously cheesy, with that special mastery of dialogue that moves seamlessly from a panting whisper to a bellow and back again.
Put Cage’s name above the title and your film has an immediate brand that not only rides over script glitches but does a full Fast and Furious speed-jump over the top of any yawning gaps in probability.
Nic Cage as a surfer dude? Unlikely, but who cares? Nic Cage as an Australian? “I thought you were American,” says someone he meets on the beach in The Surfer.
So did we all, my friend. So, he moved to California in his teens and now he’s back, intent on buying back the house where he grew up, which is why he sounds straight outta Noo York?
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