See Pig and Tremble Before Your Own Mortality

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Originally posted on July 16, 2021, we’re re-sharing this review as “Pig” has now moved to greener pastures (and a broader viewership) on Netflix.

In a departure from typical genre fare, my review of “Pig” by Michael Sarnoski reveals a movie that subtly confounds assumptions. Initially, one might be fooled into thinking it’s a revenge story or a gritty hillbilly noir tale. However, those anticipating a more action-packed escapade akin to “John Wick” or “Taken,” or even the eccentric Nicolas Cage performances in films like “Mandy,” might find themselves underwhelmed. Far from fitting these descriptions, “Pig” (now streaming on Netflix) is an entirely different beast. Rather than escalating tension, it broadens its perspective and extends empathy. Paradoxically, it becomes increasingly about the very subject it initially appears to shun, eventually embracing that theme wholeheartedly.

Allow me to clarify my thoughts. In this narrative, Nicolas Cage portrays a solitary, sorrowful woodsman named Rob, inhabiting the woodlands of the Pacific Northwest. His days are spent hunting truffles with his pig, Apple, and exchanging them for profit with a city vendor, Amir (played by Alex Wolff). However, one fateful evening, two uninvited individuals attack Rob and steal Apple. With truffle farming being a lucrative business in the burgeoning Portland fine dining scene, it’s evident that a well-trained truffle pig like Apple is highly valuable. Overcome with grief and seeking vengeance, Rob reaches out to Amir, and together they venture into the city on a mission to recover Apple. This odyssey takes them through upscale restaurants and underground fight clubs as they track down their lost companion.

The idea for the story might seem a bit absurd, but it becomes even more ridiculous when played out on screen. Despite the strange premise of the whole fuss being about a truffle pig, the director, Sarnoski, uses visual cues to suggest that this journey has a deeper symbolic meaning. For instance, the main character, Rob, gets progressively injured and bloodied throughout the night, never washing off the blood after being beaten up late at night. He’s already marked by scars from the initial violent pig theft. Plus, Nicolas Cage, who is known for his bravery in acting roles, portrays Rob with a haunting stiffness that often shifts between pent-up aggression and lifeless seriousness. Although he seems genuine, he doesn’t feel like a real character.

As the pair move about the city, Amir uncovers that Rob’s full name, Robin Feld, still holds significant influence. Fifteen years prior, he was Portland’s most admired and cherished chef. Gradually, we learn about the circumstances that led Robin to leave his profession. Interestingly, Amir shares a past that seems to intertwine with Robin’s. Specifically, when he was young, his parents had a significant meal at Robin’s restaurant, and he recalls it as the only time they didn’t argue upon returning from their night out. The healing power of food, its ability to unleash emotions long held back, is a recurring theme in Pig. However, this is not about food per se but rather the connections formed, a sense of being fully engaged and alive that pure food embodies.

In most films that delve into characters’ pasts, they tend to overwhelm us with intricate details through flashbacks or intense dialogue sequences. However, Pig takes a more subtle approach, allowing information to seep in through casual remarks and moments of quiet introspection. Director Sarnoski frequently zooms in on minor details or quick glances, or abruptly ends scenes during tense moments, mirroring the mindfulness that Robin yearns for, which he may have lost with the theft of his pig.

The funniest and most poignant scene in the series occurs when Robin and Amir dine at a highly acclaimed, ultra-exclusive restaurant serving extravagant local cuisine. The dishes are tiny and come with lengthy poetic explanations about the Earth, taking longer to describe than to consume. Robin, a former colleague of the chef (David Knell), calls him over and scornfully asserts that everything around them is insignificant: “The critics aren’t genuine, the patrons aren’t genuine, because none of this is real. You aren’t real. Why do you worry about these people? … They don’t know you, because you haven’t shown yourself to them. Every day you wake up and there will be less of you.” Cage’s somber delivery contrasts sharply with Knell’s frightened laughter, imbuing the scene with a profound philosophical edge. At first, it appears Robin is merely berating the arrogant chef; however, as the conversation progresses, we understand that he is speaking about himself. “We don’t often have things worth caring about,” Robin eventually admits. “Who has my pig, Derek?

Robin values only his pig, as it’s the last thing he deeply cares for, and once the pig disappears, so may Robin. As Robin and Amir move nearer to Apple, they seem to delve deeper into their own past. These scenes resemble stages in a sequence of humiliation rites, where Robin is subjected to both physical and spiritual suffering. It seems as though, after years of living in the woods, he’s confronting his own mortality and insignificance, his own transience. In a previous soliloquy, Robin mentions the massive earthquake that will someday flatten the Pacific Northwest, and at times it sounds like a prediction or warning, but also a subtle reminiscence of the emotional quake that shattered him. However, there’s another layer to this — something more cosmic that reflects on the essence of life itself. Every day we wake up, we lose a bit of ourselves too. We all let go of the things we cherish, until eventually, we too fade away.

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2025-05-28 18:54