“The Killer” Review: A Hitman Unlike Any Other

Fincher continues to display technical mastery over a delightfully self-indulgent thriller, one that fails to effectively thrill.

In many ways, David Fincher’s latest is a calculated glimpse into the mind of a perfectionist. The nameless protagonist endures days of nothingness for the perfect execution. The director endures sleepless nights for his craft. After twenty minutes of precisely captured screen time, the Killer lines up his perfect shot. The director pulls focus, hoping for the same result. A flawless outcome, an equation executed and solved with care. The Killer becomes a victim of his own employers, as I’m sure the director similarly has. More than a film fitting for Fincher, The Killer is an examination of the auteur’s own insanity. The film speaks in split second inserts, smooth pans, and digital noise punctuating a score so techno and cold, it makes the lifeless Fassbender ordering assassination tools off Amazon feel human. This is Fincher recording himself, the perfect killer, and the walking contradiction.

Because, for as much as he claims it to be, this is not a story about perfection. Over the course of the short-film-of an opening, the Killer establishes his intentions. Forgo empathy. Never improvise. Stick to the plan. He waits for his target as carefully as a perched owl might hunt their game. He attempts to attain this inhumane characteristic for the entirety of the movie, and what jumpstarts it all-

BANG–

Is a mistake. The Killer has missed his target, and immediately, he’s on the run. Improvising, abandoning every plan-gone-wrong, and acting on every emotion he attempts to snuff. Fassbender’s fantastically faceless performance is hypocrisy personified in order to display the film’s core themes: obsession, power, and the futility of attempting mechanical perfection. However, like Fincher, The Killer gets pretty damn close.

The leading man attempts to be a blank canvas, but can’t outrun his own humanity. The same killer who spoke with dry confidence that he must “forgo empathy” spends the entire film fighting in the name of someone he loves. Every moment he repeats the mantra, it is interrupted, coming off more as a pathetic reminder than an assertion before he’s blindsided again and again. In this way, The Killer continues to delve into playfulness, as playful as a sociopath can be. Fincher works with established archetypes and narrative beats to wonderful effect. The trotting opening establishes the film’s pace as patient for some and boring for others, but what is objectively interesting is when the Killer’s authoritative voice over is interrupted by a mailman. Or again when that fateful bullet misses. Or the third, fourth, and fifth times, where the “expert” hitman has to act against his own code to finish the job. This is what it takes to succeed: to be both familiar and unique. Working with archetypes in a tired genre with a director focused on essentially filming himself, for all of its seriousness, The Killer remains as humorous as it does violent. The logistics of a 21st century hitman using Uber and pop-culture references as pseudonyms shows even this robot has a sense of humor. By “robot” I am referencing both the protagonist and director.

And just as Fincher toys with narrative conventions, he continues to display a mastery of his own filmmaking style. Sleek camera movements, quick inserts, and an obsession with showing the killer’s own solidifies the film as a knowing self-examination. The score adds a deep punch to any act of violence, which is always captured with that typical Fincher edge. One particular fight proves difficult to watch in just how real it all feels. For such a knowing, and at times humorous film, The Killer never pulls its punches. Fincher can’t help but indulge in the careful mechanics of piecing together the cold killing machine of a sniper, focusing on the intricacies of a perfect setup, and the shock that comes from the inevitable failure. Luckily, Fincher’s misses are never as consequential as the killer’s own, but a few cross fires certainly interrupt the film’s seemingly flawless presentation.

As within each hole we see…nothing. Just what the Killer wants. Under the surface of a carefully calculated presentation remains a void. The Killer enjoys The Smiths, so much so it’ll start to feel tired by the fifth reminder of twenty, but other characteristics remain ambiguous. Now, this is the point of the film. This is a character attempting and failing at practicing hyper-normality and inhuman precision, but what makes this ineffective in the film is that there is an attempt. As previously mentioned, the self-proclaimed heartless hero fights for his one true love, who I forgot the name of. The plot is whittled down to its bare essentials, so much so that all that is left is the lead who, as we’ve established, is quite literally trying to be boring. The irony is, of course, that’s what makes him interesting, but rarely did I find the film’s examination of this character and that hypocrisy to provide the nuance and intrigue needed from a lead in a character focused film. At the same time, the movie remains tightly focused on its rote main character, making the plot less exciting than a chat with the near silent killer in what’s half of a thriller. While I’m used to feeling the terrifying thrills of espionage, the sickness of a nihilistic protagonist, and effortless flow in a Fincher film, ironically, it is in his most “Fincher-esc” effort where these elements remain opaque.

Meaning, like that fatal miss, The Killer nearly succeeds at its missions. Self reflexive, stylish, nihilistic, comedic, and thrilling, but only to a specific threshold of effectiveness. The killer keeps people at an arm’s length, except for those he cares for. The Killer is a similar contradiction; death brought by its own premise. Intriguing from its boredom, sleek in its regularity. The Killer asks, “how can you make a movie about normalcy interesting?” The answer:

Make it imperfect.

Miss a few shots.