The Killer: A Disappointing David Fincher Movie, Conspiring with the Convenient High-speed World of the Present

Let's go back 14 years. In David Fincher's "Zodiac," shortly after the opening, two sets of cross-cutting shots lead us into the bright offices of San Francisco Chronicle Newspaper in 1969. One set follows Jake Gyllenhaal's character, a cartoonist, and the other follows a mysterious letter from the Zodiac killer.

These two lines skillfully interweave between individuals and inanimate objects, the vibrancy of life and the tranquility of stillness, submerging us into a whirlwind of crumbling realities. Fincher adeptly captures these objects—letters, clippings, a jumble of irregular symbols, fragmented evidence, a passing cab, or a distant boat—because they possess the same restlessness as his camera. In contrast to his characters who often awaken from their dreams, these objects persistently drag their weary bodies, compelling the characters to seek answers from the enigmatic world around them.

In Fincher's perspective, the gradual decay of all life is an inevitable process, and the allure of these "inanimate objects" lies in their mere existence as remnants of the past rather than their ability to serve as direct testimony. In "Zodiac," the passage of time is intricately marked by these very "inanimate objects": from a handful of aged library books to the iconic San Francisco tower. Within Fincher's realm, where objects briefly intersect with people, one undeniable conclusion emerges: the inherent incapacity of objects to validate themselves. This leads to the realization that the pursuit of truth ultimately dissolves into the individual fictions woven by each character. However, the enduring material beauty of the realm of objects in "Zodiac" persists because the unresolved relationship between objects and people generates the powerful essence of time.

So how do we get to the world in "The Killer", where everything is discardable? The answer is probably obvious: because the world has changed.

At the end of "The Social Network," The depiction of the present relationship between people and objects is succinctly portrayed through a series of shots in which Mark Zuckerberg incessantly refreshes someone's Facebook page on his computer. This sequence illustrates how Facebook, once created by its founder, now transforms into the ultimate "lifeless" object, consuming its own creator.

And "The Killer" precisely starts from this point.

After more than a decade, Michael Fassbender lurks beneath WeWork's office, Google Maps, and FedEx, just as his director lurks beneath Netflix. He doesn't think it's necessary to add any beauty or danger to this world because he has "no right to judge."

Like its protagonist, "The Killer" strives to embody an "efficient" cinematic experience: it maintains a methodical and structured narrative, adhering strictly to its predetermined course. This disciplined approach yields moments of aesthetic order, following the guidelines often found in screenwriting manuals, like the precise arrival of a critical, lethal moment at the 20-minute mark. However, the film's meticulous precision isn't aimed at engaging its audience; rather, it is a self-contained calculation. Just as the opening credits uniformly scroll, this calculated precision serves to intensify the film's pace, resembling the sensation of observing a machine accelerating—an environment that resonates with David Fincher's comfort zone.

Before delving into its increasingly standardized revenge narrative, Fincher skillfully captures contemporary ruins. Abandoned offices serve as a backdrop, symbolizing dissolution (such as WeWork's bankruptcy shortly before the film's release), creating an ideal workspace for the faceless and anonymous. Paris fades into the background, transforming into a canvas for the killer's actions. Throughout Fincher's films, the interplay between humans and machines has consistently dictated the movie's rhythm. The meticulous alignment of the camera, actors, frames, and the scale of shots accurately anticipates the integration or mechanization of the modern killer's body: wearable devices (like health trackers, headphones, etc.) and an array of weapons, vehicles, and everyday items that surround them.

The movie operates under a methodical approach akin to that of a convenience store. The killer acquires tools for their criminal acts from Amazon, leveraging the hyper-efficient Internet of Things and seeking shelter within the intangible confines of the Shared Economy. While these themes are grounded in reality, the film's presentation doesn't necessarily connote expertise or proficiency. Adhering to the principle of "efficiency," what unfolds is a film that's purely utilitarian—an expedited amalgamation that crystallizes the world and its visuals, thereby portraying danger as a mechanized and replicated phenomenon.

If this is not convincing enough, you can even perfectly fit the first three tracks of the opening score of "The Social Network" into the long wait in the first act of "The Killer" (perhaps the superiority of Netflix productions lies in the ability to recombine any work at the moment of release). The rhythm of the music simulates the neural information processing of the brain, suitable for both angry genius programmers and non-genius contract killers.

This sense of speed ultimately evokes a feeling of powerless exhaustion. This sentiment arises from the film existing in a world where very little remains. While Fincher could still be recognized as a director who is able to capture the essence of the contemporary world, his concession lies in assimilating with the prevailing lack of imagination of our times. This point warrants emphasis because Fincher himself has seemingly affirmed it through his demeanor, as if it were a reflection of all uncertainties. The cliché of nihilism becomes even more trite because it can effortlessly validate its own existence.

Of course, does Fincher's killer truly believe in his monologue? The answer could be probably negative.

These clichéd philosophies, Wikipedia-style data popularization, are just a veil, a cover. We quickly realize that this voiceover only comes close to the ear during those long preparatory moments. Therefore, the killer's self-proclaimed "skepticism" is perhaps Fincher's deeply rooted trademark (especially suitable for trailers). It is more like a form of powerless self-protection—from the expressive preaching in "Se7en" or "Fight Club," evolving into a promotion of inner self, and the director may no longer treat this philosophy as a treasure but merely as a repeated, eventually collapsing incantation. Functional "convenience" inevitably leads to the nihilism of "efficiency." As the killer adeptly approaches his target through the unconsciousness of the logistics system, the film naturally achieves its narrative goals through highly skilled "convenience." The ending's Dominican coast and beautiful houses are naturally shot with an advertising-like tone, creating a luxurious dream.

To some extent, Fincher has indeed reached his endpoint. A Netflix-produced film aligns with the "convenient" consumer world, and in the hands of this killer machine, even technology products used and discarded can be further abstracted into a kind of fictional magic and inexplicable gesture.

If, in Fincher's eyes, this world surrounded by technological bureaucrats has already been governed by established laws (even the symbol of ultimate power has no concept of its overall chain), another David, Lynch chooses to showcase its truly ridiculous side. By peeling back the rounded user interfaces, he reveals the internal numerical code—“convenience” and “efficiency” are just advertisement-like illusions.