Horror Film Review: Zodiac (dir. by David Fincher)

Posted on October 28, 2026 by Arleigh

“Just because you can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.” — Robert Graysmith

There’s a particular kind of dread in watching capable people do everything they can and still come up short. That’s the feeling David Fincher taps into throughout Zodiac, a movie where a promising lead can be almost as unnerving as a dead end. Every possibility raises hopes, invites scrutiny, and threatens to pull someone deeper into a mystery that refuses to settle. Released in 2007, it’s a remarkably absorbing thriller about a serial killer, but it’s just as interested in the people left sorting through his damage. Catching him is the goal. Living with the failure to catch him becomes the story.

The film approaches the Zodiac investigation through three men with different relationships to the case. Newspaper cartoonist Robert Graysmith, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, becomes fascinated by its puzzles. Crime reporter Paul Avery, played by Robert Downey Jr., follows it professionally, while police inspector Dave Toschi, played by Mark Ruffalo, works to build a prosecutable case. James Vanderbilt’s screenplay, adapted from Graysmith’s books Zodiac and Zodiac Unmasked, lets their paths overlap without making them a conventional crime-solving team. They share information and frustrations, but their responsibilities, methods, and personal stakes aren’t interchangeable. That distinction gives the investigation texture.

Although Zodiac isn’t a typical horror movie, its story and themes firmly belong in serial-killer horror. The fear comes from more than what happens at individual crime scenes. This is an entire region being terrorized by someone whose next move nobody can reliably predict. His letters extend that fear into homes and workplaces, keeping the possibility of another attack alive. The authorities appear almost helpless to provide reassurance, despite their efforts. Fincher doesn’t reduce that helplessness to incompetence. The disturbing point is that people can work diligently, follow procedures, and pursue credible leads without gaining the power to prevent another killing.

The early attacks make that threat feel horribly concrete. Fincher doesn’t treat the victims as disposable figures whose only purpose is to establish how dangerous the killer is. There’s an uncomfortable attention to their vulnerability, especially during the Lake Berryessa sequence. Its daylight setting strips away the familiar suggestion that darkness is what makes a place unsafe. Everything is visible, yet visibility offers no protection. The pacing is agonizing because it allows the situation to become clear without offering an escape from it. Rather than making the violence exciting, Fincher makes it something you want desperately to interrupt.

Once the film turns toward the investigation, it finds suspense in the distance between a discovery and a usable answer. Handwriting comparisons, witness descriptions, phone calls, and jurisdictional obstacles become compelling because their consequences are clear. A detail might matter enormously, but only if someone can verify it or connect it to something stronger. Fincher gets you invested in that process without making it look smooth. Information arrives late, recollections complicate things, and apparent breakthroughs lose their shape. The movie keeps generating momentum, then showing how easily that momentum can disappear. Progress is possible, but it’s never secure.

Ruffalo gives that uncertainty a persuasive human center. His Toschi is smart, engaged, and occasionally funny, but he isn’t presented as a detective whose instincts automatically outrank the evidence. He can suspect someone without possessing what he needs to move forward. Ruffalo makes that limitation frustrating without turning every setback into a speech. A tired expression or clipped response often carries the scene. His performance also gives the procedural material an emotional foundation: this isn’t paperwork for its own sake. It’s the work standing between an investigator’s conviction and the possibility of holding someone accountable.

Downey’s Avery brings a looser, more abrasive rhythm to the film. He’s comfortable with a cutting remark, and his humor initially makes him seem insulated from the ugliness he covers. Gradually, that apparent insulation wears thin. Downey lets the character’s wit remain recognizable even as the confidence behind it becomes less convincing. It’s an effective performance because the deterioration doesn’t feel like a separate dramatic subplot pasted onto the investigation. It grows out of his involvement. Avery’s trajectory also makes Graysmith’s increasing enthusiasm uneasy to watch. One man is getting pulled in while another shows the damage that involvement can leave behind.

Gyllenhaal handles Graysmith’s transformation with similar care. His curiosity starts out as something approachable: he likes puzzles, notices details, and wants people to take his observations seriously. Those qualities don’t vanish when his interest becomes obsession. They simply stop having sensible limits. Gyllenhaal makes it easy to understand the appeal of another conversation or another possible connection, even when the cost becomes obvious. The family scenes matter because they expose what the investigation can obscure. Time spent chasing the case is also time taken from people who need him, and being sincere doesn’t make him less capable of neglect.

