Gone Girl Review

We consume, and then we die.  We are a nation of consumers, desperate to spend and devour, traveling to palaces of pleasure and gluttony so we can empty our wallets and stuff our faces, then return to homes full of things we don't use, things we don't need, and things we don't see.  We become so accustomed to the massive mountains of shit we surround ourselves in that we don't even realize we're at the bottom of a valley, barely able to see the sun or gulp down a breath of fresh air, we're so buried in what we have, and what we have is what we are.

But money is tight.  It always is, for most of us, even when we're not in a recession.  Even when we don't have the means to spend, we still do, and when we reach the limit, our thirst for more flares more ravenously than ever.  We turn from materialism (leaving shopping malls abandoned), as much as we can, and look for other sources of obsession.  There's a seed of obsession in all of us, and some of us let it bloom and grab, while others do their damnedest to thwart those vines that entangle us in so much distraction.  What we consume most of all - perhaps because it's free to partake, or perhaps because it's impossible to avoid - is the tragedy of others, as peddled by the ubiquitous media machine.  This is a world of deafening noise, with "news" all around, ever spun with a new angle that blurs the line between fact and fiction, reality and entertainment.  All the world's a stage, and the media spotlight is sure to leave all of us actors who get sucked into its ugly glow severely burned.

David Fincher's Gone Girl, based on Gillian Flynn's bestselling novel, and featuring a screenplay also penned by Flynn, is many things, but above all, it is an indictment of the media machine, and of us as eager consumers of its nonsense.  Though it is ostensibly a crime thriller with a murder mystery flair, Gone Girl is also a biting comedy, with sharp fangs and a hilariously black heart.  Fincher knows the depravity of humanity well; he's explored it in grim violence in Seven and in shady business dealings in The Social Network, and now he focuses his camera elsewhere: on the third parties who profit from human misery, traffic in it, wallow in it, wait for it with sweaty, dirty palms greedily rubbing together.

Ben Affleck plays Nick Dunne, a sleazy bar owner and college instructor whose wife, Amy Dunne (Rosamund Pike) disappears one morning, leaving behind a suspicious crime scene and a trail of clues that all point at Nick as the culprit.  Of course he becomes the prime suspect, because it's always the husband, and the likelihood of Nick being guilty becomes sharper as we see flashbacks to the couple's crumbling marriage, as anger bubbles and bursts into violence, leaving Amy to fear for her life.  We, the film's audience, can't help but become aligned with the audience within the film, echoing their disgust at each of Nick's missteps, begrudgingly admitting that he's gorgeous anyway, considering him in every light and from every angle as the investigation continues.

Throughout the film, there is no escape from the commentary of the media monster, from the World War Z-esque horde of reporters swarming all around to the televisions blaring in every restaurant, waiting room, and casino.  We are a nation of dramatic wealth inequality, of innumerable inequalities of all types, but we become united as we remain glued to our televisions, chewing on every new, juicy detail of whatever national story holds our collective attention for five minutes.  Fincher paints the media as a virus spreading quickly into pandemic, a swarm of bees pollinating ignorant minds with buzzwords and indecent photos, a metaphor that changes gears mid-sentence without any of its drooling viewers being keen enough to care, or even notice.

Gone Girl has fangs, and it uses them boldly, bloodily, and humorously.  There is no sacred ground in Flynn's fiction as directed by Fincher, with every technical element of the film adding acid to its bite. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross return as composers, peddling ironic romance with industrial precision; their themes sound almost like one would expect, but with twists that kill any chance of taking the sentiment seriously.  Jeff Cronenweth works similarly, his compositions teetering on the mad line between romance and terror, a balance the entire film maintains with incredible success.  Though Affleck and Pike have wonderful chemistry in scenes of Nick and Amy's early, happy days, there's always a darkness lurking beneath, always the threat of something sinister right around the corner, right after another gutting cut from Kirk Baxter, editing solo this time.

Fincher has a knack for perfect - and sometimes surprising - casting choices, and Gone Girl is perhaps his finest ensemble yet.  Affleck, often the focus of paparazzi himself, gives his best performance as Nick; he's sleazy, subtly charming, and never fully likable, even when he casts himself as the victim.  Even with his freedom on the line, Nick is careless and cool, frustratingly at ease in the face of horrific circumstances.  He understands, gradually, that all he can do is surrender to the process and play the game.

To discuss Pike's work in too great detail would be a disservice to the film, as she has the most shocking material to work with.  Pike has done great work before - she shines in Pride and Prejudice and An Education - but with Gone Girl, she ascends to stardom.  She has a tricky role, not only in the depths of her character, but in the way she gets to present it.  Much of Amy's dialogue is voice-over, which can be the bane of good story-telling, but not so here, thanks to great writing and delivery.  Flynn has done a masterful job of shaping her novel for the screen, and Amy gets the meatiest scenes, including the unforgettable "cool girl" monologue.  Pike digs into Amy's complexity (to put it lightly) with abandon, finding the method, even suggesting some semblance of humanity.

The supporting cast is a treasure trove, with a scene-stealing turn by Tyler Perry as Nick's showy lawyer, a ditzy Casey Wilson as a nosy neighbor, and Kim Dickens as hardened-but-kind lead investigator on the case.  Carrie Coon shines brightest though, as Nick's twin sister and confidante Margo, a picture of tough love in tougher times.  Coon, like Pike, should ride this role to even greater things, and I can't wait.

Gone Girl could be retitled Scenes From a Fucked Up Marriage, and the film implies that every marriage is capable of such darkness, such fucked up-ness.  Women are treated as dolls, objects, blank slates upon which ideals and ideas can be projected, only to find that the breathing, thinking human being behind the projections can't - or, more often, doesn't want to - live up to those unrealistic standards.  Whatever else Amy is, she is a strong woman, a capable woman, a woman who takes action and thinks on her feet and reacts.  As do Detective Boney and Margo, to lesser degrees.  This is a film full of breathtaking female characters, which doesn't happen very often; most movies don't even have one.  That Gone Girl is so thrilling, so tense, and so fun builds on that foundation to make it one of the year's best films, and another incredible entry in Fincher's oeuvre.