Maintaining a low profile is rarely an option for a David Fincher production. Ever since he transitioned from the stylized world of commercials and music videos to feature filmmaking with Alien 3, the director has consistently gravitated toward high-stakes projects featuring A-list talent and prestigious source material. Despite this pedigree, it is striking how his 1997 psychological thriller The Game has managed to remain somewhat of a hidden gem. In an era dominated by streaming algorithms, it often feels less accessible than his Netflix collaborations and hasn’t quite achieved the “essential library” status of his other ’90s classics. Its recent debut on Peacock is, consequently, a noteworthy occasion for cinephiles.
Within Fincher’s early filmography, The Game stands as a significant commercial triumph, second only to the cultural phenomenon of his 1995 masterpiece Seven. Ironically, it was the shadow cast by Seven’s massive success that caused this follow-up to be somewhat overlooked, even though The Game outperformed Fight Club at the box office and garnered far more critical favor than Alien 3. The film may have also been a victim of its own seamless integration into the cinematic trends of its time. While Seven and Fight Club utilized Fincher’s visual flair to define the “grunge” aesthetic of the nineties, The Game is a more subtle reflection of the era. It functions as a Hitchcockian vehicle for Michael Douglas, fitting neatly between his other sophisticated thrillers like Disclosure and A Perfect Murder. These roles successfully pivoted Douglas from his cutthroat Wall Street persona into a more refined, middle-aged archetype.
Image: NBC/Universal
The casting of Michael Douglas is the linchpin that both elevates the movie’s central themes and masks Fincher’s typical directorial signatures. Douglas portrays—in a role tailored to his strengths—Nicholas Van Orton, a wealthy, emotionally distant investment banker whose life of privilege is systematically dismantled. On his 48th birthday, a milestone marred by family tragedy, he is visited by his estranged, volatile brother Conrad (Sean Penn). Conrad’s gift is an invitation to an immersive, real-world role-playing experience curated by a shadowy organization known as Consumer Recreation Services (CRS).
What begins as a bizarre psychological assessment quickly spirals into a terrifying reality. Nicholas finds himself trapped in a web of surveillance, physical threats, and the potential erasure of his entire fortune. As his paranoia deepens, every interaction becomes suspect; a sympathetic waitress (Deborah Kara Unger) may be a plant, and his brother’s safety becomes a haunting uncertainty. The core mystery shifts from the rules of the game to its very existence. Fincher masterfully blurring the lines between elaborate prank and genuine conspiracy, forcing both the protagonist and the audience to question the validity of their own perceptions.
It is a testament to Fincher’s reputation for the macabre that The Game is often labeled as one of his “lighter” works, despite its heavy themes of existential dread and suicidal ideation. While it lacks the visceral brutality of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo or the claustrophobic tension of Panic Room, it avoids the nihilistic wallowing of Seven or the satirical aggression of Fight Club. This film serves as a precursor to the more disciplined, precise storytelling seen in his later works like Zodiac and The Social Network, where his clinical style is present but less overtly performative.
Image: NBC/Universal
In many ways, The Game recontextualizes the paranoia thrillers of the 1970s for a more self-absorbed era. Unlike the politically charged conspiracies of Three Days of the Condor, the stakes for Nicholas Van Orton are entirely personal. He isn’t being hunted because he holds state secrets; he’s being targeted because he has lost touch with his own humanity. The film suggests that his greatest danger isn’t a corporate cabal, but his own refusal to confront past trauma and engage with the world outside his ivory tower.
While later films like Tony Scott’s Enemy of the State focused on the burgeoning anxieties of the digital age, The Game remains refreshingly analog. Its deceptions are physical and intimate, relying more on performance and stagecraft than high-tech surveillance. It also cleverly acknowledges the audience’s relationship with movie stars; we aren’t just watching a character’s struggle, but participating in the voyeuristic thrill of seeing a cinematic icon systematically broken down. The ultimate goal of the “game” is the spiritual rejuvenation of a wealthy man—a premise that feels both cynical and strangely earnest.
Image: Polygram Filmed Entertainment/Everett Collection
Beneath the film’s cool, high-contrast palette of blues and browns lies a dry, satirical wit. Fincher provides the audience with exactly what CRS promises Nicholas: an expertly crafted piece of artifice. Compared to the desperate protagonists of Seven or the chaotic rebellion of Fight Club, The Game feels remarkably poised. It asks the same existential questions as his more famous works—is our modern reality a facade?—but it does so with a playful smirk, searching for a way to transform despair into personal growth.
Fincher himself has expressed reservations about the film, suggesting in a 2014 interview that he struggled to nail the final act. Yet, its inclusion in the Criterion Collection—alongside the equally polarizing Benjamin Button—suggests a lasting cultural value that the director might have overlooked. Much like Nicholas Van Orton, Fincher used this project to navigate the complexities of his own rising career, emerging on the other side with his artistic integrity firmly intact.
Source: Polygon
