In a short story I wrote previously for my book An Itinerant Observer, I recounted an encounter in Istanbul with a man who introduced himself as Erdogan. Under the guise of hospitality and historical insight, he lured me into a situation where trust became both a weapon and a lesson. The experience was a reminder of the parable of the scorpion and the turtle — creatures compelled by their inherent nature, even when it leads to mutual destruction.
Fast forward 15 years, I continue to reflect, exploring similar cycles of behaviour through the Netflix movie The Killer (2023). Using the lens of contemporary cinema, ancient Sufi stories, existential philosophy, and above all, experiential learning, I shall delve into how individuals, like the hunter or the assassin, are often trapped in rituals of self-destruction, driven by forces they scarcely understand.
From the narrow streets of Istanbul to the shadowed forests of The Killer, patterns of human nature repeat themselves. In The Killer, these patterns crystallise through the character Q-Tip's telling of the parable of the bear and the hunter, a tale that mirrors Erdogan’s manipulative charm and the scorpion’s unyielding sting.
The parable of the bear and the hunter
In David Fincher's The Killer, Q-Tip, played with icy poise by Tilda Swinton, delivers the following story to the assassin with the force of a moral sledgehammer. A hunter repeatedly goes into the woods to kill a bear. Each time, he fails, is overpowered, and humiliated in the most graphic and degrading way. The bear isn’t content with merely overpowering the hunter.
After pinning him down, the bear gives him a choice: "I can kill you, or I can sodomise you."
Thrice in a row, the hunter chooses the latter - after surviving and healing, he returns armed with bigger, more comical weapons, culminating in a bazooka whose recoil sends him tumbling down a hill in a scene both pathetic and revealing.
When the bear approaches him once more, towering over his defeated form, it delivers a line dripping with mockery and cruel insight: "I don't think you're actually coming here to kill me."
This seemingly simple story — laced with violence, dark humor, and existential weight — transcends its surface narrative. It feels timeless, almost mythological, echoing fables and philosophical narratives from traditions far older than modern cinema.
But its placement in The Killer raises questions: What drives the hunter to keep returning? What does the bear symbolise? And why does the story linger so long after the credits roll?
Layered interpretations
At face value, the story is about failure, escalation, and the inability to learn from past mistakes. But beneath that surface lies a psychological labyrinth. On the surface level, the hunter keeps returning because he believes he can overcome his failure through brute force. Each bigger weapon represents his misplaced confidence. On the psychological one, the hunter might not be failing by accident. His repeated returns, his consistent failure, and his acceptance of punishment suggest a subconscious desire — not for victory, but for humiliation and powerlessness.
At the existential level, the bear represents something primal and inescapable. For the hunter, the cycle is no longer about winning or losing; it’s about the ritual itself. It’s about returning to the woods because he doesn’t know how not to. However, there is a flicker of something else in the hunter’s eyes every time he chooses humiliation over death — a twisted, unspoken glee. The ritual isn’t just punishment; it’s an experience he cannot resist repeating.
Q-Tip’s calm delivery makes the story more than just a darkly comic anecdote — it becomes a mirror held up to The Killer himself. Is he hunting closure, revenge, or — like the hunter — is he subconsciously chasing the cycle itself? The cycle reminds me of quite a few people around me who repeatedly make self-defeating choices, not out of ignorance, but because the ritual itself becomes a source of strange comfort.
Fincher's philosophy: The Killer & Fight Club
David Fincher is no stranger to these themes. In Fight Club (1999), Tyler Durden’s anarchic philosophy tears down the illusion of control. The Narrator isn’t just fighting Tyler — he’s fighting himself. In The Killer, the assassin operates under a rigid professional code, but Q-Tip’s parable cracks open his façade, revealing the contradictions within his pursuit of control. Both films share core threads:
Cycles of self-destruction: Whether it’s The Killer returning to violence or the Narrator to Tyler, Fincher’s characters are trapped in loops.
The illusion of control: The tools they bring to ‘win’ — bigger weapons, sharper plans — only deepen their entrapment.
Philosophical ambiguity: There’s rarely a clear moral answer in a Fincher story; instead, there’s an existential question left hanging in the air.
For years, I have been drawn to Fincher's Fight Club not just as a viewer, but as an educator. Its commentary on identity, self-destruction, and societal conformity inspired me to incorporate it into the leadership curriculum for the Innovation Fellowship programme I run. In one exercise, based on Fight Club, participants reflect on contemporary leadership dilemmas through Tyler Durden's soliloquies and existential themes. Additionally, Einzelgänger’s analysis on Fight Club further highlights the enduring relevance of these ideas.
Sufi teaching stories: cycles and nature
The parable of the scorpion and the turtle illustrates this perfectly. As the turtle offers the scorpion a ride across the river, the scorpion stings halfway through, dooming them both. When asked why, the scorpion replies, "It’s in my nature."
The inevitability of cycles — even self-destructive ones — is at the heart of both this story and Fincher's The Killer. Similarly, Mullah Nasruddin searching under a streetlamp for a lost key (even though he lost it elsewhere) underscores humanity's tendency to look for answers where the light is easiest, not where the truth resides.
The cycle and the mirror
Whether David Fincher is consciously channelling Sufi philosophy or simply tapping into a universal human theme doesn’t really matter. The result is the same: his stories act as mirrors. They reflect our cycles, our rituals, and our unspoken desires back at us.
The real question isn’t whether we recognise these cycles, but whether we have the courage to break them. Or, perhaps, whether we even want to.
Asad Mian, MD, PhD, is a physician, researcher, innovator, and freelance writer. With a background in paediatric emergency medicine and a passion for human-centred design thinking, he explores intersections between healthcare, education, innovation, and culture in his writing
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