Directed by:
David FincherScreenplay:
Andrew Kevin WalkerCinematography:
Erik MesserschmidtCast:
Michael Fassbender, Tilda Swinton, Charles Parnell, Arliss Howard, Kerry O'Malley, Sala Baker, Sophie Charlotte, Endre Hules, Monique Ganderton, Daran Norris (more)VOD (1)
Plots(1)
After a fateful near-miss an assassin battles his employers, and himself, on an international manhunt he insists isn’t personal. (Netflix)
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Reviews (10)
No one is special. We are all mere aberrations, but otherwise we are all basically the same. Fincher's philosophizing assassin explains the importance of overcoming boredom and the benefits of diligence. I've never seen a more relaxed and serene opening. It's a balm to the soul and a throwback to the early days of Dexter. Fake smiles, at McDonald's or at an airport counter, Fassbender's emphasis on minimalist, spare and slow speech and a thoughtful, planned out life that goes out of whack at one key moment. Andrew Kevin Walker adapts a comic book about method and the importance of staying on top of things. Fincher chooses to repeat the rules, but they're often broken, to emphasize the hero's inner turmoil, but it doesn't affect his effectiveness. A melancholy quest for revenge seems to be the opposite of John Wick, yet it offers one of the most intense fights between two very different killers, supported by Reznor’s and Ross' restrained (as usual) soundtrack. Emotionless, yet absolutely precisely realised. It is the absence of emotion or some unexpected finesse that prevents The Killer from being anything more than a precise and cool study of people who simply, don't give a... Fuck!
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Since David Fincher started collaborating with Netflix, it seems like he's been making whatever he wants, and it's clear that this isn't working out. With The Killer, it feels like he was determined to make a movie about a murderer, a subject he enjoys exploring. However, the result is that Michael Fassbender spends more time narrating than actually acting. Plus, nothing really happens. The film lacks any real emotion. Sure, it's technically proficient — coldly proficient, in fact —but that's about it.
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Michael Fassbender moves, walks and uses his voice in an interesting way. And that's all. His soliloquys are as empty as his character’s craft, and we’ve already seen the naturalistic depiction of brutal physical conflict between two cold-blooded professionals elsewhere long ago in more intense performances. The simplicity of the story wouldn’t bother me at all if it were dressed up with imaginative moments, an original psychological profile of the main character and some playing around with the formalistic aspect. However, The Killer offers none of that. The form is pure and precise, but not bold. The encounter with the perfectly cast Tilda Swinton at the table arouses the viewer’s curiosity and interest almost like the face-to-face encounter between Al Pacino and Robert De Niro in Heat, but it remains the only scene that I remember from the movie. And that’s just not enough for a David Fincher flick. I unequivocally prefer The American with George Clooney, a similarly minimalistic and creatively distinctive, yet more emotionally engaging profile of an unknown killer.
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Perhaps Fincher's most meditative film to date, the music calmly throbs throughout, like Fassbender's assassin at the beginning, patiently waiting for his shot, mindful of his heartbeat and, like almost the entire film, going nowhere, repeating to himself with obsessive care, "Stick to the plan.... don't improvise." And that's exactly what Fincher does, thoughtfully, with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, layering one carefully composed scene after another, and seemingly, unwittingly, imprinting himself on Fassbender's character as well. Early on, after a botched murder, the man in question thinks "Fuck, this is the first time" and I could see Fincher having similar thoughts flying through his head after the mixed reception of Mank. And it's as if they were both chasing perfection, where failure is unforgivable. Something was missing in the rating and Fincher was not to blame. Perhaps I was expecting something more thought-provoking from Walker's script (8MM remains unbeaten), perhaps a better ending and not the shallow point at the end, including the few idyllic shots that are really flat. Anyway, precise Fincher ..... precise Fincher is back!, just the way we like it. Only that Andrew K. Walker guy picked a weaker moment.
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It's almost fascinating, mischievous fun. Watching an elite hitman who praises himself to the skies in the opening fifteen minutes, then makes a terrible mistake, but never stops doubting himself, even when it increasingly seems that the mistake was far from the last, and in fact not even the first. David Fincher has taken the liberty of making a wonderfully filmed two-hour ode to the ego, and I'm sure with each successive viewing there will be more and more little "a professional killer probably wouldn't do this in another movie" details that I didn't notice the first time around.
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