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All films take a certain suspension of disbelief.
Fight Club takes perhaps more than others, but if you're willing to let yourself get caught up in the anarchy, this film, based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk, is a modern-day morality play warning of the decay of society. Edward Norton is the unnamed protagonist, a man going through life on cruise control, feeling nothing. To fill his hours, he begins attending support groups and 12-step meetings. True, he isn't actually afflicted with the problems, but he finds solace in the groups. This is destroyed, however, when he meets Marla (Helena Bonham Carter), also faking her way through groups. Spiraling back into insomnia, Norton finds his life is changed once again, by a chance encounter with Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), whose forthright style and no-nonsense way of taking what he wants appeal to our narrator. Tyler and the protagonist find a new way to feel release: they fight. They fight each other, and then as others are attracted to their ways, they fight the men who come to join their newly formed Fight Club. Marla begins a destructive affair with Tyler, and things fly out of control, as Fight Club grows into a nationwide fascist group that escapes the protagonist's control.
Fight Club, directed by David Fincher (Seven), is not for the faint of heart; the violence is no holds barred. But the film is captivating and beautifully shot, with some thought-provoking ideas. Pitt and Norton are an unbeatable duo, and the film has some surprisingly humorous moments. The film leaves you with a sense of profound discomfort and a desire to see it again, if for no other reason than to just to take it all in. --Jenny Brown
A grunge rhapsody on fascist, sadomasochistic, and homoerotic themes. Edward Norton's alienated office worker becomes the protégé of Brad Pitt, a happy-go-lucky warrior who vanquishes the inner nerd in other men (in a high point of generosity, he pours acid on Norton's hand). Since the two men enjoy brawling in the street, they open up an organization they call "fight club," in which other alienated men happily beat, gouge, and batter one another. Soon there are fight clubs all over the country and groups of proudly lacerated believers who recognize one another by their purple bruises. The director, David Fincher, attains a mood of sardonic disaffection; the camera is rambunctious and alive, the lighting viciously dark. But this fantasia, for all its skill, is ridiculous and even boring. We're meant to take the male bonding and the blood rituals as a protest against the sterility of corporate life and modern design, but Fincher's sadomasochistic kicks overwhelm any possible social critique. With Helena Bonham Carter, a tiny, pale Expressionist vamp, who sleeps with the two men-a beard, as it were. Written by Jim Uhls, from the novel by Chuck Palahniuk. -David Denby
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker