The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order (Blu-rays are sorted after DVDs), by June 10, 2015. Remaining movies: 266 Days to go: 260
Movie #111: Fight Club
There’s something oddly fitting about me watching Fight Club, a movie that starts off about insomnia, in the middle of the night unable to sleep. Sometimes things happen to come together at just the right moment, and they coalesce. That’s certainly the case with Fight Club anyway. Fight Club is a story of dualities, of dual identities, and when I talk about Fight Club, I need to separate how Fight Club works as a film from how Fight Club works as a philosophy.
“I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise.”
As a film, Fight Club is superb. The characters are compelling and well-acted. The story is suspenseful and gripping. The direction by David Fincher is just as intense and visually striking as people have come to expect a Fincher film to be. The writing is tight, the dialogue is memorable and the structure is such that the twist is not obvious but clues are evident along the way — so much so that the film loses none of its cachet upon repeated viewings. It is perhaps even more satisfying to watch it after knowing its secret, because then you get the satisfaction of cataloging all its hidden gems. And its ending is shocking and awful and fantastic.
“I am Jack’s smirking revenge.”
As a philosophy, however, Fight Club is tiresome. It’s the culmination of a whole bunch of white males disaffected with their privilege, wreaking havoc in their lives because they’re dissatisfied with their jobs and the kind of furniture they have. They can’t sleep, they can’t feel. They have nothing but disdain for the world that they live in, the world they created, so they lash out with violence and hostility and anger. Instead of being productive members of society, they are destructive, and they couch it all as an expression of their freedom, of taking back their identities. They will blackmail and intimidate and assault and terrorize others in order to get their way, to feel “manly.” No matter how powerful these men are in their minds, in reality they are pathetic and sad and cowardly. In that sense, they are hardly men at all.
“I am Jack’s inflamed sense of rejection.”
Edward Norton plays our narrator, and he is the embodiment of these pathetic men who cling to the philosophy of Fight Club. He stops caring about his appearance, about work, in society, and in not caring, he gains power over these things he was once powerless against. He starts Fight Club to release all his aggression and anger for a life he feels has somehow failed him, onto some other nameless stranger in a crowd. Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt, in his most beautifully ripped physique) represents all our narrator (and the rest of the Fight Club members) aspire to be. He is bold and untethered to society. He is revolutionary in both thought and action. He doesn’t dress the way these men are expected to dress. He doesn’t kowtow to authority or say the things these men are expected to say. He’s the fantasy image of free-thinking, self-made, independent masculinity. He’s, quite literally, too perfect of a subversive role model to be true, but that doesn’t stop all sorts of miserable losers (played by everyone from Meatloaf to Jared Leto to that guy who plays Pinocchio on Once Upon a Time) from buying into his bullshit.
“I am Jack’s broken heart.”
Unsurprisingly, in a film all about the desperate attempts of a man (or several men) to retake their masculinity, the one female role is more as that of an object than a human being, but Helena Bonham Carter plays Marla Singer beautifully. She’s maybe crazy, but mainly due to being broken emotionally and to being manipulated by Tyler. She’s revolutionary in her own right, so she becomes both an object of scorn and a point of fascination. She is vulnerable and needy at times, but it doesn’t stop her from getting angry and standing up for herself when slighted. For a role that could easily have been mishandled and diminished in lesser hands, Carter injects Marla with life and spirit and individuality, and it’s easy to see why the narrator would be repulsed by her, drawn to her, and ultimately protective and affectionate toward her. And for me, she’s the one element that makes the film really worthwhile, and worthy of multiple viewings. She’s the element that, in her own way, both embraces and rejects Fight Club‘s philosophy and makes it a better overall film than the sum of its parts.
“You met me at a very strange time in my life.”
Strictly speaking, though, I really shouldn’t be talking about any of this at all. It’s against the rules.
Viable Option 