Not since Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation has paranoia loomed so menacingly upon the Silver Screen. Of course, it would take a master to match The Godfather’s prowess, thus it is no surprise that William Friedkin does so with such style and ease (hey, you try shooting in a room encased in tin foil). Yet, truth be told, Friedkin’s latest effort, Bug, isn’t strictly a horror film, a drama, a (gasp) love story, or–by his decree–a black comedy. Instead, it is a combination of all of the above but, more importantly, a damn interesting feature.
Agnes White (Ashley Judd), a destitute, lonely individual who, after her abusive ex-husband, Jerry Goss (Harry Connick Junior), is incarcerated and after giving up hope of finding her lost son of ten years, resorts to lesbianity so as to have another person in her life. One evening she brings an introverted drifter, Peter Evans (Michael Shannon), back to her dilapidated Oklahoma hotel room. Shortly thereafter, her problems begin to mount as Jerry returns and Peter reveals that he was part of a Gulf War experiment. Yet is what Peter is telling her true?
Friedkin drenches us in atmosphere from the get-go by thrusting us in the bowels of Hell, Oklahoma (anyone who has been there will attest), before getting–not down–but rough and dirty. As the perpetual heat bonds the ever present dust to every millimeter of exposed skin, our environment speaks for itself: Beckettian (in its sparcity as well as literal claustrophobia), but with the added insult of a dollop of inane due to persistent boredom and an apathetic lack of focus, i.e. Southern culture (from one in the know). Yet, for whatever inexplicable reason, we continue on. This is where the screenwriter, Tracy Letts–who adapted her highly successful stage play to the screen–introduces Peter, someone so strange, so distant–to say nothing of new–that he immediately demands our attention.
Agnes, a worn veteran of life at thirty who has been dealt one shitty hand after the next, has given up on herself to the extent that she has wholeheartedly given her heterosexual self over to lesbianity. When Peter appears out of the blue, her desperation shields her from reason (an Aristotelian Universal if there ever was one), thereby validating what anyone else would red flag as ludicrous. But then again, Friedkin asks as he coyly chuckles, What are we to make of the haunting phone calls which appeared before Peter, who is supposedly being hunted by every government agency? Is there some semblance of reason in his conspiracy theories, is he indeed the all-too-real product of behind-the-curtain governmental dealings (Friedkin does establish that the man is learn’d, thus giving a bit of weight to Peter’s utterances), or is he yet another paranoid schizophrenic who cleverly thumbed through the possibilities until he found enough ambiguity in a scenario to posit his own delusional worldview? Let us not forget that he, a person who refuses to drink–the sure sign of someone wanting to remain in control of his faculties, first declares he has no desire to sleep with Agnes before bedding her the following evening. If our case is indeed the latter, the film then becomes a bitter love story for, obviously, Peter is also in desperate need of attention and is willing to go to great lengths to get it. Such would make the central theme a conceit wherein the most dangerous elements reside under the skin . . . clever indeed.
Of course, conspiracy theories can be read in two directions simultaneously, i.e. they are true or they’re not, which is why Friedkin undoubtedly labels the work a black comedy for, given its modern-day equivalent with the ever convenient war on terror, an audience can view the situation in any manner he or she likes without fear of being disproved. But such relativity doesn’t bother the director so much as the irony of the situation for, alas, just as we see in the film, people get way too worked up over something that, until more hard facts are in, are merely wasting breath. But then again, we can nevertheless not help but fret upon the possibility of what is being told by Peter and, ergo–that terror threats are legitimate–is true . . . .
Part of the reason Friedkin pulls off a plot wherein, truth be told, nothing can be authenticated, is his cast. All the roles are concurrently overtly campy as well as staunchly serious, a duality that only actors who have complete control of their performances can convincingly pull off. Bug is so well acted by the ensemble cast that the likes, authenticity, and consistency of which haven’t been seen since the Big Screen adaptation of another hugely popular stage play, Edward Albee-cum-Mike Nichols’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
William Friedkin is aware that half of the success for any work of art is the time in which it appears and, as such, during an age wherein the treat of terrorism is constantly humming, a film about paranoia steadfastly hits a Jungian cord, so much so that, like the director, we come to suspect whether or not someone is pulling our leg. But this is part, if not all, of the fun to be had with Bug. Granted, if you were to enter the film looking through the lens of the production being The Exorcist’s return to horror, you’ll be disappointed but, then again, that would be forcing an interpretation before all the facts are in . . . .
– Egregious Gurnow
This film provided by Cape Video, the premier supplier of hard-to-find and out-of-print horror films. Check out their website at http://www.capevideoonline.com.
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