What it must have been like to see Se7en in 1995. After the diatribe that was Alien 3, David Fincher’s serial killer followup must have struck as a revelation. Certainly, that would have been my reaction; Se7en is one of the finest films of the 1990s. Hell, it’s it’s one of the finest films ever made, period, mastering genre tropes and knowing which to tweak and which to keep. Without necessarily knowing the disastrous production troubles that had befallen the second Alien sequel, audiences and critics might have expected another insipid offering pulp thrills and little else. It’s true Se7en’s first goal is to entertain—however twisted that may seem given the film’s constant urge to disturb—but it’s also a vital cultural artifact, using the serial killer genre to unshackle the deep moral problems of today. But hindsight is 20/20, and alas, the critics of 1995, some of whom are still the critics of 2014, embraced the film as entertainment but dismissed it as art.





For those that don’t know, Se7en is a 1995 crime film about two detectives (Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman) chasing a mysterious serial killer who designs his kills to “turn each sin against the sinner.” These sins, the older and more thoughtful of the detectives explains, are the Christian seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. We are later told by the serial killer himself that he’s doing god’s good work, and that he’s exacting vengeance on a city in a state of moral decay. Though it was shot on location in and around downtown L.A, the setting of Se7en famously goes unmentioned. Instead of hearing Chicago, Manhattan, or L.A., we hear the ominous “city”, which is constantly barraged by a moody deluge of heavy rainfall, referred to as “This place.” The refined but apathetic Detective William Somerset (played with wisdom and grace by a rarely better Morgan Freeman) is sick of his unpleasant existence living in a wicked city, and is set to retire. His replacement is the total opposite: Detective David Mills (Brad Pitt), a tousled, crude (a neck tie adorned with basketballs does not go unnoticed), and of considerable annoyance to Sumerset, idealistic up and commer.





The killings are creatively perverse and perversely creative, and are capable of significant shock value. One of them, which I won’t specify here, features one of the best jump scares I have ever seen. Over the years I’ve seen Se7en with many groups of people in many different settings, and each time people’s bodies shiver with nausea. The viewer’s orientation to the seven deadly sins need not delay, since it isn’t long before the detectives are called to investigate a private residence, in the center of which is a 400 pound fat man. He’s seated, face down, with his head implanted in gigantic bowl of spaghetti sauce. Gluttony. Almost as though he’s warning unwitting audiences to leave, Fincher does us a friendly courtesy in Se7en’s opening minutes. Unlike the disgustingly elaborate sadism shown in the rest of the film, the first crime scene (which isn’t tied to the seven deadly sins) is merely of a marriage dispute that ended with a husband’s brains and blood on the wall. Cue offended moms leaving with their disgruntled teenagers.



