We fade in to Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No 1 in C Major as a rootling pig discovers a black truffle, which Nicolas Cage lifts gently to his discerning nose. Cage puts Pig to bed in his shack, before being brutally knocked out with a cry that connoisseurs of his Wicker Man will relish. Cage wakes up. Pig is gone. At this precise moment, a card reminds you that Nicolas Cage is an Academy Award winner, which seems less a sign of Cage’s qualities as an actor than an indictment of the Academy Awards.
The ragged costumes seem inspired by Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance as a bear wrestler in The Revenant (his sole Oscar-worthy performance). On Cage, the costume sits comfortably: he has described his approach to acting as “nouveau shamanic” (during a junket for Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance), and when he dresses like he lives in the woods, the breeze dancing in his lank grey hair, you believe him.
Pig’s set-up feels like a mixed-up rehash of other Hollywood films. What about John Wick’s line, “They killed my dog,” but classier? Thus: “They took my truffle pig.” Or Liam Neeson’s immortal performance in Taken, but instead of a daughter, it’s a truffle pig. The result is, simultaneously, a brooding revenge thriller and a quiet meditation on a life devoted to gastronomy. Cage’s character claims: “I remember every meal I ever cooked; I remember every person I’ve ever served,” like a Dark Knight-style remake of Jon Favreau’s Chef.
I have to Google Pig (twice) to make sure it’s not an internet parody. Pig by Cage sounds more like a nightmarish aftershave than a film. (I know, I know, it’s directed by Michael Sarnoski, but really, who is going to call it a “Michael Sarnoski film”?) “Cage Pig parody”? “Cage Pig SNL”? Cage was, in fact, on Saturday Night Live once, for a sketch in which he describes the two key qualities of a Nic Cage film: all the dialogue is either whispered or screamed; and everything is on fire. But Pig is real. It is there on IMDb, with a press release up on Deadline. Co-writer Vanessa Block, who was presumably responsible for some of the film’s words, is quoted as saying that “the creative alchemy of a phenomenal cast and crew has further actualised this magic we’re eager to share with others.” All of those are, undeniably, words.
From the trailer alone, it is clear this will be a meal lovingly produced from an unworkable recipe. It has nailed the wintry palette, the wide shots of pine forests, winding roads and bustling restaurants, the close ups of melancholy faces and steaks being butter-basted, the score that treats it all as thoughtful, without ever asking itself the basic question of whether it violates common sense. And yet, despite all this, when Cage whispers, “We don't get a lot of things to really care about,” I feel inexplicably moved.
It has been exhaustively documented that Cage is a walking Wilhelm Scream, a self-described Californian Klaus Kinski. He introduced a new Netflix documentary series on swearing by standing, holding his arms wide, and shouting the word “fuck” over the course of seven long seconds. His other starring role this year is in a film called The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent, in which he plays himself. In interviews, he has described his emotional presentation as “operatic” and his facial expressions as at times “abstract, ontological,” finding inspiration everywhere from German Expressionism to Woody Woodpecker. (Incidentally, he prepared for his Oscar-winning performance in Leaving Las Vegas by playing the bongos and hiring a man to get really drunk in his trailer.)
We can fairly say that Cage’s acting is not an attempt to faithfully replicate the naturalism of everyday life. But who, in 2021, wants more of everyday life? We go to the cinema because we want to be reminded of the vast spectrum of human sensation. Cage understands that intimately, and he willingly manifests the toddler in all of us, screaming, laughing maniacally at almost nothing, reciting the alphabet for the pleasure of the sounds—or, indeed, bringing all conversations back to food, while crying over a missing pet.
If any leading character can appear to us as an Everyman this year, it is an unshaven hermit re-entering polite society. A part of me fears that, like Cage, I will return to my old life only to be told that “there’s nothing here for you any more,” and if he can carry on asking the tough questions like, “Who has my Pig?,” maybe I too can persevere. Pig is Cage’s gift to us all. He is offering us catharsis at a moment when we are desperate to be somewhere other than home, desperate to have a nice meal in a normal restaurant, desperate to express the emotions we have pent up for too long. You will find me at the front of the queue.
Pig is released in July
