Early in The Killer, Michael Fassbender’s titular assassin bemoans the fact that elaborate, “cage-rattling” murder-for-hire jobs are tedious, and wonders “when’s the last time I had a nice, quiet drowning?”
For David Fincher, a director known for big swings, The Killer is his quiet drowning, a focused pulp thriller that feels intimate and small-scale despite its globe-trotting plot. If it lacks the bombast and provocations of Fincher’s masterpieces, it makes up for them with a wry sense of humor and a main character whose inner monologue reveals that this might be the director’s most personal film yet.
Loosely based on a graphic novel by Alexis Nolent, The Killer concerns an assassin who we meet in Paris, sitting in an abandoned WeWork preparing for his next job. For much of the first half hour, we watch him go through his routine – adjusting and readjusting his scope, conducting breathing exercises and listening to The Smiths to keep his pulse low, and repeating his mantras, “Stick to the plan …Empathy is weakness.” He’s detail-obsessed to a fault, but it’s that exactitude that keeps him alive. And when a hit goes wrong, the rest of the film follows him as he attempts to clean up the mess.
Fincher’s made a career out of movies about serial killers and sociopaths, and re-teaming with his Seven screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker, it’s probably fair to come into The Killer assuming it’s going to be an intense, blood-soaked bit of darkness. And while the film has its moments of violence – including one killing on a staircase that is as cold-hearted, quick and brutal as anything I’ve ever seen – the film is more of an examination of what happens when a person obsessed with perfection and control suddenly loses those things and struggles to regain them.
Fassbender is no stranger to movies about remorseless, amoral men, and The Killer fits right in that wheelhouse (the character is only identified by his job title in the credits). He’s a character without a moral compass, who’s simply accepted that life can be traded for cash and who justifies his actions by spouting facts in his narration about how many people are born and die each year and how little his work is of consequence to the greater world picture. He has a partner, who is attacked when the job goes wrong, but it’s never really clear whether his compassion for her is a show or if keeping her safe and getting revenge on her attackers is just a way to keep his own life together.
Fassbender gives a solid performance as a man who is all calculation and who has a vacuum where his soul should be. Another filmmaker might seek to humanize the character, but Fincher does not. While there’s a read on this story that could depict his quest as a revenge tale, The Killer simply feels peeved to be “bringing his work home” and stressed as he tries to maintain control on a rapidly unraveling (the film’s final shot suggests that he’ll struggle to repress the stress for awhile). The assassin is merciless and focused, and the only humanity we see comes from his attempts to care for his partner after her attack and from the way he continues to break his own rules as he deviates from his plan, depicted not as compassion but as a stupidity.
Having such a morally bankrupt protagonist at the center could suggest that The Killer is a joyless slog, but it’s actually one of Fincher’s funnier movies. Fassbender’s narration is a wry, deadpan counterpoint to the viciousness of the story, and his penchant for booking hotels and flights under the names of sitcom characters is always worth a chuckle. And Fincher’s notoriety as one of the more persnickety and meticulous directors in the business sends – coupled with the fact that the film’s unnamed, nihilistic narrator feels like a distant cousin to Edward Norton’s Fight Club character – makes this an interesting conversation piece with the rest of Fincher’s filmography.
Michael Fassbender in “The Killer.” Photo by Courtesy of Netflix – © 2023 NETFLIX.
There’s also the film’s constant use of real-world branding and IP, particularly the callouts for WeWork, McDonald’s and Amazon. It’s a bit too much of a stretch to call it satire, but the way Fincher wallpapers the film with logos and trademarks underscores the idea that the killer is just a product of his environment, a world where everything is easily commodified, and he’s just another identity-less head of business, collecting his money with no regard for what it does for human life. It’s the film’s most in-your-face element, although it’s also the one that Fincher struggles to get his arms fully around, suggesting an idea but not really landing on a coherent thought regarding it.
It goes without saying that The Killer, while a minor bit of pulp, is just as sharply executed as any of Fincher’s other films. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ soundtrack thrums throughout, its moodiness serving as a counterpoint to the Smiths tracks littered throughout. The violence is swift, shocking and brutal, but often thrilling; a brawl with a ‘roided-out thug in a Florida flophouse is the film’s high point. All that, and there’s a scene with Tilda Swinton as a fellow assassin that allows a brief glimpse of humanity and perspective on the two characters’ careers.
Fincher fans might be a tad disappointed that The Killer is a bit more navel-gazey and ponderous than the director’s usual work. But as a genre exercise, Fincher still proves himself at the top of his game. Now that his quiet drowning is out of his system, here’s hoping his next work really knocks us dead.
