The Killer

Director: David Fincher
Starring: Michael Fassbender, Tilda Swinton, Charles Parnell, Arliss Howard, Kerry O' Malley, Sophie Charlotte, Emiliano Pernía, Gabriel Polanco, Sala Baker, Endre Hules, Monique Ganderton
Running Time: 118 min.
Rating: R

★★★★ (out of ★★★★)  

The title character in David Fincher's The Killer prides himself on not being sloppy, or at least that's what he'd have us believe, as this unnamed assassin painstakingly walks through the steps of his job with enough precision and synchronicity to make Dexter look like a clueless hack. Just take his word for it, with a hypnotic voice over narration that not only runs down his static routine, but the skills and life philosophy needed for it. "Stick to the plan." "Don't improvise, anticipate." "Trust no one." "Forbid empathy." 

While those mantras are repeated throughout as we hang on every word, many his actions will eventually contradict them. He has the pre-kill ritual down to a science, eating, practicing yoga, and listening to The Smiths while waiting for his heartbeat to drop under 65 beats per minute before pulling the trigger. There's no room for trepidation or errors, until he actually misses and the fallout causes him to make some unexpected adjustments. Out for the revenge he can't admit to craving while carrying a guilt he's incapable of expressing, it's suddenly personal now.  

The killer (Michael Fassbender) hauls up in any empty office building across the street from a Parisian hotel, preparing to take out his latest target with a sniper rifle. But despite his obsessive preparation, the job goes horribly wrong, causing him to fall out of favor with his handler Hodges (Charles Parnell). Fleeing the country, he arrives back at one of his secret homes in the Dominican Republic to find girlfriend Magdala (Sophie Charlotte) viciously attacked by assassins sent by Hodges to satisfy the client. 

With vengeance in mind, the killer sets his sights on those responsible for ordering and carrying out the attack, targeting Hodges himself, the thuggish "Brute" (Sala Baker) living in Florida, the New York-based "Expert" assassin (Tilda Swinton) and billionaire client Claybourne (Arliss Howard). The question now becomes whether he can remain as calm and coldly proficient in his technique when the stakes are this high.  

Following a quick but transfixing opening title sequence and that meticulous setup, the killer missing his target hits particularly hard given all the precautions taken in avoiding this exact scenario. Wearing his bucket hat and Hawaiian shirt, he informs us his disguise is that of an easily avoidable German tourist, acknowledging the impossibility of going unnoticed in this day and age, aiming instead to be unmemorable. And he is, with everyone too busy, distracted or self absorbed to notice there's a murderer in their midst, providing valuable cover from his increasing carelessness.

Because we're so fully immersed in the killer's procedure, it's only more jarring when the wheels fly off, causing him to step outside a very familiar comfort zone. The assault on his partner is turning point since he could have just disappeared under one of his many fake names (a great running gag), sheltering himself and her from any further fallout, never to be seen or heard from again. Instead, he opts for payback, evolving from someone who despises improvisation into the rashest of improvisers. Either way, it's apparent he's much better at this in his head than reality.

Anything that can go wrong almost does, and multiple times, especially during a spectacular mid-film fight where the target's fate takes a backseat to his probability of survival. It may have been a lie at the beginning, but now the killer truly doesn't care, his recklessness most evident when confronting Tilda Swinton's previously untouchable assassin. Their extended one-sided conversation is the closest he gets to any kind of emotional connection, as it nearly breaks him discovering just how similar they actually are. 

The only quality differentiating him from Swinton's character is her ability to enjoy what appears to be a normal life in plain sight, free from the idiosyncrasies he leans on to do the job. She may have been worse at it this time, but it's not lost on him that their roles could have easily been reversed. And she won't let him forget that, regardless of her fate. None of his targets should really stand a chance since they're loose ends, but the unthinkable notion someone could be spared creeps through the further off course he veers, discovering buried pieces of himself along the way. 

Fassbender drolly delivers the unreliable but endlessly quotable voiceover, while also allowing each little movement, twitch and expression to do all the talking when he's not. An ideal fit for such oddly specific material, he quietly plays this without so much as a shred of humanity, squashing any chances the character will be experiencing any kind of epiphany or redemption.

Clinical to a fault, Fincher's chief interest lies in the process itself, with help from cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt's impressive location shooting, a propulsive, anxiety inducing score from Trent Rezor and Atticus Ross and a Smiths' soundtrack that humorously clashes with what unfolds. There isn't an ounce of excess fat here, with every scene and episodic stretch visually advancing Se7en writer Andrew Kevin Walker's script. Fincher's best in years, it also shares some of the same thematic elements of technical obsession contained in Zodiac and his brilliant but prematurely cancelled Mindhunter Netflix series.

