As we are all, by now, aware the first rule of “Fight Club” is that you do not talk about it. An ironic wink by director David Fincher surely, because after viewing his jet-black comedy shot in a blistering, hyper-intense style, with a score that punches you full on in the cajones, and standout performances from Brad Pitt and Edward Norton, then talk about it you will.

“Fight Club”, essentially, is Marxism for the masses, an idiosyncratic (albeit extremely clever) wink at a faux Neo-Nazi, pro-violence world, one giant shock tactic that raises some very important questions of self, human existence and self-improvement. There's no doubting this was one of the most distinctive and exciting pieces of direction of 1999. Fincher fully envelopes the violent and bleak humour and anti-social rants in a sleek mixture of computer aided trickery, while Jim Uhls' script is tormented, nasty and brilliant.

We are introduced to the world of Jack (Norton), our narrator, a directionless everybloke who, when not weathering the stormy banality of every-day life, or trying to fulfil his existence with clever Njurunda coffee tables with a Yin Yang pattern, tries to cure his insomnia by garnering the sympathy of assorted nocturnal self-help groups, where he is introduced to ‘tourist’ Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter), a woman he both loves and loathes, and with whom he develops a very “shared” relationship.

Something has to break, and it does so in spectacular fashion when Jack meets Tyler Durden (Pitt) on the plane home from a business trip. Upon arriving back at his apartment he find a volcanic blast of burning gas and debris that used to be his furniture and a gutted, charred concrete hole in the cliffside of the building. So he calls Tyler, who invites him to crash round his place. And then invites him to have a ruck in a car park. Which he does - the simple act of man-on-man rucking reminding Jack not only that he’s alive, but that does – indeed – have balls.

To be honest, there are so many ways to read “Fight Club” that it’s almost impossible that everyone will read it the same way. To many it could be a fascistic call to action for a generation of ball-less wonders, who have been raised by women their entire lives (that Jack attends a group for sufferers of testicular cancer all but supports this theory). Or is it a satire on modern feminism’s cartoon-like views of modern day man? Or is it simply a super-black comedy, asking us to question our very own value system? Pick and choose, makes up a lot of the fun.

Norton is as fine as ever – here he wonderfully overplays the Jekyll and Hyde persona so graciously realised in “Primal Fear - , but Pitt is the standout, lending Tyler a mesmeric sense of glamour and danger (though quite how some overly-pampered Hollywood pretty boy with a $3million mansion and a celebrity wife can preach to the masses about the reliance of material possessions stinks to high-heaven of hypocrisy). As for the fights themselves – vicious, brutal and bloody brawls accompanied by the chilling sound of cracking bones - they publish the movie’s most rebellious image: man reduced to it’s neanderthal, primitive state, beating each other into blood-drenched pulps with caved-in heads sporting huge, pleasured smiles.

The element of note, naturally, is Fincher’s scorching, breathtaking technique. From an opening title sequence that manages to out-do and outclass anything he’s attempted before, he presents the viewer with a manic melee of celluloid sorcery. Flash cuts, subliminal images, fake cue dots, and camerawork so intense that the film shakes to it’s very edges. . . it’s an absolute beast of a movie, an angry b*stard-child of a film that has been gleefully caged until is ready to head into the world, jaws a-snapping.

Unfortunately, it is also the blistering pace that in a way proves to be the films down point. It all starts at such a break-neck speed that it simply cannot maintain the high-level of surprise evident early on, and from the moment Project Mayhem is established, some of the sly blackness leaks out, and after a number of implausible – and somewhat misplaced - plot developments in the last reel, it relapses into an entertaining but sadly empty-headed comedy. And the so-called twist – for all its subtle and clever nods – is an absolute stinker, resulting in the loss of courage of its gleefully nasty convictions. If only it had the spine to out-Seven “Seven”, we could have been talking about cinematic perfection.

In the end, Fincher’s brilliant film is, refreshingly, one of those rare Hollywood films that is not afraid to follow through with its punches. Graphic, harsh and extremely thought provoking, “Fight Club” is about as entertaining as filmmaking is going to get for the foreseeable future. Plus, it’s got the most interesting use of soap, in cinema, ever.



Recommended:
Yes

Viewing Format: VHS
Video Occasion: Fit for Friday Evening
Suitability For Children: Not suitable for Children of any age