The David Fincher we know today has a distinct style, pronounced enough that his latest film, The Killer, has been interpreted as a self-reflexive parody of his own cold and methodical filmmaking sensibilities. But the ‘90s were a more uncertain time for the burgeoning auteur. Originating as a spec screenplay in 1991, Fincher planned to direct The Game before Se7en but switched gears when Brad Pitt suddenly became available for the latter project. Thus, The Game is a bit of a curio in Fincher’s wider oeuvre, a confident but subdued work whose anti-climactic ending feels out-of-step with his supposed inclinations. Whereas Se7en’s nihilistic worldview is confirmed in the film’s superbly brutal third act, The Game is optimistic. Michael Douglas’ Nicholas may start out as a curmudgeonly jackass, but he ends the film as a man with a new lease on life. Basically, The Game is Fincher’s A Christmas Carol.
With an intelligent and playful premise that’s minorly adjacent to the respectable mid-budget thrillers that dominated the box office in the early-to-mid ‘90s, The Game is undeniably a work of its era. That’s not to say it’s dated but that few studios today would dare to release a thriller so willingly obtuse in its thrills. In a 1997 interview promoting the film, Fincher proudly touted its ambiguity, stating, “… Movies usually make a pact with the audience that says: we’re going to play it straight. What we show you is going to add up. But we don’t do that. In that respect, it’s about movies and how movies dole out information.” There’s no villain in The Game, other than Nicholas himself, whose surreal trip through a game modeled precisely on his own life, leads only to self-actualization. Once the curtain is eventually pulled back, Sean Penn’s Connie states, “I had to do something. You were becoming such an asshole.”
But what is “the game,” exactly? Well, that’s precisely the point. Nicholas is an investment banker of exorbitant wealth but little heart, seemingly content to live his life in self-imposed isolation. On his 48th birthday, his estranged brother, Connie, gives him an unusual gift: a gift voucher for a company called Consumer Recreation Services (CRS). CRS specializes in creating games specifically tailored to those who play them, an offer intriguing enough to overcome Nicholas’ initial skepticism. On a whim, he visits the newly-opened CRS office, coincidentally just floors above his own, where he’s put through an interminable series of physical and psychological evaluations. Later, he receives a call that his application has been rejected but arrives home to find he’s secretly being surveilled. Nicholas’ game has begun.
Though lacking Se7en’s grit and tangible atmosphere, the world of The Game is still rich with suspense. Fincher is exceptional at building the intrigue surrounding the film’s central mystery. What exactly has Nicholas signed himself up for? Is he in danger, and if so, why does everyone else who has played the game before seem so bowled over by it? (“They make your life… fun,” Conrad states vaguely, towards the story’s beginning). As soon as Nicholas finds the hidden camera disguised within the eye socket of a wooden clown, it’s not long before “the game” has turned his life into complete disarray. He’s signed himself over to a faceless organization seemingly capable of bending reality at will, whose complex machinations are nearly impossible to understand or comprehend. Aside from Dickens, Fincher has also noted Kafka’s The Trial as an influence. Similarities to the author’s work increase as Nicholas’ loss of control becomes more pronounced.
Occasional creepiness aside (that clown, mostly), the film is also surprisingly funny. Central to the story’s dramatic arc is Nicholas’ eventual relationship with Christine (Deborah Kara Unger), a snarky waitress who gets caught up in his tangled web of illusions. The film does an exceptional job of making her nebulous alignment to CRS feel mysterious. Her down-to-earth demeanor reignites a dormant warmth within Nicky’s heart, a desire to protect the only woman, or indeed person, he can trust. It’s enjoyable to watch the two bicker as they give chase from presumed assailants, making a quick escape from a stalled elevator through a hole in the ceiling. “This isn’t an attempt to be gallant. If I don’t lift you, how are you going to get there?” Nicky asks, attempting to convince Christine to let him lift her through the roof. She shoots him an incredulous look. “I’m not wearing any underwear, okay? There. I said it.” The humor in The Game is broader than the type of gallows snark Fincher employs in films like Gone Girl and The Killer, but it pairs well with the film’s ostentatious set pieces.
Of course, it’s all about the ending, and The Game’s is a doozy. It isn’t predictable, that’s for sure, but the confounding nature of the mystery’s ultimate banality does make the preceding two hours of psychological and physical torture seem a bit gratuitous. High-concept films like this begin to fall apart when you ask too many questions—such as, “What is the budget for the CRS?” “How did they manage to employ actors everywhere that Nicholas goes?” “What technology are they using to create such convincing deepfakes and photoshops of him engaging in elicit sexual acts?” “Has anyone ever called the police on them for staging fake gunfights in populated neighborhoods?” As is, the ending feels appropriate, but Fincher’s narrative uncertainty becomes obvious once he’s played his biggest hand. “We didn’t figure out the third act, and it was my fault, because I thought if you could just keep your foot on the throttle, it would be liberating and funny,” Fincher has later stated. He’s both right and wrong in his assessment. The solution to Nicholas’ game is liberating and funny. It just isn’t quite complete.
Underrated within broader discussions of Fincher’s filmography, The Game deserves a second look. It’s an intelligent film, which skillfully employs the trademark smarm of its impeccably cast star to create a story about redemption and the reignition of the human spirit. At the very least, it features one of Fincher’s best visual compositions, that of Nicholas free-falling through the air, having leapt off the top of a building under the impression that he’s accidentally killed his brother. Nicholas crashes through multiple panes of glass before landing perfectly in a massive inflatable square in the middle of a populated banquet hall. When he comes to, he makes a realization: it’s his birthday party. No matter what plot holes or conveniences the film may have, the ecstasy and liberative quality of this moment is outstanding. Nicholas takes a trip through Fincher’s world and escapes it.
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