What do you value when nothing matters?
David Fincher’s newest film The Killer, starring the always great to watch Michael Fassbender, perpetuates the director’s ironic passion for neo-noirish nihilism. Fincher might be the only director to have achieved A-list status making essentially highly-stylized misery porn. Even Kubrick’s cold, clinical style often gave some light at the end of each cinematic dark tunnel he crafted. Whereas Fincher tends to suffocate his films in cynicism, reducing his characters to puppets of impulse, hormones, and the wretched post-modern world.
Though it’s not to say Fincher’s works aren’t insightful and stimulating. Indeed, he may very well be the best director working today. But in the sense of being an eye surgeon who’s the world’s preeminent cataract remover. Admirable, of course, even if their work is gut-wrenching to watch at times.
In the case of The Killer, however, our protagonist is not drawn to his deadly profession as a hired assassin out of a need, or even a real desire to kill, but more a matter of needing a profession in which to display his competency and allows him to channel his detachment from humanity. Or maybe it was the job itself that made him that way. Or perhaps it doesn’t matter. As he states in the opening sequence, “I don’t give a fuck.” No doubt an oft-heard refrain from anyone stuck in the conveyor belt of a career, especially in middle-age. Propelled forward through the corporate beast no longer by youthful ambition or hope for some brighter future, but out of unfeeling momentum. For lack of a better alternative. Because retirement is too far away. Because even sitting on a beach in “paradise” becomes maddening after a certain period. So you might as well keep slaving away.
Fassbender’s portrayal reminded me somewhat of famed Navy Seal sniper Chris Kyle, aka American Sniper, as seen in interviews. Frank, unassuming, speaking of his military exploits as though recalling seasons from an MLB career. His 160 confirmed kills discussed like a slugger’s batting average. The morality or even necessity of them dismissed basically because a few suits in government said it was okay to do. I guess there’s no alternative other than to depersonalize as much as possible with that kind of weight on one’s conscience. I still agonize over social faux pas I made decades ago. I couldn’t imagine 160 lives banging around in my mind.
Aside from the standard revenge plot after The Killer’s girlfriend is hospitalized as payback when an assignment goes wrong, the subtext of middle-aged doldrums and detachment run throughout. Tilda Swinton’s character, aka The Expert, states during her confrontation with her vengeful colleague how those in the business fool themselves into thinking they’ll reach a point of financial satiety. It becomes a lifestyle. Automatic. To refer to Kubrick again, it’s like they’ve become clockwork oranges.
To help illustrate how strange a film The Killer is, it’s helpful to compare it to one with a similar plot, but which is quite different in tone and style — Kill Bill Vol. I and II. In those films, The Bride, or Beatrix Kiddo, goes on her “rampage of revenge” up through the hierarchy of her former employer, the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, in order to ultimately rescue the daughter ripped from her womb. It’s a story about motherhood, in which Kiddo has very much retained a normal if vibrant personality even after years of slaughtering targets. Tarantino’s sexed-up hitman rollercoaster ride would indicate life after being in such a nasty biz can still go on just fine. You can still be “Mommy,” as Uma Thurman is credited in the send off no matter how many heads and limbs you’ve sliced off.
Then you have the live-action anime-style of the John Wick universe, in which Keanue Reeves dispenses head shots with video game-style proficiency. A stark contrast to The Killer’s grounded, methodical take, where important tools are boringly ordered through Amazon, and our assassin flies coach.
Ennui is a strange sensation. It’s not really sadness or depression. It’s a sense of feeling automated. I imagine it as the possible mindset of a self-aware AI. All the knowledge and directives are there, but lacking any feelings whatsoever. While young adults may grapple with it during the opening innings of a career and maturity, it seems to take hold mostly in middle-age. It’s a side effect of routine, narrowing life options, a decrease in libido, and a reduction in hormones. An inner sense that change is becoming harder. Attitudes and beliefs decreasing in flexibility. A hardening of being itself. Adoption of status quo. It’s as if one becomes a judgmental Simon Cowell toward everything in life; perpetually unimpressed, bored, even resentful of having even to show up.
And yet, still blindly following rules for their own sake. Because rules matter. The Killer goes on his warpath of revenge almost as a matter of formality. We don’t see him spend any quality time with his beloved. Only a brief visit in a hospital after she’s been patched up, in a scene that feels inserted because it’s what all those screenwriting how-to books tell you to do. Quite unlike Tom Stall/Joey Cusack’s loving and well-established relationship with his family in A History of Violence, before his old mobster associates reemerge and he’s forced to defend the homestead.
The Killer doesn’t have much to say. It’s more about conveying that sense of listlessness that comes with a life that’s stuck in a rut. There’s no redemption. No arc, really. This isn’t Jules Winnfield trying to learn “to be a shepherd” in Pulp Fiction. Our protagonist’s final confrontation with the Client serves to reinforce the detachment theme, as the billionaire’s only interest was having the “mess” of the botched hit cleaned up. Assured of no further reprisals, The Killer relaxes with his healing girlfriend at their beachside estate. A man-eating shark lulled into a food coma. At least until the vocation of killing calls again.
In The Killer, man is less his will and desires, and more whatever work or habit has gotten into his blood, and compels him to act.
Dean Brooks 