Cage Match: Sonny (2003)

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May 11, 2025
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Tags: Nicolas Cage directorial debut Nicolas Cage Sonny review Sonny 2003 film analysis Southern noir films

Nicolas Cage’s directorial debut “Sonny” is a grim, Southern noir about a tortured gigolo, soaked in sleaze and wildly uneven ambition.

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Kelly and Stephanie go head-to-head to debate the merits of EVERY SINGLE MOVIE in the vast repertoire of Nicolas Cage. Each week, we cover two films. For the first film, we let the random number generator pick a film from Cage’s catalog. Then, we put a pair of movies up for a vote for our weekly People’s Pick. We’ll share our overall impressions of each film and rank the Cage factor on a scale of Rat in the Cage (totally avoidable) to Cautious Cage (non-essential but maybe worth watching) to Cage Fighter (absolutely essential viewing).

IN THIS CORNER: KELLY MINTZER

The Lowdown

We’ve watched a lot of bad movies for the Cage Match. This must be understood, or nothing that follows will have the appropriate impact. I know bad movies. I’ve seen bad movies. And I know that Nicolas Cage Bad Movies are usually a different kind of bad. So I went into Sonny, Cage’s directorial debut, prepared for garbage.

But friends. Nothing could truly have prepared me for Sonny.

I want to start this with a disclaimer: I’m a professional. Please, for the love of God, do not try this at home. Because this movie—if a “movie” we are committed to calling it—is truly, next-level terrible.

I’m actually not sure it even really exists outside of my world. I’m half convinced that it is a punishment created specifically for me, some sort of divine retribution for a wrong I can’t remember committing, perhaps because it was so egregious that I’ve blocked it out.

Because truly, watching Sonny should only be done as an act of penance. Or I guess maybe to achieve sexual fulfillment if you’re a masochist, we don’t kink-shame here.

I honestly don’t know how a movie like Sonny happens. No, that’s a lie. It happens because Nicolas Cage is both incredibly established and a Coppola, so no one’s telling him “no”.

Guys. Someone should have said no.

The basic gist of the movie is that James Franco comes back to his New Orleans home after being discharged from the army in 1981. I’m mentioning the year only because the movie takes the time to establish it, only for that particular point to not factor in in any significant way. In fact! The movie, determined to be a Tennessee Williams-style examination of one man’s descent in New Orleans, feels like it would make considerably more sense if it took place in the 40s, post World War II. Or even in the 50s or 60s…it feels very much of a time, and that time isn’t 1981.

Ok, so Franco, playing the titular Sonny, returns to his mother’s house, where he previously worked as a prostitute. His mother, played with absolutely insane histrionics by Brenda Blethyn, immediately wants him to return to the family business.

Pause.

The movie frequently flirts with the notion of an incestuous, abusive relationship between Sonny and his mother. She alludes to teaching him how to be a good sex worker, which… It’s hard to interpret that in any way besides incestuous and abusive.

This WOULD be a theme in a Tennessee Williams play like Suddenly Last Summer, and could be a really heart-breaking, harrowing theme to explore. In this movie? It’s nothing. It’s glossed over in favor of Franco sleepwalking through half of the movie and screaming through the other half.

Blethyn’s performance is even more bonkers; it seems like the only direction Nic Cage gave her was “women are bitches… You get it!”

Unpause.

Sonny wants to move away from the business and gives it exactly one to two hours worth of effort before returning to turning tricks. The movie wants us to believe that Sonny would not be able to move beyond the life he’d lead before and also that somehow during his tenure in the army, despite being a good-looking guy who seemed to be interested in dating, he somehow never went on a date.

And here is one of the movie’s many, many flaws: Sonny is, quite simply, a nothing character. We’re supposed to root for him, but why? First, if he felt he couldn’t flourish in New Orleans and he truly wanted to start a new life, why not just go somewhere else? Second, this movie is set in goddamn New Orleans. There’s no way that everyone he meets knows his history as a sex worker.

But here’s the thing: when Sonny goes to Texas to visit his army buddy and go on a double date with him, he immediately has sex with her and then, about 10 minutes later, tells her he was a sex worker.

Look, I don’t think anyone should be ashamed of sex work. To quote the Faint, it is a job, it pays a lot. But the movie is saying that Sonny IS ashamed. So why in the fucking world would you tell a woman you barely know about that particular aspect of your past on your FIRST DATE?! And then, when the woman has a sort of confused reaction and goes to drink some codeine (which she apparently has stockpiled?), Sonny—who again, I can’t stress this enough JUST MET THIS WOMAN—starts screaming at her about being a junky, gets pretty physically aggressive with her, and yells “I’M BETTER THAN YOU!” repeatedly.

I think we’re supposed to believe him; I don’t.

In one of many areas where this would-be Faulkner/Williams piece fails to understand anything about those Southern Gothic masters, Sonny doesn’t face consequences for his behavior. He physically attacks a woman. Later in the movie, when a customer refuses to pay him the full amount she owes him, instead of just taking something of value, he proceeds to smash a bunch of her belongings.

I agree that customer sucked; I also, personally, do not enjoy watching men get physically aggressive in that way. It doesn’t feel triumphant, it still feels abusive, and frankly, I’m not cheering for mediocre white men behaving badly.

But, despite these erratic and bonkers tendencies, Sonny never experiences any blowback. Dude lives a shockingly charmed life.

