David Fincher has never been one for sentiment. From Se7en to Zodiac to Netflix series Mindhunter, his work is interested in unpacking the darkest parts of our humanity with the cold precision of an ice pick. His latest The Killer, now streaming on Netflix, is no exception.

Based on Alexis Nolent and Luc Jacamon’s graphic novel of the same name, The Killer follows its unnamed assassin as a botched job propels him into a vendetta that breaks his one rule: never make it personal. Michael Fassbender stars as the titular character, bringing the chilling brutality he so often possesses on screen to its most emotionally detached rendering yet. His assassin is a killing machine, a man whose patience, precision, and physical fitness have made him perfect for his job.

With a reptilian coldness, Fassbender infuses the “Killer” with an eerie stillness that underscores the character’s lack of empathy and warmth. He’s in fine physical form, flowing through complicated yoga poses that help establish this character’s grounded-ness, which is belied by his sociopathic occupation.

Much of the film is conveyed in narration through voiceover, as we hear the thoughts in Fassbender’s head. He is a man of few words, speaking only the bare minimum required to get through daily interactions. We watch him deliver dialogue on camera only a handful of times. It’s effective in conveying his detachment, but by and large, it makes Andrew Kevin Walker’s script far too verbose, telling instead of showing.

Through this voiceover, we learn the killer’s rules, that doesn’t believe in luck, karma, or justice. We repeatedly hear the mantra he recites to himself in the moments leading up to a kill, which includes the notion that “empathy is weakness.” But when his partner is brutalized in an attempt to hunt him down, that goes out the window, as he seeks to mete out revenge on those responsible. He maintains his mantra, reciting it like a prayer, but it’s clear to us that his inner monologue is a lie. There’s no way this isn’t personal.

Fincher revels in this juxtaposition, the ways in which this character moves from “I don’t give a f—” to “f— it.” But it all feels entirely hollow, a revenge drama that wants us to root for, or at the least, engage with a sociopath who can’t recognize the limits of his own life code or the capitalist web even he is caught in.

Because it is David Fincher, the action is unquestionably rendered exquisitely. Cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt, who has partnered with Fincher since Mindhunter, composes each frame of the movie with as much meticulousness as the protagonist does his kills. They evoke the exactitude of our central character with rigor, and the composition is extraordinary. But it’s all technique, no feeling, which is deliberate, but not successful.

The most interesting scene comes late in the film between Fassbender and Tilda Swinton’s “the Expert” over an elegant meal. These actors are similar creatures, their piercing unusualness their most defining aspect on screen. Facing off against each other here, it’s amusing to watch Swinton’s Expert try to exhibit more feeling than Fassbender’s Killer. It requires palpable effort. Unlike his ascetic approach, she’s found ways to suck the marrow from life and is the only one able to emphasize his own hypocrisy.

The central conceit of The Killer is an intriguing one, but nothing here ever hangs together. Structured into “chapters,” the film plays out in brutal vignettes as the Killer executes the various jobs he’s assigned to himself. There’s an appeal in watching him orchestrate things. We can find humor in his sitcom-inspired aliases and some degree of admiration in his extreme competence and preparation. But we don’t ever break through the veneer of his psyche, despite being asked to go on this journey with him.

The film doesn’t need to have a Code-era comeuppance or morality (indeed, the film’s only moral conjecture seems to be that ethics are irrelevant in late-stage capitalism), but it does need stakes, a reason to invest in this character’s mission beyond being impressed by his skill.

It’s clear that Fincher wanted the entire picture to carry the emotional detachment of its main character, to convey that in everything from a spare shooting style to its white and gray color palette to the killer’s limited wardrobe. But The Killer is about a man so shrouded in denial that nothing can puncture it. Watching that from arm’s length is hardly riveting. Fincher is adept at excoriating the darkness of the human soul, but he’s missed his mark with a character so blindly determined to prove he doesn’t have one.