LONG, repetitive, and deliberately inconclusive, David Fincher’s Zodiac is the best movie of 2007 so far, and a better piece of filmmaking than anything nominated for Best Picture in the year just past. Superficially more conventional than his brilliant 1990s provocations, Seven and Fight Club, Fincher’s latest film is actually another exercise in subversion, in which the familiar rhythms of two crowd-pleasing genres-the serial-killer film and the police procedural-are faithfully recreated and then allowed to dissipate gradually into a miasma of missed connections, lost opportunities, and ambiguity. It’s a craftsman’s calculated rebuke to his audience’s expectations: a thriller where the action is frontloaded and the payoff never really shows up.
Fincher’s ostensible subject is the Zodiac killer’s reign of terror in the late-Sixties Bay Area, which either lasted ten months or well into the Seventies, depending on whether you believe that all the unsolved murders the psychopath claimed credit for were actually his doing. But Zodiac is mainly concerned with what happened after the killing stopped and the trail went cold: The only on-screen murders take place near the beginning of the movie, and in the two hours of painstaking investigation that follow there are none of the damsel-in-distress, race-against-the-clock contrivances that even highbrow thrillers employ to jolt the audience awake. Nor, apart from one unnerving interview, does the killer’s personality or psychology ever take center stage: The detectives don’t use astrological tables to predict where he’ll strike next, or parse the cryptograms he mailed to the San Francisco Chronicle for hints of some childhood trauma or buried psychosexual compulsion. The Zodiac’s motives and personality, like his identity, remain persistently hidden-the unknowable unknown at the heart of the plot, the dark matter that holds the movie’s universe together.
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