Boring human voice – Weekend
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David Fincher’s The Killer, starring Michael Fassbender, premiered in Venice this year and is now streaming on Netflix. The story of a killer who never interrupts his boring internal monologue for a minute looks much more appropriate online than on festival screens.
An assassin (Michael Fassbender) of apparently a very high class, a man with no name and many false names at the same time, makes a fatal mistake while executing his next order. The killer’s beloved woman pays cruelly for her. The killer sets off to travel around the world to punish those involved. And throughout his entire journey across countries and continents, his internal monologue is heard behind the scenes almost without interruption.
“The streets are an extension of the sewers, and the ditches are filled with blood. When the drains are completely clogged, all this scum will begin to sink. All the dirt that has accumulated from their intercourse and squabbling will foam, rise up to their chests, and then all these whores and politicians will throw back their heads and scream: save me!.. And I will whisper to them from above: no.” Or: “And now the whole world is standing on the edge and looking down into the underworld, all liberals, intellectuals and talkers… and suddenly it turns out that they have nothing to say.”
Unfortunately, there is nothing even close to the searing toxic Nietzscheanism of the “Rorschach diaries” from the above-cited “Watchmen” by Alan Moore in this monologue. Even though David Fincher’s “The Killer” is also based on comic books, only French, and they were adapted for the screen by screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker, who once wrote “Seven” for Fincher, listening to the inner voice of the main character is extremely tiring. He accompanies each murder with a repeated set of rules, but they sound so banal and pompous that even after hearing them three times, it is completely impossible, and there is no need to remember them. Something like faded variations on the theme of the unforgettable “the main thing is to outline the goal, calculate the trajectory and choose the speed of movement,” formulated by Yu.M. Luzhkov. Attempts to distract from these pompous truisms and focus on the “fantastically stylish”, “close to perfection”, “filigree” and God knows what other “picture” lead to boredom driving not only the ears, but also the eyes. From the first seconds, from the opening credits (which flash across the screen so quickly that it seems like someone experienced has grabbed the remote control and is trying to finish watching as quickly as possible), it becomes clear that The Killer is best described apophatically: it is not “the best Fincher’s film” is not “the best Fincher adaptation”, not “the best comic book adaptation” or even “the best comic book adaptation about a hitman” (even for this case there is Sam Mendes’ “Road to Perdition”). And of course, “The Assassin” cannot stand any comparison at all with the fourth part of John Wick’s adventures, released this year. If watching a Fincher film would most appropriately be likened to a forced meditation on a lamp in which stearin drops change color and shape, then “Wick” with such a lamp simply hits the viewer on the head with all its might and leaves you to come to your senses with a face drenched in hot wax: there is a difference, and quite noticeable.
By the end of the second hour, when there is no longer any desire to analyze and reflect on what is happening on the screen, the wild imagination paints the following picture. In the lobby of the Continental Hotel, glorified in the same “John Wick,” the main hired killers of world cinema crowd in order to choose the “best in the profession” according to Hamburg rules. All the color really gathered here. “The Manchurian Candidate” Bob Shaw moves somnambulistically back and forth, flinching at every phone call at the reception; they respectfully lead, supporting by the arms, the Hong Kong killer Chow, who lost his sight at work; Scaramanga casually waves his golden pistol; The jackal from “Day of the Jackal” has already changed his appearance several times. A married couple arrived from the “Honor of the Prizzi Family”; one of the “mechanics” came with his students. And a little to the side, where Nikita and her American sister Maggie are chatting about their girlish things, a discreet man, pretending to be a German tourist, plugged his ears with a player with the band The Smiths. He seems to be completely occupied with his thoughts, but in fact he carefully scans the surrounding reality so as not to miss his turn. In the meantime, the characters of “The Killer Elite” and “Simple as Blood”, “I Love You to Death” and “The Long Kiss Goodnight”, “Leon” and “Informer” are walking inside, taking their places according to their table of ranks… That’s when he jerked , thinking that they called him, but no, in fact it was the turn of Melville’s samurai. And finally, the false tourist remains in the company of two muzzles, recognized as the most boring killers in the entire history of cinema (they were played almost simultaneously in the mid-90s by Sylvester Stallone in “Hit Killers” and Dolph Lundgren in “At Gunpoint”). But even they are eventually allowed in, and a “Closed for special services” sign appears at the reception desk. The man is left all alone in the lobby. “The loneliness of a samurai is like the loneliness of a tiger in the jungle…” sounds the shortest of his internal monologues. Sighing heavily, he presses the player button. And the voice of The Smiths leader Morrissey – now, probably forever – replaces the recording of a six-minute ovation given to David Fincher’s “The Killer” by guests and participants at the anniversary, 80th Venice International Film Festival.
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