Fincher’s control is evident in how naturally the movie makes years accumulate. The period setting feels functional rather than decorative, and the changing dates gradually become reminders of how much life this investigation consumes. Even the suspense changes character. Early fear of an attack develops into anxiety about what might have been missed or misunderstood. The basement sequence brings those feelings together beautifully. Graysmith goes looking for information, only to find himself questioning the safety of the room he’s standing in. It’s a genuinely frightening scene built around uncertain knowledge rather than a clear, visible threat.

The deliberate approach does have drawbacks. The volume of names and disputed details can become tiring, and viewers looking for a steadily escalating chase may find the later stretches repetitive. The shift toward Graysmith also sacrifices some of the balance that makes the earlier sections so engaging. There’s another tension worth keeping in mind: the film’s dramatic investment in a suspect isn’t the same as definitive proof. Its storytelling can make an interpretation feel persuasive without resolving every doubt. That distinction matters in a movie so concerned with how easily the desire for an answer can outrun the available evidence.

What makes Zodiac exceptional is that it never lets the investigation become separate from the lives carrying it. The suspense isn’t only about whether someone will find the right clue; it’s about what another year of searching will do to them. Fincher delivers frightening scenes, excellent performances, and an engrossing procedural, but the cumulative effect is more troubling than any single moment. The killer doesn’t need to remain constantly on-screen to dominate the movie. His absence leaves room for suspicion, fear, and unfinished business to spread—and for everyone else to discover how little control they have over where it ends.

Review: Full Metal Jacket (dir. by Stanley Kubrick)

Posted on April 8, 2026 by Arleigh

“You write ‘Born to Kill’ on your helmet and you wear a peace button. What’s that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?” — Colonel

Full Metal Jacket is the kind of war movie that sticks in your craw like old metal shavings. It’s 1987, Stanley Kubrick’s last film released in his lifetime, and it plays less like a traditional Vietnam War saga and more like a taunt packed into two very different acts. One half is a barracks horror show about how the military turns boys into killers; the other is a grubby, almost casual descent into the chaos of combat. Together, they make a movie that feels intentionally disjointed so it can drill down on the same idea from two angles: war doesn’t just brutalize your body, it reshapes your mind into something barely human.

The film follows Private J.T. “Joker” Davis, played by Matthew Modine in one of those quietly watchful performances that’s easy to underestimate. Joker starts as a kind of archetypal smart‑mouth recruit, the guy who thinks he’s above the hysteria until he realizes he isn’t. Around him swirls a platoon of young Marines going through basic training at Parris Island under the merciless Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, played with shark‑like relish by R. Lee Ermey, who was actually a real‑life Marine drill instructor. Hartman’s whole job is to obliterate softness and replace it with drilled‑in aggression, and Kubrick lingers on every insult, every barked command, until the abuse stops feeling like a setup for a war movie and starts feeling like the main event.

The first half of Full Metal Jacket is basically a single, sustained initiation ritual. The camera stays tight, almost claustrophobic, trapping you in the barracks with the recruits, so you feel the same sensory overload they do. The lighting is harsh, the colors washed out, and the camera often locks in on Hartman’s face mid‑rant, making you uncomfortably intimate with his cruelty. This isn’t training so much as a manufactured psychological war waged on the platoon’s collective brain. The recruits are constantly degraded, mocked, and forced into grotesque rituals of humiliation, and the film never lets you forget that this is the system’s idea of “making Marines.” Kubrick doesn’t fake the perverse appeal of this process either; there’s a weird, ugly thrill in how effective it is, in how the boys start enjoying the brutality once they’re inside it.

