The Killer

Director: David Fincher (USA). Year of Release: 2023

Paris, the top floor of a rented housing block. A room so vast that it looks like an aircraft hanger. A man sits and waits next to an open window. Over time he does yoga, pops out for a McDonalds and listens to the Smiths on his Walkman (or whatever the current high-tech equivalent is now). Sometimes he sleeps. Every so often he checks the rifle which is pointing out of the window towards the luxury hotel opposite.

All the time he keeps holding his watch phone towards the camera in what must be a product placement devoid of any subtlety. This is entirely typical of a film which regularly namechecks big companies like McDonalds, Amazon, and Wordle. Fincher’s apologists may claim that he is just trying to be like Douglas Coupland and keeping his finger on the pulse. But whether or not any money changed hands (I’m betting it did) he ends up just looking like a corporate shill.

After a lot of faffing about, there is some movement in the hotel window. A woman wearing not very much wiggles in front of the killer’s vision. In the background sits a middle aged man in a suit. The man keeps wandering out of the eyeline of his rifle, but then returns to offer a near-perfect shot. The Killer shoots, the woman wiggles once more – right into the path of the speeding bullet. The killer finally says something out loud. “Shit”.

The Killer rushes downstairs, and hops on a moped, passing through narrow Parisian streets as police cars move in the opposite direction. He goes to the airport, and gets on a plane using one of a series of pseudonyms based on figures from popular culture (Archibald Bunker, Sam Malone, Howard Cunningham, and many more). At the last minute he gives up his place on the plane to someone else and stays overnight in the airport hotel. This is about as exciting as it gets.

Flying to the Dominican Republic, he enters what is presumably his home. It is not dissimilar to the house in Parasite – which will incite desire from part of the audience, and disdain from those who are a little more clued up. Who would live in a house like this? A rich arsehole, that’s who. To show that he does not live alone, the diagetic music changes – from the Smiths to Portishead. Much as I love the album Dummy, it is a huge shame that it has become the calling card of vacuous yuppies.

The Killer is there to meet a woman called Mandala, but someone has got there before him, leaving only trails of blood. When he tracks Mandala down to a hospital with a fluctuating electricity supply. Mandala’s brother, who works at the hospital, directs him to a bed where his girlfriend is barely conscious. Nonetheless, she is able to tell him that she’s been attacked by a man and a woman who left in a taxi.

After the Dominican Republic, we go to New Orleans. Then to Florida, then New York, and then Chicago. There is some sort of logic in all these travels, but none that arouses our interest. In each city, pretty much the same thing happens. The Killer meets someone, engages in vacuous conversation before, eventually and inevitably, killing them. There is no dramatic tension, and while everything is done with a certain panache, it’s all too cold and clinical.

Maybe the one exception is when the Killer comes in contact with Tilda Swinton who is, as ever, playing Tilda Swinton. Before the meeting, there is the usual ridiculous voiceover statement which sounds like it wants to be profound but makes no sense if you listen to it for more than a second. This one says that when a woman is killed, suspicion always falls first on her husband or lover. Well, unless a waiter serves her drinks while she’s sat at a table with a man who just approached her.

At least Swinton is allowed to be elegant and eloquent, and to tell a joke / shaggy dog story which is not funny. Then she leaves with the Killer, presumably because he has a gun trained on her. Again this might follow some dramatic rules for how people are supposed to behave in films, but makes no sense if we assume (as we are supposed to) that these are rational people who don’t go to a quiet space with someone with a gun. Welcome to Fincher world – all style and no substance.

There is little dialogue in The Killer. Mainly we just listen to the eponymous Killer’s internal monologue telling us that he is isolated and single-minded, like an alt-right Dexter. Throughout the film we hear him telling himself the same phrases: “Stick to your plan. Anticipate, don’t improvise. Trust no one. Never yield an advantage. Fight only the battle you’re paid to fight.” The repetition quickly becomes quite boring. Yes, we get it. This is an enigmatic killer with no personality-

There are various things to admire about The Killer. There’s the soundtrack, which in addition to Portishead and lots of Smiths songs has a soundtrack by Trent Raznor and Atticus Ross. This is a David Fincher film, after all. This means that it also looks immaculate. And Michael Fassbender is always worth watching, even though so many of his roles seem to involve him show as little emotion as possible (with or without a Frank Sidebottom head).

In an early voiceover, the Killer says: “It’s amazing how physically exhausting it can be to do nothing. If you’re not able to endure boredom, this work is not for you.” Similarly, if you’re not able to endure boredom, this may not be the film for you. It is a film which, in its pretentious way, tries to depict the banality of evil, although it cannot get around the fundamental problem that it just ends up being banal.

This is a film which is entirely devoid of soul. It is not asking us to feel empathy for any of its characters, but if that is the case, why should we care about what happens to anyone? We watch on, possibly impressed but never engaged. If we like to fondle new technology, then maybe we’re impressed by all the gadgets, but this is a film which is lacking in any real emotion. Some critics still loved it. I found it utterly boring.