Zodiac

I finished watching the David Fincher film "Zodiac" last night. Despite his status as something of a cult director, I had not yet seen anything by him. And even with this work, I was somewhat hesitant, since the combination of serial killers and movies is often one that means lots of blood. My tolerance for such things is much higher than that of my wife's (which is almost nil), but it's enough to keep me away from many such films. But I was wrong to think this was going to be a gore-fest. With the exception of about three minutes' worth of rather nasty killing (of both the gun and knife variety), this was an incredibly atmospheric, suspenseful and satisfying work which delivered its pleasure mostly through the dialogue of men, both police and press, seeking the identity of a man who takes great relish in keeping them guessing. It also has a great line about library books and libraries.

I've never been to California, but did come of age in the time (1969-1991) the movie covers. Needless to say, the way this film shows that era--mostly the seventies--is nothing short of gorgeous. There are few movies, and this is one of them, that makes you look at reality with new eyes after you've finished watching it. What is in some ways a film noir is also a sort of nostalgia piece for a time that, despite its many problems, actually looks simpler than our own. Now, I know this is a simplification, but it's so refreshing to see less technology, to not see people on cell phones every other minute (no, I don't own one) and to revel in the wonderfully decayed world of industrial and suburban San Francisco. (To be fair, it's not all decay, but it was quite prominent.)

The fact that library books play a role is great fun. Robert Graysmith (played by Jake Gyllenhaal) is an amateur sleuth who already seems to own a copy of David Kahn's classic work "The Codebreakers" when Zodiac sends his first coded letter. The best scene in this regard comes in the second half, when Graysmith proudly tells a TV reporter that he broke the code with the help of "books from the library". Paul Avery, a sometime-friend from the newspaper where both men work, watches the broadcast resentfully from a bar while he takes hits of oxygen to stay alive. "F----ing library" he mutters. I've never quite heard resentment to the library expressed so succinctly and profanely at the same time. Also I think it's been quite awhile since I've seen a book that I also own shown so prominently in a movie.

Regarding the ending--no, I won't give much away here--this too was part of the pleasure the film delivered. I've thought for a number of years now that the way a movie (or a book, for that matter) concludes is hugely important to how much it stays with the viewer. I know this is not an original thought, but it does seem to get overlooked in all the hoopla about this or that actor, or the special effects, or something else. A case in point for me is the ending of Terrence Malick's "Days of Heaven" (one of my favorite films). Linda, played by Linda Manz, has just gone through her purgatory on the farm of Sam Shepard, witnessing both beauty and destruction. She is then summarily sent to a girls' school from which she very quickly escapes. The last scene shows her and a friend skipping down some railroad tracks, destination unknown. How wonderfully open-ended! "Zodiac" does something like this in that there is no "final showdown" (so prominent today) between the killer and his pursuers--we learn the former's fate only at the credits-- just a long, knowing glare in the humble setting of an Ace Hardware Store.