The standout character in this section is Leonard “Gomer Pyle” Lawrence, played by Vincent D’Onofrio in a performance that’s almost physically uncomfortable to watch. D’Onofrio’s Pyle is this thick‑set, awkward kid who can’t keep up, and the movie doesn’t soften his edges to make him likable. He’s genuinely bad at the routine, slow, clumsy, but he’s also clearly just trying to survive. The film lets you watch, in a very matter‑of‑fact way, how the system turns his inadequacy into a target. The other recruits are instructed to punish him, and soon everyone starts in. The film doesn’t moralize about it; it just shows that this kind of group cruelty is baked into the structure. The infamous scene where the platoon holds Leonard down with piled‑on bed sheets while whacking him with a bar of soap wrapped in a towel is less about a single act of violence than about what it means to normalize dehumanization before you ever see combat.

What’s so unsettling about Full Metal Jacket is that it never pretends Hartman is some rogue sadist. He’s not an outlier; he’s the product of the system, and he’s also the system’s avatar. In that sense, the first half of the film functions like a kind of industrial horror. The Marines are being processed like defective parts on a factory line, streamed through a machine designed to break them and then rebuild them as compliant killers. The film toys with the idea that the military doesn’t want robots so much as creatures that hunger for violence on command. The line about “we don’t want robots, we want men” is repeated with a kind of grim irony because what the film actually shows is the production of something in between: not quite human, not quite machine, but something that can pull a trigger without hesitating.

Jumping from Parris Island to the streets of Huế during the Tet Offensive, the second half of Full Metal Jacket feels like a different movie in tone but the same one in thesis. Joker, now a combat correspondent with a Stars and Stripes hat and a “Born to Kill” slogan on his helmet, is literally split down the middle between observer and participant. He carries a camera and a rifle; he’s supposed to report, but he also has to fight. The film doesn’t resolve that tension the way a more sentimental war movie would. Instead, it lets Joker drift in that gray zone where war is equal parts absurdity and atrocity. The Vietnamese civilians are largely faceless, and the war itself is shown as a series of loosely connected vignettes—raids, ambushes, random firefights—rather than a grand narrative of heroism or tragedy.

Kubrick’s Vietnam is less a country and more a ruined theater set. The cityscapes are wide, desolate, and oddly beautiful in their destruction, as if the war has turned everything into a series of bleak tableaux. The camera doesn’t linger on gore for shock value; it lingers to make the war feel like a permanent, almost aesthetic state of ruin. Individual soldiers pop in and out: Animal Mother, the violently unhinged Marine played by Adam Baldwin; Cowboy, the earnest, almost naive replacement; and the rest of the squad, who oscillate between fear, boredom, and bursts of casual cruelty. None of them are given the kind of tragic backstories that usually make you emotionally invested in a war film. Instead, they’re presented as fragments of a larger machine, each one another cog in the same indifferent system.

The film’s most famous structural trick is its way of keeping politics at arm’s length while still radiating a deeply skeptical view of the war. It doesn’t really bother telling you who’s right or wrong, or why the Marines are there. It just shows what they become and what they do. The movie doesn’t ask you to sympathize with the Marines in the way some war films do; it asks you to recognize the mirror. The famous ending, where the Marines march through flaming ruins to the tune of Mickey Mouse, is pure Kubrick dark surrealism. The cheerful cartoon theme clashes violently with the apocalyptic imagery, and the soldiers chant along with a kind of manic innocence that feels like the last vestige of humanity being cannibalized by the war itself. It’s hard to tell whether the moment is tragic, absurd, or both, and that’s the point.

Full Metal Jacket is also a film about storytelling and the way narratives are weaponized. Joker, as a reporter, is supposed to package the war for a distant audience. He’s there to turn chaos into digestible stories, but the movie quietly undermines that idea by showing how unreliable those narratives are. The soldiers’ own stories are laced with jokes, bravado, misogyny, and casual racism, and the film doesn’t clean them up. It lets you sit with the ugliness, even when it’s delivered with a laugh. The film doesn’t romanticize the Marines’ camaraderie or soften their cruelty; it just lets you watch them behave like ordinary guys who happen to be doing something extraordinary and monstrous.

The cinematography in Full Metal Jacket is cold and precise, which is exactly what the material needs. The camera behaves like a reluctant witness, framing the Marines in symmetrical, almost clinical compositions that make their brutality look routine rather than spectacular. The score is minimal, and the film often relies on diegetic sound—machine‑gun fire, jeep engines, distant explosions, Hartman’s voice echoing off concrete walls—to ground you in the sensory overload of military life. Even the few moments of levity feel like concessions to show business more than true relief. The soldiers’ jokes are rarely funny in a wholesome way; they’re the kind of gallows humor that keeps you from noticing how broken you’ve become.

