David Fincher’s “The Game:” How to Massacre a Message

Fincher’s 1995 drama had the potential to say something more, but falters in its final moments.

David Fincher has to be one of the most well known directors with the greatest diversity in their fandom’s ideologies. Directing films that have come to define the early twenty-first century grit and grime aesthetic, Fincher as an artist has undoubtably helped frame the form of, and discourse around, contemporary cinema. Through his work, Fincher typically analyzes social ills relevant to the time of his film’s releases. The way masculinity has been discussed within the 21st century, and how many of Fincher’s films are cited as examples for multiple sides in that slippery discourse, proves the lasting impression his films have partially because of their themes. Alongside thematic prowess, Fincher’s most well known films are those that use aesthetics from their contextualized moment in history to generate his greater commentaries on humanity. In Se7en, Fincher’s filth somehow shines on screen in the ever-present rain of the nightmare world Mills and Williams occupy. That was the late 90s, where anxiety around the new millennium was in the air, at least enough to make Se7en’s pessimistic exploration of humanity seem appropriate. Meanwhile, in The Social Network, Se7en’s nauseating greens and blacks are glossed over with cold blues, moody yellows, and smooth camera movements that give the work a distinctly sterile/technologically coded aesthetic. Placing Fincher’s films side by side thus reveal a few consistencies, those being attempts at developing a greater sociological message through his stories, and practicing extremely detailed filmmaking.

As such a detail oriented filmmaker, Fincher’s scripts and visuals are consistently tighter than the wound wire choking out the killer’s next victim. Which is why I was a bit shocked when watching his 1997 drama The Game starring Michael Vaughn as the temperamental, wealthy, and utterly pathetic socialite Nicholas Van Orton as he attempts to survive a sequence of events as apart of a game his brother, Conrad (Sean Penn), has set up for his birthday. Conrad organized the game by hiring CRS, a company that promises to give any client a handcrafted experience that is sure to give them “everything that’s lacking.” Sounds simple enough, save for the fact that this “game” quickly unwinds into a reality bending, mind altering escapade into the depths of Nicholas’ morality. Fincher has never been surreal, which is why, again, The Game stands out in his filmography. Soon after the game begins, Nicholas experiences what appear to be impossible tricks of the mind. The TV begins speaking to him. He has hundreds of keys planted in his car. A plastic clown falls from his roof. The San Francisco streets are hauntingly empty. Clearly, this is a world outside of reality, more so than any of Fincher’s previous works or those to come. All of this to say, The Game is a film where rules are broken, and in doing so, manages to positively and negatively stand out as a unique piece in Fincher’s filmography.

At risk of sounding pretentious, films exist on a range of artistic integrity/seriousness, regardless if we want to accept it or not. Different films have different intentions, and in such, one must approach a film open-mindedly, excited and willing to listen to what the film itself has to say and how it says it. Good Burger was not intending to win an Oscar or be lauded as “high art” exclusive to those who labeled it such. Instead, it’s a teen comedy with the intention of making kids laugh. Expecting anything more than gags and a good time from Good Burger wouldn’t just be idiotic, but unfair to the film and its aims. It isn’t an insult to say that Good Burger isn’t “high art.” Instead, I argue the greater insult is dismissing a film for its intentions not being “worthwhile pursuits.” Why can’t cheering someone up be just as respected as making a greater declaration about humanity? And why would what a film chooses to say be the sole determiner of its quality? I say this because, for this viewer, The Game is an utter failure at achieving its greater ideological goals at the cost of having a wildly entertaining experience. This doesn’t always have to be the case, which is why I find it to be a flaw within The Game that these two concepts are treated as mutually exclusive rather than equal parts of a balanced equation. To me, The Game has too many serious elements for its intentions to be pure entertainment, but at the same time, falls victim to the rules of its world in a way that simultaneously effaces the ideological edge from Fincher’s stint into surrealism.

