Of the three films about assassins that premiered at the Venice film festival last month, David Fincher’s The Killer is certainly not the worst (Harmony Korine’s witless indulgence Aggro Dr1ft). Nor is it the best (Richard Linklater’s Hit Man). But it is the most conventional. Starring a cold-blooded, dead-eyed Michael Fassbender as a nameless, clinically efficient hired killer whose carefully constructed professional life collapses after one mistake, the film is in thrall to the movie mythology of the assassin and to the slick cynicism of Fincher’s own back catalogue. A wordy, unwieldy narration and a playlist of the Smiths’ greatest hits set the tone for a character who keeps the world, and by extension the audience, at arm’s length.
The Killer knows that failure in his line of work has grave consequences. So when his bullet takes out the wrong target, he must act decisively. There’s a satisfyingly grim momentum to the businesslike body count, but the highlight of the picture is a slippery cameo from Tilda Swinton – a few cherishable scenes that contain more wit, style and playfulness than the rest of the film put together.
In select cinemas/on Netflix
