The director, David Fincher, previously brought us Seven, a gross-out hit that impressed the kind of people who like their paranoia engineered rock-video style. Seven also took itself awfully seriously. Its groady visuals resembled a new-style fashion-freak show, with carnage applied like mascara.
In The Game, Fincher pulls back from the total grossout but sustains a tone of aggravated anxiety. Hitchcock could have done this mate-rial and still made its perversities pleasurable. Fincher doesn't go that route. He wants us to feel clammy and unnerved--unclean.
Michael Douglas plays the super-rich San Francisco financier Nicholas Van Orton, divorced and lonely in his palatial estate, with only his housemaid, Ilsa (Carroll Baker), to talk to. Conrad (Sean Penn), back from a few years in London, pops up on his brother Nicholas's birthday, proffering a gift certificate for an outfit called Consumer Recreation Service. "Make your life fun," says Conrad, and soon Nicholas, a bit guiltily, is checking out his gift.
"We're like an experiential Book of the Month Club," says the CRS exec (James Rebhorn) who convinces Nicholas to take the company physical and personality questionnaire. (Sample entry: "Do you sometimes hurt small animals?") As it turns out, The Game--what CRS is selling--turns your life into a cross between a scavenger hunt and Heart of Darkness. Nick's bro isn't named Conrad for nothing.
Nicholas is a control freak nursing a great hurt. As a little boy, he watched his father, at 48, jump off a roof to his death. The little boy is now 48, and, metaphorically at least, the question is: Will he jump into the unknown? By entering into The Game, he's about to confront his worst fears of letting go. If all this is too Psych 101 for you, I could go on, but...
Douglas starts out the film as a kind of depresso variation on his Gordon Gecko from Wall Street. Nicholas looks like money, but he doesn't appear to enjoy it very much. He cruelly downsizes a children's-book publisher (Armin Mueller-Stahl) who once knew his father; he spends altogether too much time on his cellular phone. He's a Scrooge in line for a comeuppance, but in true '90s fashion, he's also someone we're meant to admire. He does, after all, wear thousand-dollar shoes.
If the script for The Game were wittier, we might enjoy seeing Nicholas get it--while still rooting for him. But the whole thing is worked out so implausibly that you never have the feeling you're being handed the right pieces of the puzzle. Screenwriters John Brancato and Michael Ferris also wrote The Net, another paranoiac spree that didn't add up.
There's a good, unexplored idea built into the The Game. When Nicholas hooks up with a waitress (Deborah Kara Unger) at his private club, the newfound craziness of his life enters her life. It's like a sick joke about relationships--you can't help tripping over the other person's baggage. I wish Fincher wasn't such a scold. He has a gift for creepiness, but he doesn't lighten up--that's not what artists are supposed to do.
But The Manchurian Candidate was kicky and creepy at the same time. On a smaller scale, so is Conspiracy Theory, which keeps the audience on edge as much for its jumble of tones as for its jumble of plot. Paranoia doesn't have to be as stiff-backed as Fincher makes it. Mimic, for example, directed by the amazingly talented Guillermo Del Toro, has some scary images--such as the giant winged bug speeding Mira Sorvino into the maw of a subway tunnel--that are as poetically unsettling as anything in the best silent horror movies. It's paranoia confirmed.
By contrast, the processed paranoia of The Game goes down easy--that's why it's processed. When this Game is over, it's really over.
The Game.
Screenplay by John Brancato and Michael Ferris. Directed by David Fincher. With Michael Douglas, Sean Penn, Carroll Baker, Armin Mueller-Stahl and Deborah Kara Unger.
