"The centipedes are getting downright arrogant!" This is a problem for the sensitive exterminator who has run out of juice-the best cover a writer ever had. Addiction, moreover the drive to addiction, is the theme of Naked Lunch, a book about drugs and sex, a film about writing. Canadian master filmmaker Cronenberg has magically melded William Burroughs's book and life; in the film's own metaphor, this is a literary high, a Kafka high. Peter Weller as Cronenberg's Burroughs seems born to the part, surprisingly sober as he is. There may be parts of this exotic trip to Interzone, a one-way travelog, that Burroughs didn't write, but nothing that he couldn't have. ("Save your psychoanalysis for your grasshopper friends.") Still, for all its typewriters as arachnids with menacingly familiar Bronx accents, its talking anuses and false faces-its profound paranoia-Naked Lunch, the film, is downplayed horror, the most effective kind. Joan's death is as quiet as a blip, a moment that might not have happened, but then did. Twice.