What ultimately makes Full Metal Jacket endure is that it refuses to offer catharsis. By the time the film ends, nothing has been “resolved” in the way Hollywood usually expects. Joker survives, but the war doesn’t; it just keeps going, and the Marines keep marching, chanting, and killing. The film doesn’t build toward a big speech about the futility of war or a tear‑jerker about fallen comrades. It just suggests, quietly and persistently, that the process outlined in the boot‑camp half is drafted, again, in the streets of Vietnam. You go in as a boy, you’re molded into something sharper and meaner, and then you’re sent out into a world that rewards that sharpness. The movie doesn’t need to say this out loud; it just shows it happening in scene after scene.

In that sense, Full Metal Jacket is one of the most honest anti‑war films precisely because it doesn’t pretend to be a plea for peace. It’s a portrait of a machine that feeds on itself, and of the people who get caught in its gears. It’s funny, disturbing, infuriating, and occasionally mesmerizing, sometimes all at once. It’s not a movie that wants to hold your hand or make you feel better about the human race. It wants you to stare at the gleam on that full metal jacket bullet and wonder what it took to make someone pull the trigger. That’s the real power of Full Metal Jacket: it doesn’t try to redeem the war, the soldiers, or the audience. It just makes sure you can’t look away.

October True Crime: Zodiac (dir by David Fincher)

Posted on October 31, 2023 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Who was the Zodiac Killer?

That is a question that has haunted journalists, cops, and true crime fans since the late 60s. It is known that the Zodiac Killer murdered at least five people in Northern California in 1968 and 1969. He targeted young couples, though he is also thought to have murdered on taxi driver as well. What set Zodiac apart from other killers is that he was a prolific letter writer, who sent cards and ciphers to the police and the journalists who were reporting on his crimes. In one of his ciphers, Zodiac claimed that he had killed 37 people. Cartoonist Robert Graysmith later wrote two books about his personal obsession with the case. He estimated that the Zodiac may have been responsible for hundred of murders, up through the 80s. Of course, reading Graysmith’s first Zodiac book, it’s also easy to suspect that Graysmith reached a point where he saw the Zodiac’s hand in every unsolved murder in the San Francisco area. Of all the unidentified serial killers in American history, Zodiac is one that most haunts us. Zodiac was a serial killer who operated in an era when such things were still considered to be uncommon. Much as Jack the Ripper did during the Victorian Age, Zodiac announced the arrival of a new age of evil.

Zodiac wrote about being a film fan and he was probably happy about the fact that he inspired quite a few films. 1971’s The Zodiac Killer came out while Zodiac was still sending letters to the police and cops actually staked out the theaters showing the film just to see if he would show up. Dirty Harry‘s Scorpio Killer was also based on Zodiac, right down to the taunting letters that he sent the mayor and again, one has to wonder if Zodiac ever showed up to watch Clint Eastwood take him down.

And, if Zodiac survived into the 21st Century, one has to wonder if he showed up in the theaters for 2007’s Zodiac.

One of the best true crime films ever made, Zodiac not only recreates the crimes of the Zodiac but it also examines the mental price of obsessing over the one unknown force of evil. Mark Ruffalo plays Dave Toschi, the celebrity cop who nearly sacrificed his professional reputation in his search for the identity of the killer. Jake Gyllenhaal plays cartoonist Robert Graysmith, who spends over a decade searching for the Zodiac’s identity and who loses his wife (Chloe Sevigny) in the process. And Robert Downey, Jr. plays Paul Avery, the crime reporter to whom the Zodiac wrote and who sunk into paranoia and addiction as a result. This is a film that is less about the Zodiac’s crime and more about how this unknown killer seemed to unleash a darkness that would come to envelope first a city and eventually an entire nation.

