Actually, they’re called Guard Bees. They hang at the hive to protect the Queen, often fighting wasps and other colony invaders to the death. And yes, bees can get drunk — usually from fermented nectar or overripe, fermenting fruit. And when they do, the hive doesn’t take kindly to it. Drunk bees:

• Fly erratically or crash into things.
• Forget directions back to the hive.
• Struggle to do waggle dances properly.

That’s where the guard bees come in. If a forager shows up drunk, smelling like alcohol or acting weird, the guard bees won’t let them in. Some studies even show guards will bite, wrestle, or drag intoxicated bees away from the entrance. No data was available on their ability to spot fake IDs.

Robots who don’t know they’re robots have become the new darlings of science fiction.

From Blade Runner 2049 to Subservience to I’m Not a Robot, the question of what it means to be real has taken center stage. Companion doesn’t break new ground, but it sharpens familiar ideas into something haunting and alive.

The story unfolds in a near future where engineered companions, programmed with synthetic emotions, fill the gaps real people can’t.

Sophie Thatcher leads the film with a fierce, wounded performance as Iris, a creation who seems almost too human. Jack Quaid plays her owner with the right mix of warmth and menace, suggesting how easily love curdles into control.

Director Drew Hancock keeps the frame cold and clinical. The sets are sterile, the colors washed out, the silences longer than the conversations.

Companion builds tension not through chases or action, but through stillness — the slow recognition that identity can be manufactured like a product.

For most of its running time, the film trusts the audience. It raises questions about autonomy, loneliness, and guilt without shouting them.

Alas, the ending doesn’t quite hold. As the story rushes toward its conclusion, it wobbles into melodrama. Characters who once felt human start making decisions that belong more to plot mechanics than to themselves.

Another weakness is how closely Companion mirrors I’m Not a Robot. No accusations have been leveled, and the timeline suggests coincidence. Still, the resemblance is strong enough that Companion could have been called I Am Not I Am Not a Robot. It’s a distraction the movie never fully outruns.

Even with those slips, Companion lingers. It asks how much of ourselves we’re willing to hand over to comfort. And whether, once we do, we are anything more than machines ourselves.

Jake Bugg doesn’t sing so much as throw his voice across the room and dare it to hit the right notes on the way down.

It’s a beautiful gamble, especially in early career tracks like Lightning Bolt and Trouble Town, where his voice snaps with urgency—half skiffle, half snarl. He sings like a kid raised on factory noise and transistor radios, like a jukebox that’s learned to spit back poetry. It’s not clean. It’s not even always in tune. But it’s unmistakably his, which is rarer than range.

In Lightning Bolt, Bugg lobs syllables like bricks through a window. He races his guitar like he’s trying to outrun his own nerves, and that’s the charm. There’s no polish. No gloss. Just the ragged thrill of someone with something to say and no time to smooth the edges. He turns a three-chord burst into a manifesto: the world moves fast, fate hits harder, and you better duck or sing the fuck through it.

Then comes Trouble Town, and the tremble creeps in. His voice grows slighter, shakier—not weaker, just more honest. There’s ache underneath the twang, resignation beneath the swagger. He doesn’t shout the blues, he mutters them like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear. “Stuck in speed bump city,” he sighs, and you can feel the curb under your ribs.

That’s the genius of Bugg’s voice: it always sounds like it’s coming from someone half your size and twice your mileage. He’s not trying to wow you. He’s trying to outlast the noise.

And he does, because his voice isn’t trained. It’s weathered. Not smooth like sanded wood, but smooth like something worn by use. It’s the sound of England’s working class passed through a cracked amplifier and open bedroom window.

That odd wail can get monotonous, and it’s limited his career. That, too, is part of the allure.

He’s not the best singer in Britain. But that’s what makes him one of the catchiest.