Either because Pierre is bleeding or because shutterbugs are standing by, Katya whisks him up to her place. Would a hot starlet really usher this dweeby parasite up to her loft? Not without Tony Montana's stash of coke. (That's what publicists are for.) But Pierre has one advantage: the unquenchable fascination the famous have with the one person in the room who doesn't love them. Under the guise of extending the interview, he goads the liquored-up Katya into working her seductress moves on him, leveling his Mr. Limpet gaze at her while using the can't-fail aphrodisiac of pretending she's not his type. She lets him think it's working, then cuts him off when he's aroused. With her Chihuahua-yap of a cell tone to mark the periods, the game is on.
As director, Buscemi is confined by the unusual terms of the project. Interview is a remake of a 2003 drama by Dutch provocateur Theo van Gogh, who planned to remake this and two other of his features in English before he was murdered by an Islamic extremist in 2004. Buscemi has honored his intent, retaining not only van Gogh's cinematographer, Thomas Kist, but also his shooting style of using three cameras to cover a scene simultaneously.
The result, though anchored mostly to a single set cleverly sectioned by hammocks, curtains and a kitchen bar, is the least concrete and most artificial of Buscemi's films. But that's as much because of the situation as it is Buscemi and David Schechter's slippery script. Star profiles are essentially hostage negotiations, a bartering of self-respect for access: How little can the subject reveal and still make the interviewer think he has a scoop? Buscemi and Schechter heighten this head game, making the Pierre-Katya "interview" a transaction in which each party means to screw the other, literally and figuratively. The characters' whip-smart monologues, accusatory and confessional, lash both ways: Are they lying to themselves or each other, or just to us?
Interview starts by playing on our pieties about "serious" journalists vs. celebrity airheads, but the actors keep our sympathies — and our repulsion — shifting. On one viewing, Miller's portfolio-of-mood-swings performance seems over-deliberate: You can almost hear the voice in her head whisper, Now spontaneously climb on the counter and flex those legs, a beat before she does it. But for Katya, this is an acting exercise. And in light of the movie's closing twist — a parting nut shot of Mametesque nastiness that reveals which player has been played all along — Miller's calculation looks like a subtle masterstroke. Buscemi the actor, always a whiz at playing shleps who resent the bust hand life's dealt them, whittles Pierre's vanity to a nub and then erases it altogether. The ending shows that the characters deserve each other. At the closest point to a moment of truth between these two practicing liars, Katya drops Pierre's camcorder, his lame Plan B for a busted tape recorder; it stares sideways into a TV screen, creating mirrored screens that recede into eternity with nothing inside. That brief shot is Interview in an image.