As one might expect from a film directed by David Fincher, Zodiac plays out like a filmed nightmare with the starkly portrayed murders being all the more disturbing because they often take place outside, where people would think they would be safe. (The second murder is especially terrifying, as it plays out without even the sound of background music to allow us the escape of remembering that it’s only a movie.) Fincher heightens our paranoia but having a different actor play the killer in each scene, reminding us that the Zodiac could literally be anyone. Indeed, one of the scarier things about Zodiac is that, in the course of his investigation, Graysmith meets so many different people who seem like they could be the killer. Even if they aren’t the Zodiac, the viewer is left with the feeling that the world is full of people who are capable of committing the same crimes. The film becomes a journey into the heart of darkness, with the Zodiac becoming both a malevolent force and potentially your next door neighbor. And with the film’s detailed recreation of the 60s and the 70s, the film becomes a portrait of a country on the verge of changing forever with the Zodaic and his crimes representing all the fear waiting in the future.

Again, as one might expect from a Fincher film, it’s a well-acted film, especially by Robert Downey, Jr. Zodiac came out a year before Iron Man, when Downey was still better known for his personal troubles than for his talent. Downey perfect captures his character’s descent into self-destruction, as he goes from being cocky and self-assured to being so paranoid that he’s carrying a gun. (Paul Avery’s actual colleagues have disputed the film’s portrayal of Avery being mentally destroyed by the Zodiac.) Ruffalo and Gyllenhaal also do a good job of portraying Toschi and Graysmith’s growing obsession with the case while Charles Fleischer and John Carroll Lynch both make strong (and creepy) impressions as two men who might (or might not) be the killer.

Though the film was not a success at the box office and it was totally ignored by the Academy, Zodiac has built up a strong reputation in the years since its released. It’s inspired a whole new generation of web sleuths to search for the killer’s identity. Personally, my favored suspect is Robert Ivan Nichols, an enigmatic engineer who abandoned his former life and changed his name to Joseph Newton Chandler III in the 70s and who committed suicide in 2002. I think much like Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac’s identity will never be definitely known. There have been many compelling suspects but most of the evidence seems to be circumstantial. (That’s certainly the case when it comes to Nichols.) The Zodiac was thought to be in his 30s or even his early 40s in 1969 so it’s doubtful that he’s still alive today. In all probability, his identity and his motive will forever remain an unsolvable mystery.

Guilty Pleasure No. 21: Hawk the Slayer (dir. by Terry Marcel)

Posted on June 15, 2014 by Arleigh

Tonight was the season finale of Game of Thrones season 4. It was another great piece of storytelling that managed to juggle several subplots and giving each one their own time to shine.

The latest “Guilty Pleasure” is the 1980 epically mind-numbing fantasy film Hawk the Slayer starring the great Jack Palance in the the villainous role of Voltan the evil elder brother to the film’s title character, Hawk the Slayer. This film is in the other side of the quality spectrum of tonight’s Game of Thrones season finale.

Hawk the Slayer was part of the 80’s flood of sword and sorcery films that included such titles as Conan the Barbarian, Beastmaster and Ladyhawke. To say that this film was bad would be an understatement. Yet, I’m quite drawn to it whenever I see it on TV. In fact, it was on syndication that I first saw this when I was just a wee lad. I might have been around 9 or 10 when I came across it halfway through.

Maybe it was the fact that I was just discovering Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, but this film spoke to me. It had that timeless story of brother against brother. The evil tyrant with legions of evil ne’er do wells against a small band of class-specific heroes and rogues. I mean this had it all. We had the hero of the film who I would probably place in the swordsman class. Then we had Ranulf with his repeating crossbow that would be the band’s rogue. Of course, there’s Gort the giant with his mighty hammer and Baldin the dwarf skilled in the art of the whip. But the one character that really shouted RPG for me throughout this film was Crow the Elf who could fire his bow as fast as any machine gun I’ve ever seen.

I think it’s very awfulness is why I keep returning to it whenever I see it on TV. The acting is atrocious with special effects that even in 1980 would be seen as laughable. The characters themselves were so one-note that one wonders if the person who wrote the screenplay was actually a trained monkey. Yet, the film was fun for all those reasons. It’s one of those titles that one would express as being so bad it’s good. Even now, with childhood several decades past, I still enjoy watching Hawk the Slayer and always wonder when they plan to get the sequel set-up and made.

Oh, the synth-heavy disco-fantasy-western soundtrack was also something to behold.