One can see how I had certain expectations entering The Game. A film about an uncaring, isolated banker directed by a filmmaker with the reputation of consistently having something interesting to say about the present moment and humanity at large, the film’s message almost seemed to write itself. Not even from a frame of the film, but just from the premise can one start to gleam potential for greater thematic messages regarding wealth inequality, status, and self-confidence. In this way, one could even see how The Game comfortably fits within Fincher’s filmography on a thematic level. He is a filmmaker interested in exploring the worst of humanity, which oftentimes come in the form of powerful and insecure men with high status. Who would have thought!

Meaning, I came into the film with somewhat of a pre-established idea on what it would be based on the premise: a mind bending thriller investigating the evils of capitalism through the lens of a corrupt banker. Interestingly, for the majority of the film’s runtime, it is. And while this attempt at a greater ideological message could have acted in service of the film’s overall quality, ultimately, Fincher’s swing at social critique becomes it’s most damning act.

The film opens with clearly establishing Nicholas as a flawed character directly because of his incredulous wealth as he goes through a normal day. Or, as normal of a day as an old money banker could have. Nicholas prepares himself for another day at the office in uncanny silence. The only other occupant of his luxurious estate is long time family maid, Isla. At work, he impassively cancels any and all meetings; Nicholas is incapable of even communicating with other humans effectively. This fact is only enhanced when we learn from a lowly secretary, who Nicholas hardly gives the time of day, that it’s his birthday. Of course, he later celebrates this momentous occassion alone in the cold blues of his vacant home. The life we are presented is one of profound isolation and boredom as a result of a mass accumulation of wealth. But, despite living a clearly flawed life, Nicholas doubles down on his wealth as a means feeling powerful in the face of his own insecurities. For Nicholas, as I thought for Fincher, money is an addiction that hinders one from truly experiencing a meaningful life for a sense of power.

Not only does Nicholas remain isolated because of his wealth, but we can see how years of living the high life has brought his ego to a similar height. That secretary who wished him a happy birthday? His only response: “I don’t like her.” I’m assuming he says the same thing into the mirror every night about his ex-wife, whose absence clearly destroy’s Nicholas, but his self-importance keeps from even allowing himself the grace of grief. Nicholas is a man who has to think highly of himself because if not, he would realize how small he really is. In his efforts to protect himself from his own emotional vulnerability, Nicholas has launched his image into the stratosphere, believing himself to be a king amongst ants.

This bird’s eye view on life is demonstrated in Nicholas’ treatment of those “below him.” For example, Nicholas attends lunch with one “Mister Seymour Butts,” the self appointed nickname of Nicholas’ down-on-his-luck brother, Conrad. While waiting for the younger, sloppier, but notably more personable Van Orton, Nicholas condescendingly demands a refill without even looking to the waitress. There are universal signs of dickish-ness; being rude to a service worker is at the top of that list. That doesn’t even account for Nicholas’ behavior to his only family member confirmed to be alive. In their discussion, Nicholas acts curtly and standoffish to his brother, only assuming the worst. “What brings you here? Is everything all right?” Nicholas asks while avoiding a hug. Following this, he even gives the waitress “the finger” to silence her, another one of those universal red flags. With the amount the film highlights Nicholas’ flawed behavior as a direct result of his wealth, as well as the self-imposed isolation his money supports, it is undoubtedly framing him as a character in desperate need of change. Luckily, Conrad has just the thing: a business card for CRS. Call them, and the game begins.

