The Killer

Notionally, David Fincher's The Killer is premised on revenge, with Michael Fassbender's unnamed button man hitting back at the layers of people who have conspired to end his life after he botched an assassination attempt. The difference is in the telling. We don't simply sink into the offbeat, English muffin-discarding routine of this paid murderer; a bored methodology so snappily explained that it is immediately arresting, even when very little is actually taking place. We are instead bombarded with his thoughts. Andrew Kevin Walker's screenplay, adapting Alexis Nolent and Luc Jacamon's braggadocios comic series, leverages the kind of posturing inherent to filmic voice over, tuning the all-knowing device to a frequency that is much more private and protective of the subject's ego than is usual. Fassbender's relentless, repetitive rules are transformed over the course of the piece from a mechanical statement of calculated intent into the failing mantra of a person who is losing grip on their sense of self. This Killer wants to be considered calm and collected but his contrived detachment is tempered by a squirrelly need to distance himself from personal danger while always maintaining a constant, situational control. 

His retaliation then is typified by a neurotic need to remain anonymous and untouchable. Passports, phones and pistols - really any of the expensive products that are used in the service of his day job - are relentlessly junked or discarded after only light use. This wastefulness judged essential, lest these gadgets upset the deliberately bland affect that The Killer's paper personalities strive for. Whether or not this chameleonic approach to his stated identity really benefits the flights in and out of danger is less relevant when judged against the extraordinary risks this character is willing to take when he feels, definitively, like he has the upper hand. Really, his career as a contracted murderer has become subservient to the ways in which he is able to spend his ill-gotten riches. The self-storage units packed with criminal bric-a-brac are his juice; carefully catalogued spoils that prefigure this punitory reaction and go some way to indicating that this war against his former colleagues is one that he has always intended to fight. The Killer takes the hobbyist tendencies of bored, middle-aged men and maps them over a personality that has coalesced around the most efficient means of ravenous consumption. Although his enemies found a cold trail when making their own attempts on his life, by trashing his beach house and putting his tight-lipped girlfriend in hospital, the people who came to kill The Killer performed an even greater outrage: as far as he's concerned, they attacked his possessions. 

Fizzy Pop

It is a widely held belief that the greatest indignity the Alien series ever suffered was a rash of witless crossovers with Fox stablemate Predator. Au contraire! Real sci-fi masochists are directed towards this shit shill for Pepsi; a 1992 event commercial that features the Alien 3 draft of the Xenomorph struggling to locate two scruffy young grungers in a smokey alley, whilst suffering some incredibly shitty comedy vermin sound effects. Fincher's flick made the creature look like a writhing mess of copper tubing and polished black diamond. Nightmarish contrast! This burper has all the visual sophistication of a light creeper on a cable TV children's channel.

David Fincher CineMix

Joe Hubbard juggles sound effects and speech mined from Fincher's output to create some wet-slap beats.

Ten Films 2010: The Social Network

The Social Network provides a pretty stunning case for the screenwriter as primary author. Film is typically thought of as a director's medium - if a film picks up praise it is likely to be heaped upon the person who helmed the picture. The screenwriter is often lost in the plaudits muddle, only occasionally rating a mention. Film criticism is especially guilty of this practice. Often it's an aesthetic concern, ascribing authorial intent to a groaning list of contributors is messy, making for dense, clumsy sentences. Much better to pick one figure and build your argument around them. You can always make the case that the director has final say in most instances, meaning a film is reflective of their taste and choices.

Unfortunately for that writing model it is impossible to talk about The Social Network without mentioning screenwriter Aaron Sorkin. To attempt to do so would be dishonest. Although it is folly to ascribe total intent to one individual in a collaborative medium such as film, certain people invite this kind of notice. Aaron Sorkin is one of them. The film is driven by his characters and his words. Sorkin's authorial stamp threatens to overwhelm director David Fincher's. The film motors on Sorkin's main obsession - intelligent and capable, but essentially damaged, masculinity. Devoid of any real thriller through-line the film zips on jigsaw puzzling scenes of arrogance and conflated ego. The Social Network is endless scenes of brilliant young men with varying degrees of social or sexual entitlement yammering and swiping at each other over the nature of authorship. It should be mind-numbing. It isn't because Sorkin can make the frazzled, contemptuous sneers of deluded dickheads sound like pop music.

One Million Horse-Power?

Latest dreary hawk for Imagi's upcoming Astro Boy. Look out for blink-brief cameos by a rather young looking Osamu Tezuka; and Grant Morrison's Tyrant Sun Solaris, from DC One Million and All-Star Superman, who looks to be pitching in on jobbing heavy duty. If Atom really must be awkwardly transplanted into a Western centric animation adventure, why couldn't Pixar have come sniffing for the rights? I know they're not usually hip to adaptation, but this is Osamu Tezuka for God's sake. At the very least John Lasseter could have conspired with a cackling Hayao Miyazaki to bring some maximum density to the fondest creation of the limited animation mindset originator. That'd be a victory for their way of life. In my head cinema I'm imagining Brad Bird directing a take on The Greatest Robot on Earth episode: a young person-bot struggling to understand the true implications of his power, whilst battling a serial-killer robot. David Fincher could shoot some live action Pluto inserts on gloomy weekends, and there you have it: something perfect.