The Killer is about a perfectionist suddenly left twisting in the wind, more desperate than ever to maintain his illusion of control. Skirting the line between genre exercise and art film, every move he makes feels compulsively purposeful, causing many to cite it as the definitive commentary on Fincher's own work. But it's also thoroughly rewatchable, finding the master again in top form, filling each frame with an abundance of details viewers experience entirely through the eyes and mind of an assassin who might be too fastidious for his own good.

Mank

Director: David Fincher
Starring: Gary Oldman, Amanda Seyfried, Lily Collins, Arliss Howard, Tom Pelphrey, Sam Troughton, Ferdinand Kingsley, Tuppence Middleton, Tom Burke, Joseph Cross, Jamie McShane, Toby Leonard Monika Gossmann, Charles Dance, Bill Nye
Running Time: 131 min.
Rating: R 

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★)

During David Fincher's Mank, drunk, bedridden screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz is told by a producer that the assigned screenplay he's writing for young, hotshot director Orson Welles is "too complicated," confusingly jumping back and forth through time and careening out of control as he approaches an impossible deadline. If the script was just a structural mess maybe that could be fixed, but the bigger complaint is its inaccessibility, sure to drive away mainstream audiences. That working draft, titled "American," would eventually evolve into Citizen Kane, and everything turned out pretty well. Or did they?  Definitely for the film, but not so much for those directly involved. Listening to the criticisms of Mankiewicz's script, you can't help but think that without careful planning it could also apply to the movie that's just been made about it. But we also know this is a director who's nothing if not deliberate.

In adapting his late father Jack Fincher's script to the screen, David Fincher makes a noticeable effort to go beyond taking us on a time travel trip through Hollywood's golden age to deliver an experience that looks and feels as if it could have been released during that era. It attempts to appeal to both diehards who will triple-check its accuracy and more casual viewers unaware of the difference, but respectful of the craftsmanship. And there's plenty to admire in that department, with Fincher expertly channeling this period of filmmaking through dialogue, editing, sound and cinematography that invoke some of Kane's more famous moments.  

The deeper we're submerged into this monochromatic world of shattered dreams, lit cigarettes and broken wine bottles, the clearer it becomes that more bubbles under the surface of Mank as it masquerades as a straight biopic of an immensely successful failure. Movies about movies not only need drama that's worth our attention, but also a unique hook that grabs hold. The creative and personal bloodshed over Citizen Kane should be enough, but in the hands of a master like Fincher, it ends up instead being a thorough psychological dissection of the man who wrote it.  

It's 1940 when Herman J. "Mank" Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman) gets a phone call from Orson Welles (Tom Burke) while recuperating in Victorville, California from a broken leg sustained in a recent car accident. Given complete creative freedom from RKO Pictures for his next project, the upstart Welles recruits an injured Mank to write the screenplay, centering around a wealthy, but morally bankrupt main character who shares more than just passing similarities with newspaper publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst (Charles Dance). 

With Mank dictating the script from bed, his secretary Rita Alexander (Lily Collins) notices this, as well as other parallels to studio executives and people he knew while he and his younger brother, Joseph (Tom Pelphrey) worked at MGM in the 1930's under Louis B. Mayer (Arliss Howard). Flashing back, we see how Mank's friendship with Hearst's lover and beneficiary, actress Marion Davies (Amanda Seyfried) grows, as the writer ingratiates himself and reserved wife Sara (Tuppence Middleton) into the Hollywood elite, entertaining fellow party goers at Hearst's San Simeon estate with his rambunctious personality and outspoken political views. We also see how his alcoholism derailed a successful career, with Welles arriving just in time to offer Mank shot at redemption and a big pay day, if he's still up for it. And doesn't mind forfeiting the credit. 

Those entering this expecting the cold calculation usually associated with Fincher may be surprised to find out that the film's somewhat dark, but not really depressing, moving at a spry, energetic pace that cuts back-and-forth between Mank's latest undertaking and key events in his studio career, most of which are littered with memorable characters and deadpan humor. The familiar device of utilizing screenplay-formatted title cards to indicate the year and location should seem almost too on-the-nose , but it fits exceptionally well here in framing a story about the writer of the most famous non-linear film ever made. 

Considering the feud between Welles and Mankiewicz over credit was historically bitter by even Hollywood standards, this instead mostly focuses on the people and experiences that plant the seeds in Mank to eventually start his greatest creation. In most of his brief appearances, Welles is presented as this deep-voiced, shadowy figure on the other end of the phone, channeling his concerns and demands about the project  through actor-producer John Houseman (Sam Troughton). Because we've had more than enough takes on this side of the Kane fallout before (see 1999's RKO 281 with Liev Schreiber as Welles), this isn't a flaw so much as a choice, and Burke's portrayal of him is sufficient enough given the limited screen time.

