Rating: 3 out of 5
Rarely am I so conflicted over a film as I am over David Fincher's preposterously nihilistic Fight Club. The movie struggles to find its groove, then finds it only to be flung far from that groove and any other grooves in sight. It attempts to juggle haunting but comical themes of insomnia and conformity and countless other topics that obviously don't fit together well, but it stubbornly perseveres. Being adapted from Chuck Palahniuk's debut novel, I started off assured that the book handled the material better, but as the film progressed my confidence in that assumption steadily declined. And yet, I find I cannot rightfully say that I entirely dislike it.
The film stars and is narrated monotonously by Edward Norton. He plays a white-collar office drone trapped in a life that is the epitome of mundane, characterized only by his terrible insomnia. Prompted by his unsympathetic physician, he attends a support group meeting for victims of testicular cancer, and in the arms of the hefty Bob (Meat Loaf), he is finally able to release all of his bottled up emotions. Soon he is addicted, visiting support groups for everything from tuberculosis to degenerative brain disease. It is a perfect situation, until he comes across another phony: the chain-smoking wacko Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter). He engages her in a couple conversations, but they prove to be largely unimportant when his condo explodes during a business trip and he winds up living in a large decrepit house with a mysterious, mischievous soap maker named Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt). The two discuss consumerism and other vaguely interesting whatnot, and find they rather fancy beating the bejesus out of each other. After establishing the titular organization where men can violently vent their frustrations, they become underground legends. However, Durden (and consequently their plans) soon begin to push the borders of stability and sanity.
The heart of Fight Club lies in the middle act. The films was obviously made and marketed with not much but this part in mind. It is where Fincher's style and Jim Uhls' screenplay actually work together to create something not just entertaining, but meaningful as well. For the rest of the film, at least one of them wildly opposes that goal. The first section could be expanded on its own into a delightfully dark satire, but instead is subject to Fincher's flamboyant affinity to turn every other moment into something earth-shattering. But then, no, the film decides it doesn't want to be a satire about addiction and (real) support groups. It wants to be -- and as far as I know this is the official explanation -- about a generation of everymen searching for their masculinity. Good, we can work with that. It's got a message and a means of delivering that message. But no, the film is like a 6-year-old that doesn't know when to stop, and soon the mayhem is reaching levels that not only can't be taken seriously, but can't really be taken any way. That plot twist everyone's talking about? It is atrociously small-minded, good for maybe a couple thrills to those who haven't given up on the movie, but completely unsupportable both before and after the fact.
I honestly can't decide if I like this film. There are some very well-made scenes for which I'd certainly watch it again, and overall the acting is quite impressive (fittingly, at least). But it can't be ignored that the screenplay is despicably flawed, delivering no message and taking excessive liberties, like with the inexplicable success of Durden's soap business, and, even more irritatingly, allowing the character of Marla to diffuse in and out of the plot at its convenience. Fincher's obsessive, visually striking style tries to cover up these issues instead of remedy them, making it clear that he has no interest in telling a cohesive story.
I'd like to think that this film isn't supposed to be liked or disliked. I'd like to think that it is supposed to be debated and interpreted so many different ways. I'd like to think that its lack of purpose is actually its whole point, consciously or unconsciously. I'd like to think all of this, but the film itself doesn't allow it. It gets caught up in its own delusions of grandeur, and dilutes all themes with its own macho-ness. Could they have done a better job? Maybe. But it is what it is. I appreciate Fight Club as an inventive artistic contribution to the cinema, but I can't sincerely call it a good one.
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