It’s hard to think of a better-written and acted movie of psychological horror in recent memory than Bug. And the direction, from William Friedkin, is every bit as good as the script and the acting; it’s just that Friedkin does the kind of work that’s easy to get overlooked and under praised. No fancy set pieces or dream sequences here, no exhilarating tracking shots—actually, there probably wasn’t even room on the set to lay down tracks. Which is to say that Bug betrays its origins as a stage play early on. However, Friedkin does an expert job of never making us feel visually trapped in the tiny motel suite where virtually all of the action takes place. Emotionally, even existentially, trapped, sure, but our eyes never feel that they’re seeing the same shots recycled again and again. That’s a sign of solid directing, period. Yet somehow people always find reasons to pick on Friedkin, perhaps in part because he has a knack for selecting “unlikeable” material for his projects. A prime example is The Hunted (2003), a movie that was unfairly dismissed pretty much from all quarters.

One mainstream critic who panned Bug remarked that watching characters on a “descent into hell” for a hundred minutes is neither “instructive” nor “fun.” When I read this, I stopped dead in my tracks. "Yes, he has a point," I thought…

…but do fans of horror cinema attach such high importance to the twin virtues of instruction and fun? To be sure, many of the best horror movies are edifying and entertaining, but I would submit that they are edifying and entertaining in ways that are significantly different from films in other genres. In short, a well-done “descent into hell” is fun for those who regularly worship at the altar of shadow cinema. The fearless telling of extremely unpopular psychological truths, and the explosive emotional catharsis that often accompanies it, is the very reason why so many of us venture down those dark basement steps into the place we call horror.

Unfortunately for Lions Gate and those who made Bug, the bulk of the horror community these days is not accustomed to seeing such portraits in madness stripped of their mythic aura altogether. That is, the typical horror fan doesn’t mind his characters devolved and demoniacal, but usually demands a nice partition from their everyday selves achieved through the archetypal use of masks, disguises, shape-shifting, alter egos, and the like. That is, we thrill to it when the guys-and-gals-next-door turn into the murderous “Other” but we prefer that they have the decency to transform into zombies or vampires first. To remain looking and talking just like they always did—and just like we still do—is subversive in a way that can make any admirer of “fantastic” horror downright uncomfortable. Even old Norman Bates, the archetype of “motel evil,” had the good grace to stop being Norman Bates when he became a monster. On these same grounds, then, it might be possible to argue that Bug, a modern fable of paranoia from the talented playwright Tracy Letts, does not even belong in the horror genre. But if it doesn’t, then “A Tell-Tale Heart” probably doesn’t either. (By the way, I’m suggesting that the protagonists of the movie look and talk “like we do” not because most of us are tormented by swarms of bugs, or think we are, but because we usually need to be right at any cost—at least I do; for me, the drive to be right and have others validate our rightness, is one of the scariest parts of the human condition.)

As far as the DVD format goes, Bug is probably the perfect title for it. Try to watch the movie on the smallest screen you own and, if possible, in the smallest room of your home. But don’t forget to turn the volume way up.

Finally, for those who care about the particulars of this “special edition” of Bug, you should know that it comes with a fairly interesting making-of segment. The DVD also features an extended interview with Friedkin, who muses on his career in a way that happens to be very “instructive” regarding how movie culture has changed over the last four decades.