And oh, by the way, this movie is white as hell. IT TAKES PLACE IN NEW ORLEANS!!!! I mentioned to Steph that my initial response was irritation at the erasure of Black folks from NOLA, but at the end of the day, I feel like they’ve already suffered enough in America. The Black population deserves the peace of not being associated with Sonny.

Look, I’m going to wrap up because I’ve gone on for SO LONG already, but I haven’t scratched the goddamn surface. This movie is abhorrent.

Apparently Tommy Wiseau loved it, so, you know… let that sink in.

The Cage Factor:

It’s not only a rat in a cage, it’s a dead rat in a cage. And yes, I blame Nicolas Cage. Because the actors are good actors. James Franco is talented, and so is Brenda Blethyn. Harry goddamn Dean Stanton is in it, as is Emmy-award winner Mina Suvari. And all of them give terrible performances. If all of the actors are good but awful in the movie, I put the blame firmly and entirely on the director’s shoulders.

I’ve never felt compelled to say this before for one of these reviews, but now it is necessary. Fuck you, Nicolas Cage.*

RAT IN THE CAGE (This is the very reason the “Rat in the Cage” category exists.)

AND IN THIS CORNER: STEPHANIE MALONE

The Lowdown

There’s something strangely poetic about Nicolas Cage making his directorial debut with a film like Sonny. It’s an offbeat story about a man trying to escape a life he was born into but can’t seem to outrun.

The man in question is James Franco’s Sonny, a haunted ex-soldier turned reluctant gigolo, returning home to New Orleans after a stint in the Army, only to be seduced back into the sordid life of prostitution, courtesy of his manic, matriarchal madam of a mother (played with unhinged, Southern-fried gusto by Brenda Blethyn).

Cage, ever drawn to broken men and flamboyant emotional wreckage, clearly feels for Sonny. And that’s perhaps the most fascinating element of this flawed but earnest mess: it feels like a confessional.

Set in the murky underbelly of New Orleans, the atmosphere is tangible and oppressive. It’s almost enough to elevate Sonny into the realm of compelling sleaze—almost.

As Kelly so astutely points out, there’s also a glaring lack of diversity in this vision of New Orleans. For a city built on cultural fusion, music, and Black artistry, Sonny presents a remarkably whitewashed world, robbing the story of some potential authenticity and social weight.

Franco, as the titular Sonny, does what he can with a role that demands a lot of brooding and not much dialogue. He’s not bad, but he’s trapped in a script that doesn’t give him much arc—just an endlessly repeating loop of grim decision-making and quiet self-loathing.

He’s less a character than a symbol: the American male as damaged goods.

While Kelly finds the cast devoid of charisma, I’d argue that Harry Dean Stanton, as usual, shines. There’s something effortless about his worn-down presence as the film’s resident sleaze merchant, and he injects welcome doses of lived-in gravitas that the rest of the cast sorely lacks.

Then there’s Brenda Blethyn. Her Southern accent is a fever dream of fried vowels and stagey intonations, while her characterization teeters between Blanche DuBois and a particularly deranged Golden Girls guest star.

And yet… somehow… You can’t look away. Her overacting is so outlandish it becomes perversely mesmerizing—camp elevated to a screaming art form. It’s awful, but unforgettable.

The screenplay, penned by John Carlen, draws heavily from the darkness of his own life, which makes it shocking that there is so little emotional core. The story feels undercooked—less like a lived experience and more like a stitched-together pastiche of Southern Gothic tropes. The film aims for tragic but lands on tedious.

Despite its many flaws, there’s something fascinating about Sonny. If this film had come from a no-name indie director, it might have been filed away as a weird little cult curio, occasionally rediscovered by film students who love misery porn. But because it’s Cage, it was put under a microscope—and promptly squashed.

Today, some may be able to view it more kindly as a noble failure and a fascinating disaster. Alas, Sonny never quite earns the title of “misunderstood masterpiece.” It’s too slow, too scattered, too hollow.

It’s also oddly flat for a film about sex, death, and the yearning to escape your destiny.

This was rough, but I still love you, Mr. Cage. Always.

*I audibly gasped while reading this at the end of Kelly’s review, and my soul left my body! – Steph

Steph’s visual response to Kelly’s totally fair but savage review!

The Cage Factor

Cage’s fingerprints are all over Sonny, for better and worse. You can sense his affection for broken people, his yearning for theatricality, and his reverence for melodrama. It’s just all poorly executed.

Cage’s extensive experience in front of the camera with auteurs like David Lynch, the Coens, and Werner Herzog doesn’t quite translate into assured storytelling. Ultimately, this feels like a first-time director trying very hard. Maybe I’m alone here, but I’d love to see him try again.

Technically, this is also a Cage acting role, as he inserts himself into the film via a brief, heavily disguised cameo—think: Joker by way of a Dollar Store Colonel Sanders. It’s a deranged and largely unnecessary addition, but also perfectly Cage: a surreal cherry on top of a very weird sundae.

How to rate it? If you’re a Nicolas Cage completist, then Sonny is probably required viewing to understand the full scope of his artistic ambitions. If you’re not? This one’s an easy skip—unless you’re in the mood for Southern discomfort with a side of sweaty despair (sorry, Nic).

RAT IN THE CAGE (It’s a rough watch unless you crave Cage behind the camera and want to experience an exceedingly odd footnote in a storied, sometimes sideways career.)

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Cage Match: Sonny (2003)