It’s at this starting line where the ideological potential for the film is at its maximum. After lunch, Nicholas has his pathetic birthday celebration. A small cake is placed on a silver platter with a single candle, the coldest birthday desert imaginable. While eating, he waits…but for what? Of course, a call from his ex-wife. Not even the great wizard in his ivory tower can handle complete isolation on their special day. What’s most embarrassing about this though is Nicholas’ intentions, which were seemingly only waiting for the phone call so he could feel the sweet satisfaction of insulting his ex-wife, who only called to wish him a genuine happy birthday. Here, Nicholas comes off as a jealous, insecure, lonely jerk who revels in his poor treatment of others. Similar levels of overcompensation are put on display when Nicholas begins the game. Nicholas treats the entire application process like a chore he soars above, he pretends to be “in” on the game in front of other participants to protect his all-knowing front, and only opts into the experience once he receives a call claiming his application has been denied. Again, Nicholas is shown to be a flawed protagonist whose issues are a direct result of, and perpetually sustained by, his status and wealth.

From here, the film distances itself from reality in a way Fincher rarely does. CRS plants a recreation of his father’s suicide, a traumatic event that haunts Nicholas to this very day. Using a plastic clown in place of his father’s corpse, Nicholas finds a key, the first of many that he has to track to complete his own personalized “game.” Nicholas takes the clown inside for examination, where CNN can be heard off screen. “According to Nicholas Van Orton, millions of Americans will be affected by this legislation….number of criminals behind bars growing in record numbers.” Just in case you forgot Nicholas was evil, even his attempts at innocence in the form lowering crime backfires when seemingly incarcerating innocents as much as those who deserve to be behind bars. Of course, Nicholas doesn’t bat an eye at the television, that is, until the news anchor starts speaking to him directly. The anchor describes the rules of the game, and most importantly, that this iteration has been tailored to Nicholas specifically. From here, the banker is let loose, and San Francisco turns into a surreal nightmare designed to torture Nicholas in ways unique to him.

If Nicholas as a character wasn’t enough to support the idea that The Game at one point had greater ideological aspirations, it is in the game’s design and execution where this idea seems impossible to ignore. The series of events the game has set up to “test” Nicholas are all questions of morality. Will Nicholas help the homeless man begging for money? Not a chance. Will he get some toilet paper from the stall over for the desperate prisoner of the toilet? Someone else’s problem. Both of these set ups act as interruptions to Nicholas on his way to shut down a children book’s publication for personal benefit, a deal he only fails to enforce because those behind the game managed to lock his briefcase with the correct paperwork. Time and time again, the game asks Nicholas if he is a good person, and every time Nicholas ignores the question because he can’t be bothered to even answer. After Nicholas proves his immorality to the game, the punishments begin. Incriminating photographs of Nicholas appear in his bedroom, but the death of his reputation is nothing in comparison to the threats made at his life. CRS is eventually revealed to be a company bent on draining bored, corrupt millionaires of their riches when Nicholas realizes all of his accounts have been emptied. Attempting to rebel, CRS launches back with live rounds, real guns, and a very effective kidnapping service that leaves Nicholas stranded in Mexico lost, alone, and broke. In other words, the game has shown Nicholas what it’s like to be one of his own victims.

By now I believe I’ve made my piece clear. In the very design of the game as being tailored-made to give their extremely wealthy clients “everything they lack” through a serious of moral tests and resultant punishments, the film clearly has some message behind its madness. Nicholas’ construction and framing not just in the opening minutes, but for the entire film support the idea that the game is a narratively contextualized means of making Nicholas a better person. Even the twist-reveal indicates the film’s seeming ideological intention with CRS exposed as being specifically constructed to rob and disempower wealthy socialites. In every way, I find it simply impossible to say that The Game doesn’t at least attempt to have a greater meaning beyond “rich man faces silly San Francisco.”

