From an empty loft across the street from a Parisien apartment, the titular character (Michael Fassbender) watches and waits…and waits…and waits. We hear his inner monologue describing the important elements of his job (always do this, never do that) over and over again.
Would somebody just pull the damn trigger?
Finally, after we’ve heard (again, from inside his head) ad nauseum about how he’s an expert at his lonely job, he takes his shot and…misses. Doesn’t kill the right person. Now he is in trouble.
There are no second chances, so now his job has suddenly come down to kill or be killed. At least this finally gets him out of the loft and on his feet.
To stay alive, he’ll have to kill several characters and those interactions let him use his outside voice as he confronts folks from Arliss Howard to Tilda Swinton. A couple of cat and mouse switcheroos, but mainly just very dimly lit sets and a waste of Fassbender, who, if you’ve seen Steve Jobs, you know can crank out the spoken word with the very best of his class.
Director David Fincher (Fight Club, Social Network) doesn’t make junk and The Killer certainly arrives handsomely appointed with a top shelf cast, but it’s just too hip for the room, and so we cannot truly believe it because we are the room.
Bummer, I thought this might be an awards contender this year. It definitely wins the wasted potential award.
The Killer in limited theatrical release and on Netflix. Rated R. 2 hours.
