Analysis of the Source of Horror in David Fincher's Se7en

David Fincher's Se7en successfully creates a horrific world in which a realistic monster challenges the audience's view of monstrosity. In this film, Fincher presents John Doe, a serial killer who kills his victims in accordance to their sinful lives by incorporating his own ironic twists on the seven deadly sins. However, Se7en does not fall into the category of a typical "realist horror" movie, in which we are presented with a disturbed, murderous individual with an unnerving past that has no sense of morals and religion (Freeland). Instead, Fincher has created a nameless, unidentifiable monster: one with no background and no fingerprints, which remains absent or faceless throughout the majority of the film. John Doe has no identity, and from this fact I presume that the horror in Se7en doesn't come from him but from something else that might be even more powerful and terrifying: the realization that we, the audience, are somehow monstrous and evil. I believe that the horror we experience does not merely result from the crimes of one unstable man, but rather from film's suggestion that sin and evil resides in all human beings. John Doe does not horrify us (for most of the film we cannot distinguish him from the other characters), the human capacity for evil and sin within other people and, more appallingly, within ourselves is what is truly horrifying. I'm able to demonstrate this idea in two distinct ways: through Doe's relationship with the other characters, and in the audience's relationship with these characters.

John Doe's particular relationship with Detective Somerset's character shows an undeniable link that causes us to question who John Doe really is and his role in this movie. Doe and Somerset are mirrored images of the same embodied views and traits. Both men, for example, are scholarly, and have an appreciation for libraries and great literature. More importantly, however, are the men's similar disgust for the sinful city in which they live. Both Doe and Somerset recognize the ugliness of their world, and both try to change it in their own way (Doe kills, Somerset arrests). Even the characters' dialogues parallel each other's as if Fincher desperately tries to convey a message though these similarities. This becomes especially evident when each character has a conversation with Detective Mills, the younger, more inexperienced detective. Somerset, throughout the film, attempts to teach Mills about the unbearable evil that constantly goes on in the city, and his reasons for wanting to retire: "I just don't think I can continue to live in a place that embraces and nurtures apathy as if it was a virtue." Later in the film, we learn that John Doe also wants to act as a teacher, and Somerset's views are reflected in Doe's words, that "we see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it." Both Doe and Somerset are sickened by the concept that so many evil acts happen everyday, and everyone just stands by and does nothing. However, even though they are repulsed by the people that commit the acts and the people that stand by and watch, neither Doe nor Somerset exclude themselves. When Mills and Somerset hold a conversation in the bar after work, Mills recognizes that Somerset is "no different, no better" than people he condemns. Somerset responds by saying, "I didn't say I was different or better. I'm not. Hell, I sympathize." The same happens to Doe while all three characters are driving in the car; Mills berates Doe by calling him a murderer and a lunatic, and Doe responds by claiming that he's "not special" and that he's really no different from anyone else. Doe even recognizes his own sin (envy) and punishes himself in accordance to his message.

The similarities between Doe and Somerset are numerous throughout the film, but these connections lead the viewer to ask the question, "why?" Why would Fincher create a seemingly psychotic murderer that had the same views and traits as a likeable, sane, relatable character? I believe the reason in relating these characters is to create the possibility that John Doe is not insane, that he is "not the devil", and, as Somerset puts it, "just a man". Fincher includes several scenes that indicate the problems of calling Doe insane, and he does this mostly through Somerset's role. Detective Mills is usually the one who is quick to label Doe as a "lunatic", and it is Somerset who sets him straight: "It's dismissive to call him a lunatic". Somerset is so closely related to Doe's character, that, as an audience member, we cannot ignore his constant avoidance of calling Doe insane. At the end, Doe also scolds Mills on the way he identifies him: "It's more comfortable for you to label me insane." Also, we learn through Doe's lawyer, that categorizing John as a lunatic sets him free from having to go to prison. It appears that Fincher tries to create the idea of the possibility of his sanity, without fully pushing it on the audience, in order to make him less of an unspeakable, fantastic monster, and more like us. We relate to Doe through his similarities to the sane and understandable Somerset.

