From what I read, I gather that there are some clever things happening in The Killer, David Fincher’s new Netflix movie, based on the French graphic novel by Alexis “Matz” Nolent, with illustrations by Luc Jacamon. Clever, that is, if you’re into Fincher’s own metacommentary on himself as a filmmaker.

A few critics have noted a series of embedded clues that go beyond merely noticing that here’s yet another neo-noir murderer film by Fincher. But this kind of detailed study of Fincher-world is almost entirely lost on me. My indifference to Fincher’s films is vast and deep. I only admire one — 2007’s Zodiac  — and sometimes I consider going back to watch it again to make sure it’s really as good as I remember, as Fincher has made so many films I despise. When seeking examples of ludicrous, overproduced, overpraised “prestige film” dreck coming out of Hollywood, the best examples I know are still Fincher’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008) and Mank (2020).

Some directors, however technically skilled, are largely incapable of moving you. Or, I should say, me. Fincher’s expertise is a series of obvious, annoying, and slickly uninteresting moves he insists on making in film after film. For example, if I never again see that stupid sulfurous yellow color he loves to inject into almost every goddamn movie he makes, it’ll be too soon.