Given that so many of director David Fincher’s films are cold, brutal and often quite disturbing — Se7en, Panic Roomand Zodiac leap to mind — he’s the obvious choice to helm an adaptation of the long-running graphic novel series by French creators Alexis Nolent and Luc Jacamon.
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| Surveillance is an exercise in extreme patience, as this career assassin (Michael Fassbender) has learned, during a long and successful career that often involves waiting days for the target to show up. |
Scripter Andrew Kevin Walker augments the film’s already detached atmosphere by leaving all the characters nameless (except for a few clever and deliberate exceptions). They’re known solely by the “handles” employed by those who inhabit this lethal line of work: The Client, The Lawyer, The Expert, and so forth.
Fassbender is The Killer, whom we meet many days into his surveillance of an apartment on the other side of an active Parisian street. He’s holed up in the now-empty offices once occupied by WeWork (rather prescient on Walker’s part, given that the company filed for bankruptcy last week). He’s waiting for The Target to return home, at which point he’ll be executed by our assassin’s wicked-looking rifle.
The story is split into distinct acts, each taking the name of its primary focus. Thus, Act 1 — “The Killer” — profiles this man as Fassbender clinically details the rules, strengths, weaknesses, pitfalls, rash assumptions and mistakes that characterize his profession, in a grimly philosophical and nihilistic voice-over that runs nearly half an hour, while we watch him exercise, sleep, eat, yoga and remain focused on the apartment.
(“Trust no one.” “Forbid empathy.” “Anticipate, don’t improvise.” “Never yield an advantage.” “Fight only the battle you’re paid to fight.”)
Depending on a viewer’s sensibilities, this lengthy monologue will either be fascinating ... or dull and needlessly protracted. (I’m in the former camp.) Something about Fassbender’s presence and serene detachment makes it difficult to look away. Fincher and Walker also manage an undercurrent of very dark humor (which some viewers may not appreciate).
This mordant streak also emerges in the numerous arch songs by The Smiths that occupy The Killer’s playlist, and which Fincher alternates with the disquieting score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross.
The Target eventually arrives (at long last, some will think, with relief) and The Killer goes to work. Maddeningly, the man keeps pausing behind the small chunk of wall that separates two large windows. Then the moment comes, and...
...it goes wrong.
“This is new,” The Killer thinks aloud, with a soupçon of genuine surprise.
As the story slides abruptly into its second act, the narrative becomes taut and suspenseful. What comes next is easy to anticipate. The Killer screwed up; people who paid a lot of money for this job are angry and vengeful. The only path to survival will involve eliminating everybody connected with this assignment, from The Client down.
That plan first involves what should have been a brief detour to his “safe house” in the Dominican Republic, to collect cash, fresh weapons and multiple passports. But it immediately becomes clear that this cover has been blown by party or parties unknown, with their own penchant for nasty wet work. It turns out The Killer does indeed have a “special somebody” for whom he cares. Deeply.
Thus, the man who has survived this long by refusing to improvise ... does just that.
During a subsequent hunt that takes him to New Orleans and beyond, The Killer slides effortlessly into hotels, offices and anywhere else his outwardly bland manner allows him untroubled access: a process made easier because — this is a shrewd thematic undercurrent — people are too distracted these days, focused on screens, or simply not paying attention.
The cat-and-mouse pursuit takes on the air of a John Le Carré Cold War spy story, with The Killer adopting fresh identities at every turn, drawing from a roster that becomes the film’s best running gag.
The violence is sudden and vicious, but not protracted; Fincher doesn’t linger longer than necessary for a given scene. On the other hand, one mano a mano skirmish is impressively ferocious, and superbly orchestrated by Fincher and editor Kirk Baxter.
This certainly isn’t new territory; it has been well exploited since Frederick Forsyth introduced us to a similarly soulless assassin in 1971’s The Day of the Jackal, made into an equally suspenseful film two years later. And it wouldn’t work here if Fassbender were any less fascinating. As the saga slides into its final act, we realize, with some surprise — despite fleeting appearances by costars such as Charles Parnell, Arliss Howard, Kerry O’Malley and Tilda Swinton — that he essentially carries the film by himself.
That’s a major ask of any actor, and Fassbender makes it look easy.
Fincher’s best films gets under one’s skin, leaving a creepy-crawly sense of unease. This one’s no different.
Definitely not for the faint of heart, but suspense fans will be riveted.
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