Director David Fincher’s thriller, “The Killer,” is too cool for school. It is trying so hard to be as detached and as efficient as its protagonist that viewers might develop disdain for this film, adapted from Alexis “Matz” Nolent’s graphic novel, which was illustrated by Luc Jacamon.
“The Killer” is, quite honestly, an endurance test as the character creates a mess and then cleans it up.
The title character (Michael Fassbender) moves through this sleek film with implacable precision. He speaks more in voiceover than to other people, waxing philosophically about “luck, karma and justice” (and believing in none of them). He also spouts new age-y aphorisms like, “The only life path is the one behind you.” He listens to The Smiths a lot; there are nearly a dozen of the “complaint rock” band’s songs providing sonic wallpaper throughout the film. And, in a running joke, he uses aliases that are names of mostly 1970s television characters —Archibald Bunker, Lou Grant and Lionel Jefferson, among them.
All these little quirks are meant to be witty or appealing, but viewers may share the Killer’s other trait, which is that he just simply doesn’t give a f**k. He talks in the opening scene about enduring boredom, and “The Killer” is, quite honestly, an endurance test as the character creates a mess and then cleans it up.
The film opens in Paris, where The Killer is sitting in an abandoned office waiting for his target, a VIP, to arrive at a hotel across the way. The Killer does some yoga-like exercises and participates in some “Rear Window”-ish observations of total strangers. The VIP finally arrives, The Killer lines up his shot, and, when he takes it — gasp — he misses. The money shot has no real suspense; more tension is generated as the Killer quicky, quietly and cleverly leaves no trace as he escapes to his hideout in the Dominican Republic.
But so far, so what? It is unclear who the intended victim was, and why he needed to be snuffed out, although it really does not matter. The story is what happens to The Killer after (or because of) his error. His boss, Hodges (Charles Parnell), indicates there will be some blowback. That blowback comes in the form of two subcontractors who have broken into his house and left Magdala (Sophie Charlotte), whom they found there, all but dead in their efforts to kill The Killer. As such, “The Killer” becomes a standard revenge flick, with the assassin tracking down the two hitmen.
The film deliberately denies viewers any such emotional involvement. That may be in line with The Killer’s mindset, and he indicates as much, repeating the phrase, “Empathy is a weakness.” But the way things play out does not provide much investment with the protagonist. His actions lack surprise. There is an underwhelming action sequence and anticlimactic confrontation. Fincher does not imbue the film with any of his trademark style or tension. The film practically sleepwalks through its paces.
The icy queen that is Tilda Swinton exudes such a wily confidence, such grace under pressure.
After The Killer learns the addresses of the two subcontractors, he goes after each of them. One lives in Florida and has a pitbull. He doses the dog, and then sets out to take out its owner. Their fight, which starts out in silhouette, is as choreographed as a pro wrestling match. Any glass coffee table gets shattered, and any glass or object at hand will be broken over the head of the other. And weapons, like a poker, will be used to poke. There is a nice moment when The Killer reaches into a kitchen drawer and pulls out a gadget he did not expect, but mainly this fight scene is a snooze.
Tilda Swinton as The Expert in "The Killer" (Netflix)
The other subcontractor sequence is the film’s high point, a talky episode, involving The Killer meeting “The Expert” (Tilda Swinton) in a fancy suburban New York restaurant. The Expert, realizing she has been caught, orders a flight of whiskey for her last meal, and tells a dirty joke elegantly. The scene may be all of 10 minutes, but the icy queen that is Tilda Swinton exudes such a wily confidence, such grace under pressure, that one might suspect the whiskey she shares with The Killer was suspect.
“The Killer,” however, is not done yet; the film must lumber to its foregone conclusion, the last individual The Killer needs to call on. This requires an elaborate sequence where he arranges his undetected entry into a secure apartment building. Fincher and screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker delight in depicting the elaborate tasks The Killer needs to complete his mission(s), but watching them is not particularly exciting, however inventive they may be. Following The Killer’s actions is a passive activity, which may be why the film is so tedious.
Fassbender, who is in every scene, is suitably emotionless. He repeats his lines, “anticipate, don’t improvise,” as if reminding himself how to act. But it would be interesting to think he may be an unreliable narrator. The best moments are the ones where he goes off autopilot and makes a decision about collateral damage. The actor who is wiry and muscular conveys the aloof tone Fincher is aiming for, but it is hard not to think how costar Tilda Swinton, might have fared in the lead role.
The biggest victim of “The Killer” is the two hours viewers kill watching this lackluster film. The Killer’s target dodged a bullet. Viewers who skip this film can, too.
“The Killer” is playing select theaters and streams on Netflix beginning Nov.10.
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