On the other hand, perhaps we can relate to Doe through Somerset because throughout the majority of the movie, Doe appears to be everyone and no one at the same time. Through most of the film, Doe is invisible. We see the results of his crimes without seeing the criminal himself. No witness can distinguish him, and he has accessibility to a wide range of places in which he is able to perform his murders. Not even the man who built a serrated dildo for Doe's "Lust" murder can identify him to the detectives, because he didn't believe Doe's request or Doe himself was out of the ordinary. His absence and ability to remain unrecognized gives this underlying feeling that he could be anywhere and could be anyone. In the meantime, Fincher places us in the setting of a city consumed by crime and sin, and in the search for Doe we are faced with the hopelessness of human existence. It becomes clear that it may be impossible to find Doe in a city filled with sinners. Even when Doe turns himself in, he walks in to the police station, covered in blood, and still has to yell at the detectives in order to be paid any recognition. Detectives Mills and Somerset first realize his invisibility themselves when they come face-to-face with Doe for the first time and he is not recognized. He pretends to be an annoying photographer and even takes a picture of Mills yelling at him to leave the crime scene. We ourselves might not have even considered this scene at the time, until we find out later that he was in fact the killer. And even then, we struggle to remember what he looked like. Mills' inability to recognize John on the staircase reflects our own inability to recognize him as well.

The character Detective Mills, in fact, mirrors many experiences we have as an audience. He is the young, raw detective who chooses to live in the city and wants to be part of the case. As an audience, we also want to be taken through the case, and we face each murder scene along with Mills in our own inexperience. Even though we experience terror with each victim we encounter[1], like Mills, we feel as if we are personally not included, unattached, and safe as a viewer. However, we are being tricked, and by identifying with Mills we become John's next victim. At the end, when Mills finds out that Doe murdered his wife along with his unborn baby, he finds that he is not unattached, not safe, and not the exception to Doe's message. He is not an observer, but actually directly linked. The real climax doesn't come with the capture of John (which was actually completely unclimactic, since he turned himself in), but when Mills shoots and kills John and now must face the consequences of his actions. Our relationship with Mills now turns into the realization that we could fall victim to our sins as well. We become horrified because we change from a spectator to part of the message.

From Doe's death we are able to recognize that it truly was not his presence that was horrifying, because his death proved to be inadequate in relinquishing the horror that still persisted in the film. He is not the single enemy, and destroying him does not restore good to the world. When Detective Mills kills Doe at the end, we are not left with a feeling of satisfaction that justice has been served and the good guys got their man. We are instead left with a feeling of dread, loss, anxiety, and horror. Killing Doe does not solve anything because evil still exists. Doe is dead, but he still won. He completed his masterpiece and achieved his goal of getting his message across, to both the characters in the film and the viewers watching. Horror didn't die with him; it grew, because the evil that appeared to be coming from Doe is now realized to be coming from the other characters and the city in which they live, and possibly within ourselves.

The truly horrific aura in Se7en comes from the message and not the messenger. This is what makes the movie different from what Freeland refers to as "realist horror". The monster appears to be a real man, a serial killer, but he proves not to be the real monster. The film is seemingly about "men who are unable to connect with the reality around them" (Freeland), but it is in fact about the monster within every person. We don't leave feeling scared of a killer, but scared of what we are capable of doing when faced with a choice that will pull our morality into question. This is similar to Noel Carroll's "art-horror", only in that we are not horrified by the on-screen monster, but only by what the monster represents: sinfulness and the human capability for monstrosity. The movie forces us to look at what we consider punishable sin, what we don't, and how our own sins relate to Jon Doe's, and Fincher's, message.

Works Cited

Carroll, Noel. The Philosophy of Horror. New York: Routledge, 1990.

Freeland, Cynthia A. "Realist Horror". Philosophy and Film. New York: Routledge, 1995.

Mulhall, Stephen. On Film. New York: Routledge, 2002.

[1] The terror we experience with the victims is different from the horror that comes with the possibility of monstrosity within ourselves. As Cavell states in Mulhall's On Film, "terror is of violence, of the violence I might do or might be done to me". We are terrified of the violence portrayed here, but we are horrified that "we are, or may become, something other than we are, or take ourselves for".