One may be wondering, then, how The Game manages to lose its clearly established ideological edge. There’s hardly any movie left, and Nicholas finds himself falling from a skyscraper. Having returned from Mexico, defeating death with a taste for revenge, Nicholas manages to break into CRS headquarters. He takes familiar “characters” hostage, such as the waitress from earlier. As it turns out, Christine here is an actress for CRS hired to act as a knowing pawn in Nicholas’ game. On the roof of the building, Nicholas fires his weapon, and we learn the truth. Christine pulls out a walkie talkie…and starts calling “it” off. What? Nicholas is utterly confused as Christine reveals the truth: it really is just a game, and that live gun is not apart of the plan. Nicholas doesn’t believe it, how could they have set up all of this? Frazzled, he fires, the unlucky bullet hitting the chest of his brother, Conrad, dressed in white with a birthday cake. Unable to live with his mistakes, Nicholas leaps off the building in a haunting repetition of his father’s passing. Finally having reached his maximum threshold of immorality, one motivated by either obscene wealth or the affects it has on Nicholas’ character, Nicholas is unable to live with himself. He has realized the level corruption his position has brought, and that he can no longer be saved. The game has taught Nicholas his lesson, and now he is free.

At least, that would be the case if there wasn’t one final, utterly damning plot twist. Expecting the ground, Nicholas instead lands on a blow up balloon. Police officer’s swarm as much as party guests. An open bar is as damaging the glass falling from the skylight Nicholas just crashed through. This is it, the film’s final twist: everything was a game. Somehow, Conrad appears with a blood stain on his angelic white suit, another cake in hand, and the party begins. Conrad and Nicholas jokingly make up, and Conrad even gives a coy “I assume you’ll be picking up the check?” to the traumatized birthday boy. At least, one would expect Nicholas to be traumatized. Instead, he laughs giddily with the actors that once tortured him. Here, the film flips its tone from deeply dramatic to unbelievably hokey in a matter of seconds, and Nicholas’ happy ending doesn’t end there. One of the party members is Christine, who through his rude behavior, demanding attitude, and threats made to her life, Nicholas somehow manages to court.

Meaning, the entire game really just a game, and Nicholas got the best ending he could have asked for. His wealth was never stolen. He never actually was rude to anyone, and because they weren’t real people, his previous behavior doesn’t even matter. Any punishments Nicholas faced were never of actual threat, and thus, the lessons he’s learned will never stick. Despite this, if the aforementioned deconstruction of the plot, characters, and their set up wasn’t convincing enough of the game’s intention to act as a contextualized means of teaching Nicholas a lesson on selflessness, the first words Conrad says to Nicholas after the final twist are “you were becoming such an asshole.” Conrad’s intentions are thus made concrete: he used the game to help his brother develop even an inkling of morality. However, this exists alongside the implication that because this game really was just that, this punishment simultaneously serves as entertainment. Not only does Nicholas escape the need for any moral self-reflection by way of an unnecessarily happy ending, but the punishment he faced is implied to be “exciting.” Nicholas could be delighting in the punishment that is supposed to serve as a lesson, after all, the film frames Nicholas’ life as “boring” just as much as it makes him out to be immoral. Then, who is to say that the thing that Nicholas lacks is not just a heart, but thrills? Thrills he can get by paying to experience what its like to finally face punishment after living a life of invincibility for so long.

I hope from this analysis of the film’s ending it is clear how The Game manages to lose so much of its ideological potential in its final moments. The Game does have elements that convey an attempt at a greater message, which is what makes the climax so disappointing. In numerous ways, the movie practically forces the viewer to interpret it’s story as a moral tale, a warning sign to any would be bankers to not let your humanity be bought out. However, it is simply impossible for me to have that message existing alongside the film’s cheery ending. While Fincher manages to sustain his unique sense of humor with seriousness in the rest of his filmography, it’s clear that he has not yet achieved that perfect balance with The Game. It’s a film hellbent on showing the audience how wealth can turn a man evil, while at the same time, a Loony Toons adventure whose message evaporates with its stakes. The ending is undeniably entertaining, but hardly meaningful, and actively detrimental to the rest of the film’s ideological aspirations. In other words, The Game cannot decide whether to teach Nicholas a lesson through restraint, or to point and laugh at him, and I believe that conflict can be summed up in some of Conrad’s final lines on-screen

“Ladies and gentlemen…My big brother…Nicholas Van Orton! He had it all, and now he has it all back!”