The Artistic Subtlety of “Pig” and Nicolas Cage
By Brett Dworski
I knew what I was getting into after seeing the trailer for Pig. The plot seemed pretty straightforward: A guy living alone in the wilderness loses his beloved truffle pig and will slaughter everyone and everything that stands in his way in getting her back. That guy was Nicholas Cage, and this was going to be a classic bloodbath peppered with Cage’s standard erraticism and hysteria. I knew it. I felt it. This was going to be National Treasure all over again (ew), but with a John Wick type of feel.
I texted my friend, Adam, who appreciates the Cagester more than me. “We’ve got to see this,” I said, basically wanting to see it to mock Cage. We did. And when it ended, I was stunned. It was nothing like I expected. No hazardous car chases. No deathly shootouts. No exaggerations. Just a lonely man looking for his pig. It was, simply put, sensational.
Pig, the directorial debut from newcomer Michael Sarnoski, is elegant, riveting and poignant. While thrilling like many Cage movies, this indie flick veers from the actor’s usual blockbusters and finds the fifty-seven-year-old star in an unfamiliar state: subtlety. Despite my adoration of early-Cage hits Moonstruck and Raising Arizona, I’ve never loved the guy; his branded excessiveness just isn’t for me. But Cage’s performance as former chef Rob Feld in Pig blew me away. He ditched his obnoxious schtick for an elusive and quiet, yet extremely physical performance. Cage was spectacular, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to say it’s the best performance I’ve ever seen from him.
Sarnoski depicts Feld as a man of calm intensity. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, people listen. Feld is a purist; he knows what he likes, and especially knows what he doesn’t. He lives in isolation, as we discover early on that he’s been alone in the woods of Portland for fifteen years. We also learn that he’s a widower, and while we never discover how his wife passed, it doesn’t matter.
What does matter is Feld’s pig, with whom he has a beautiful connection. We see this from the get-go, specifically in a heartwarming moment when the pig comforts a sad Feld while he reminisces about his wife. Although Feld says it near the film’s end, we know right away: He doesn’t need the pig to find the truffles—he’s already got that covered. He keeps the pig around because he loves her. It’s a touching bond that churns our intestines once broken.
In addition to Feld’s relationship with the pig, we’re immediately drawn to his connection with Amir, the douchey twenty-something who buys Feld’s truffles and sells them to fancy restaurants. Alex Wolff is splendid as the dick you can’t seem to hate no matter how much he flaunts his European sports car and his expensive suits. As the film progresses, we see a warmer side to Amir, who becomes just as driven to find the pig as Feld is, resulting in the two becoming more than just truffle acquaintances. Their bickering and earned respect is kind of like a buddy-cop relationship, but not really.
Panning outside the plot, Pig captures the pretentious hunt for rave reviews and fame within fine dining. After Feld and Amir learn that one of Feld’s former prep cooks, Derek—who was fired after two months for overcooking pasta—may know the pig’s whereabouts, they visit his new upscale restaurant. Upon realizing who the battered and grizzly Feld is, Derek is anxious and uncomfortable when asked about the pig. After Derek plays dumb, Feld sits back and, instead of pressing about the pig, asks about the English pub Derek wanted to open years back. “People have expectations. Critics, investors, and so forth,” Derek says with red cheeks and buggy eyes. “Everyone loves it here—it’s cutting edge!” Derek lays justification after justification for sacrificing his dream for Michelin stars, yet when Feld asks him to recall his intended signature dish for the pub, Derek remorsefully and robotically recites the liver scotch eggs with a honey curry mustard.
“They’re not real—you get that, right? None of it is real,” Feld says. “The critics aren’t real. The customers aren’t real. Because this isn’t real. You aren’t real. Everyday you’ll wake up and there’ll be less of you. You live your life for them, and you don’t even see them. You don’t even see yourself.”
Derek, on the verge of a panic attack, folds. He tells Feld who has the pig. Amir’s jaw hilariously drops to the floor, mesmerized by Feld’s philosophical rant. It’s a powerful and funny ending to the best scene in the film.
Beyond its writing and acting achievements, Pig is a technical success as well. When the intruders burst into Feld’s wilderness home and steal the pig late at night, we’re stuck in the dark, only seeing Feld’s head smashed in as we follow him to the floor. We lay there with him and hear chaos in the background, including the thieves’ fuzzy chatter and the pig’s piercing squeal. Our eyes are only on Feld, yet we know exactly what’s happening around him. This strategy is also used in the film’s final minutes and climax, except this time the sound is removed and our eyes relay the story to our brains. It’s here that Cage’s textbook physically takes over: We know exactly what has happened despite not hearing a single peep. Although removing the audiences’ senses can be risky, Sarnoski’s meticulous approach pays dividends in these moments.
At the heart of Pig is the story of a man who, despite losing everything he loves, comes to terms with himself and the world. It’s a powerful debut from Sarnoski, who’s become a must-watch filmmaker moving forward. It’s another hit performance from Wolff, who’s continued a ridiculous run of starring in basically every indie thriller since Ari Aster’s 2018 hit, Hereditary. Finally, it’s a divergent and excellent showcase from Cage, who seems to be remodeling his game as his career moves into the twilight phase. It’s far from the Cage of National Treasure, and I’m all for it.