The Killer (David Fincher, 2023)

The Killer (David Fincher, 2023)

The problem with this one is easy, especially if you recall the fiasco of Deckard's narration in the original version of Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982). You'd think filmmakers would have long since learned that unnecessary voice-overs can not only induce derisive laughter but deflate the narrative tension as well. One must assume Fincher as well as screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker (adapting the graphic novel by Alexis "Matz" Nolent and Luc Jacamon) had more freedom than Scott did forty years ago so the blame for the risible narration intoned by the titular assassin (Michal Fassbender) falls on them. For the first third of the film, the nameless Killer spends almost all of his time alone waiting for the moment to assassinate a high-profile target. But instead of maintaining an air of menace or existential dread from the visuals and sound design, the Killer's preposterous voice-over thoughts about his profession take a sonic front and center. I swear I'm not trying to be cute when I claim that this narration has the pseudoprofundity of Bela Lugosi's in Glen or Glenda? (Edward D. Wood, Jr., 1953) for competition. This is doubly irritating since Fincher punctuates the sequence with a brief meeting between the Killer and the client paying for the assassination. That's more than sufficient narrative explanation to ground a voice-overless exposition. Instead, Fincher brings us right back to the Killer's rub-a-dub-dub-three-men-in-a-tub philosophizing. 

After that, the damage is done even though the narration calms down. But that gives way to a tired revenge fantasy in which yet another actress (Sophie Charlotte) serves as mere foil with barely any screen time. The cameos are fun, particularly Tilda Swinton in Ice Queen mode (does she have any other mode lately?). But the sole reason to watch, or rather, listen is the music. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross' score alternates between inorganic electronica and non-musical sounds such that any notion of the natural becomes irretrievable. And, for some reason, the Killer listens only to the Smiths as he jet-sets between assassinations and revenge plots. Instead of benefiting the narrative in any discernible way, the indifferent locations blow back into the music and wind up deepening Morrissey's self-absorbed warbling. The world truly doesn't care about him and "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now," say, takes on an unexpected pathos as a result.

Grade: B-minus (upped a notch for the music but then down again for the Killer's ridiculous pseudonyms - Archie Bunker? Why not Mickey Mouse?)