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Tracy Letts’s 2004 Off Broadway play about conspiracy theories and codependent relationships doesn’t exactly scream “comeback vehicle”for somebody like New Hollywood golden boy William Friedkin. It takes place entirely in a dingy motel room, which leaves scant opportunity to stage car chases down Brooklyn avenues or Los Angeles freeways; X-Files–ish rants or not, there’s no place to drop in a demonic 360-degree head turn. But Friedkin’s take on this tale about a lonely waitress (Judd), a mysterious stranger (Shannon) and some serious heebie-jeebies showcases the stylish, screw-tightening precision that made the director’s early-’70s work such a rush. Friedkin appears to have rediscovered a sense of purpose. You can say it, fans: Finally!
Credit the story’s geographical confinement. Talented but fatally indulgent and scattershot—his output over the last two decades has been largely miss-and-miss—Friedkin is forced by the material to conjure dread through minimal means. What’s surprising is that he rises to the challenge so thoroughly: Every tracking shot, eerie slow-zoom and claustrophobic close-up feels perfectly in sync with the characters’ shared delusions descending in a downward spiral. Which isn’t to say that Bug is within swatting distance of flawless; both Judd and Shannon start off subtle but end up laughably histrionic, and several touches are a bit too derivative (didn’t someone else use that ceiling fan–helicopter noise trick somewhere?). But Friedkin’s ability to ratchet up the tension without losing sight of the play’s human element goes a long way. He’s delivered a properly paranoid love story for a very paranoid age. (Opens Fri; Click here for venues. See also “Angels and insects.”)—David Fear
