The Killer

By Joanna Langfield

David Fincher’s ice-cold kind of comedy is admirable, and a good exercise for the analytical. But what I couldn’t figure out is why all of this didn’t add up to something more fun.

Stunningly staged and intensely performed, this is the story of yet another assassin. A super focused hitman of international accomplishment. He knows how to lay low, keep his instrument in yoga formed alignment, maintain a catalogue of passports employing the winkiest of aliases. Yet, when a job goes bad, all of his mantra-made precision goes to hell. And soon, our boy is out for revenge.

We’ve seen this before. And that’s okay. Under Fincher’s direction, the fire and ferocity is a sure thing. And the humor, which should have distinguished this piece, is there, even if it’s the kind of humor that makes you say “that’s funny” instead of thoroughly enjoying the goofiness. Is that just Fincher’s arm-length style? Or a reflection of star Michael Fassbender’s on screen personality? I mean he’s a terrific actor, but not one I automatically think of as light hearted.

No spoilers, but the ending feels like a bit of a surprise, leaving open the possibility for a sequel. The spinoff I would have liked to have seen is not the obvious one, but would be a flashback involving a nifty Tilda Swinton, who brings more pizzazz to her oooocooool character in just a few moments than the rest of the film delivers in two hours.