Puttin' the smack down

reviewed Thu, 07 Oct 1999 23:56:02 EDT

Fight Club is one freaky-ass, sick, dark, fucked-up movie. Not for the weak of stomach (if I'd had dinner, I might have lost it) nor faint of heart, it's sort of beyond conventional descriptions like "good" or "bad" -- it's just FREAKY. The first half is a brilliant pitch-black comedy of an office drone (the fantastic Edward Norton) who finds a way to subvert his humdrum, meaningless work through beating the crap out of his new bizarro friend Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt). We can all identify with that -- I mean, who hasn't, at some point in their career, stood over a copier, light flashing on your face, telling yourself, "This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time" (I think I'm going to get that embroidered on a pillow). Not that it necessarily makes you want to beat the crap out of Brad Pitt... actually, it makes ME want to do something else with Brad Pitt...

The writing is bitingly sharp, gleefully and viciously exhilirating. Norton and Pitt are tremendous, though Norton has the more nuanced role and thus does the better job. And their personal trainers ought to get a nom for the Best Buff Job Oscar -- good golly Miss Molly, them boys gots them some ABS!

So, the first half: hot men, scathingly caustic humor, mockery of our culture of support groups and corporate homogeneity, and an amazingly contemporary Helena Bonham Carter -- this film's heading up my ten best of the year list with a bullet. But then it comes over all freaky like. It becomes a surreal nightmare that left me dazed -- although perhaps that was intentional on the part of director David Fincher (Seven), because suddenly Norton's character "wakes up" and realizes what's happening, and the film crystallizes quickly after that. So if he meant for us to feel drugged and stupefied along with Norton, mission accomplished. It gets way out of hand, although in retrospect, the over-the-top craziness is justifiable.

Well, speaking of feeling drugged, my sleeping pills are starting to kick in, and as at least one of you out there can attest, once the pills start percolating, my writing skills plummet downhill faster than Jean-Claude Killy on rocket skis. So, quick sum up: not a family film, pretty damn unique, not as good as Seven (and if you thought the deaths in Seven were gruesome, there are definitely scenes in Fight Club that go one step further). Hard to either recommend or not -- if you think you can handle the freakiness, you definitely ought to see it, because it's original and different. (Oh, the pills are fogging my vocabulary....)

Just a closing thought: I read in Premiere that Fincher inserted four subliminal still shots of Pitt; "the film will jump, but the audience won't know what it's seen" (I definitely saw something that I recognized as a promotional shot of Pitt for one of the original posters, but it was superimposed in the corner of the screen in a quick flash, so I'm not sure if that counts). I'd feel a lot less uneasy about that statement if I knew exactly what those shots were of. Brad naked? Brad bloody? Brad announcing he's going to run for president?

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