‘What Only Cicadas See’ Review: An Atmospheric Thriller Undone by Its Own Investigation

Brad Courtemanche’s What Only Cicadas See has all the ingredients for a compelling modern thriller. There’s true-crime obsession, amateur investigators, artificial intelligence, rural isolation, and a string of nasty murders hiding a larger pattern. The problem is that the film spends so much time circling those ideas instead of actually engaging with them,  that by the time its mystery comes into focus, there is little reason to care about it.

The film follows Mara (Mary Pursell) and Tariq (Omar Moustafa Ghonim), indie true-crime filmmakers running a YouTube channel called Dead Evidence. Mara appears to take the work more seriously, while Tariq is desperate to transcend online content and become recognizable in the true-crime world. His solution is Ekko (voiced by Ólafur Darri Ólafsson), an adaptive AI assistant that can identify patterns, research cases, and suggest potential leads. Mara is skeptical, especially when Ekko immediately reveals intimate details about her, including the unsolved murder of her brother and how it pushed her toward true crime. Instead of treating that as an enormous red flag, Tariq becomes even more fascinated with the technology. Soon, he convinces Mara to stop revisiting old crimes and start chasing active cases, relying on Ekko as their primary source of information.

That decision exposes one of the film’s biggest problems. Its protagonists routinely behave with so little common sense that their choices stop generating tension and start generating frustration. Neither character appears especially interested in verifying the information Echo gives them. They simply follow its directions from one location to another, treating the chatbot like an investigative partner despite repeatedly acknowledging that they have no law-enforcement experience. At one point, they follow Ekko to a remote crime scene, where a random truck driver approaches them and claims to know details about a gruesome murder. Instead of exercising even basic caution, they follow along, cameras in hand. That kind of recklessness might work if the film framed Mara and Tariq as knowingly desperate or dangerously obsessive. Instead, they often feel strangely passive, as if the plot is simply pushing them from one encounter to another.

The larger mystery eventually becomes more interesting. Burned bodies, mutilation, and seemingly unrelated cases begin forming a disturbing pattern that suggests something much bigger may be operating beneath the surface. Unfortunately, What Only Cicadas See waits until deep into its runtime to make that connection meaningful. For much of the film, Mara and Tariq drive around rural Florida, talk to strangers, disagree about their intentions, and gather fragments of information without any real sense of escalating danger. By the time the pieces finally begin coming together, the movie is nearly over.

The performances do little to compensate for the sluggishness. Pursell and Ghonim are frequently stiff, with conversations that feel more recited than lived-in. Their lack of chemistry becomes especially damaging in a film that depends entirely on their partnership. The supporting performance as Sasha provides a welcome burst of personality, briefly giving the movie some charm and unpredictability that is otherwise in short supply.

Steven Schloss’ cinematography is the film’s strongest asset. The wide-open Florida landscapes, empty roads, and isolated locations give the movie a cinematic quality that occasionally suggests a much more effective Southern Gothic thriller. Unfortunately, an aggressive orange-yellow color grade coats nearly every exterior, turning naturally bright blue skies into a constant desert haze. Rather than creating an atmosphere, the effect eventually becomes distracting.

There is a stronger movie buried somewhere inside What Only Cicadas See. The contrast between Mara’s desire to solve crimes and Tariq’s hunger for clicks could have become a sharp critique of true-crime culture. Its questions about outsourcing judgment to AI are equally timely. But suspense requires momentum, and mystery requires something worth chasing. Courtemanche eventually gives us both, just far too late.

Like the cicadas invoked in its overlong opening monologue, the film spends a great deal of time underground before finally emerging. Unfortunately, by then, much of its dramatic energy has already died off.