Zodiac
Directed by David Fincher
Paramount Pictures, 2007
By Doug Nayler
David Fincher, you are high school to me.
Oh, I remember it so well. I was a young, idealistic, ignorant boy with a characteristically teen need to stake out my own nich, some defining quality with which to feel better than the other rabble in my grade ten science class. In desperate, self-esteemless frustration I decided that I could be the guy who was really into movies. Yeah, that kid who was so articulately insightful about film that soon I’d be suffering from acute, euphoric asphyxiation from all the smart women that would clutch me to their bosoms. And so, I went into my rural retirement town’s Blockbuster to stake my claim. And there I found you. You, who made Se7en and Fight Club. Films that were flashy and tense enough to be found at the aforementioned small-town Blockbuster, but creative and anachronistic enough to satisfy even my discerning taste. I tolled your virtues from the mountain tops, and ridiculed everyone in your name. And I knew that I’d make it out of town one day and be with you forever; our genius enfolding each other’s in mutual admiration for time immemorial.
But time moves on. We grew apart. Last I heard from you was some movie where Jodie Foster gets all worried in some sort of enclosed nook of some sort. After a few film classes I realized that maybe my “genius” wasn’t as precious and special as I assumed it was. And maybe it was a little naïve of me to think that someday you’d welcome me into your arms and stroke my hair, whispering “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” Perhaps I had other things to worry about first. Like rent, for example.
But it’s not that I didn’t miss you. Every time there was a new Saw or a Hostel or any of that horror-porn shit, I’d just shake my head and remember how you did it first, better, and with an actual purpose. Once in awhile I even would sneak over to IMDB and see if you were up to anything. It was doing this one day that I found out you were working on a movie about the Zodiac Killer. The baby-faced 16-year-old fanboy inside of me was elated, screaming “It’ll be just like Se7en!!” but my older, seasoned self was more trepidatious, warning “What if it’s just like Se7en?!” Yet despite my concerns, there I was on opening night. And I was glad that I’d come.
I see that you’ve grown up some too since we last used to hang out. No more flashy little montages, no more disaffected, self-aware voiceover narration. No more anguished Brad Pitt. No more kooky Brad Pitt. Only a little bit of sensationalized violence. I’m glad though; don’t get me wrong. I mean they were fun when we were younger, but there are other things to do.
And what’ve you been up to instead? Making a layered, engrossing, tightly-knit look at the world surrounding a high-profile psychopath. A film that sucks you in by titillating your inner rubbernecker’s lust for psychotics, but slowly focuses itself more on the toll psychotic behaviour takes on those trying to make sense of it. One by one the investigators are crushed beneath the weight of conjecture and theory surrounding the case. This is a film that doesn’t count on the bells and whistles, just the crumbling psychological state of its characters. And for three hours, I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Let’s see what happens when you try to watch a three-hour Saw sequel…
You’ve grown up, David, and I’m glad to see it. Otherwise, when I run into you next at the mall over Christmas break, it could be really awkward.