The backbone of the film lays in its flashbacks, transporting us into a wild, sepia-tinged world of wealthy, eccentric wheelers and dealers like MGM chief Mayer, who's delightfully played by Arliss Howard as the king of carnival barking studio con-men. He and producer Irving Thalberg (Ferdinand Kingley) tolerate and even like Mank to an extent, until it becomes apparent his best days have passed, and his drunken outbursts threaten the studio's cozy arrangement with Hearst. His eventual script will threaten it more. 

As Hearst, British actor Charles Dance gives the enigmatic publisher the treatment most probably expected would be expected for Welles, conveying a towering but curious presence that in only a few scenes me ets the complicated expectations that drew Mankiewicz and the young, meglomaniacal director to his story, however true or slanderous it ended up being. Mank was 42 when he wrote Kane, and while Oldman is noticeably older, it hardly matters since nearly everyone in this era looked a good fifteen to twenty years past their actual age anyway. Compound that with the fact that Mank was already drowning in the bottle for decades and you could argue the 62 year-old might actually seem too young for the role, especially considering the script's emphasis on him being so far past his prime. 

Anyone who loves that great sub-genre of movies about writers will find a lot to appreciate in Oldman's performance, which severely deviates from the usual trope of introverted writers getting lost inside their own heads. That very well may have been the case if Mank wasn't a self-destructive trainwreck, but he's undeniably the life of the party. And knows it. Two such highfalutin Hearst parties are at the centerpiece of the picture, with the the first memorably deteriorating into a political debate about author and socialist gubernatorial candidate Upton Sinclair (briefly played by Bill Nye the Science Guy). Mank also drunkenly crashes a second one a few years later, leading to an embarrassing display where he basically pitches the Kane story to Hearst's face. 

Self-deprecating enough to be extremely likable, though not entirely oblivious to the damage he leaves in his path, it's hard not to respect the nuance Oldman bring to a real-life figure many know little about aside from his famous writing credit. And some may not even be aware of that since Welles, as director, will always be most closely associated with Kane's success. Keeping Mank in check is his secretary, Lily Collins' Rita, a young woman undeterred by her boss' bluster, or crankiness, steering him on course whether he wants to be or not. Collins leaves a sizable mark, holding together the portion of the film that most centers on his actual writing of the script in between beverages.  

Movie star and Hearst companion Marion Davies is played by an enchanting Amanda Seyfried, who's unquestionably the best thing in this, stealing every scene, nearly all of which are opposite Oldman.  From the moment she appears, Seyfried subverts all expectations of how we'd expect this well known and unfairly maligned celebrity figure to be portrayed. Witty and observant right out of the gate, she plays Davies as a force of nature justifiably tired of being overlooked and underestimated by an "old boys club" that will only ever see her as a ditzy blonde actress. 

Almost instantly on the same wavelength, what's so special and engaging about Mank and Marion's friendship is that it seems real and not put on, breaking that tired cinematic rule that there always has to be romantic strings attached. There are none here and the movie's better for it, regardless of what did or didn't happen in reality. With her expressive eyes and unmistakable facial features Seyfried really looks and talks this part of a classic old Hollywood starlet, nailing a certain rapid-fire style of speech and mannerism that seems pulled out right out of the 30's or 40's. She also gets off one of the film's best lines when trying to convince Mank not to go ahead with a project so obviously taking jabs at her relationship with Hearst. The reasoning behind the objection isn't what you'd think, but perfectly in line with the fair, pragmatic outlook this character demonstrates throughout. 

While it wouldn't exactly be fair to classify this as geared entirely at a niche audience, an argument can be made that Mank isn't the kind of picture that would be considered a huge thrill ride by most, even as some of the best efforts often aren't. But despite the irony of its protagonist having actually won an Academy Award, it definitely isn't calculated enough to be criticized as Oscar bait, mainly because Fincher's incapable of pandering to anyone. For fans of this period and setting there's a lot to revel in with the story of this man's professional and emotional downfall racing by at a almost a breakneck pace, before he's afforded a kind of redemption that ultimately comes too late for him.  

Mankiewicz's standing as a forgotten figure of cinematic history has only increased since this project was first supposed to go in front of the camera for Fincher in the late '90's so its release now feels especially fortuitous. And while any film set in Hollywood during this time would have to address the political backdrop, it holds more relevance now than it otherwise would, made all the more potent by discovering how little has changed beyond the nastiness of the discourse. 

Perceptions have also evolved about the contemporary utilization of black and white photography, as it's been justifiably re-embraced since skepticism surrounded silent throwback The Artist's Best Picture win a decade ago. Those suspecting potential gimmickry should know this looks great and represents one of the better uses of this format, reserved for a story where it feels more like a requirement than a creative choice on Fincher's part. So not only could the timing not be any better for Mank, the movie world seems to have caught up, proving it to be more than worth the wait.