Fight Club

"Fight Club" combines biting satire, visceral action, dark humor, unexpected pathos, and Brad Pitt's least annoying performance ever to deliver an indictment of the culture of masculinity in the latter half of the twentieth century. It pulls no punches (literally and figuratively), shies away from no taboos, and experiments relentlessly. This film sometimes succeeds brilliantly in provoking shocks of recognition of feelings you weren't aware you had, and sometimes falls flat on its face trying to do the same thing, but always keeps moving, keeps trying new things. The result is an exhilarating ride, a mind-bending thesis presentation, and a bona fide great American movie. This movie provokes thought, stays with you for days, and could conceivably change your life.

That is, if you are male. "Fight Club" has absolutely nothing to say to those without Y chromosomes. Indeed, women will probably be repulsed by the one female character, who seems to be in the movie only so that the male characters can practice their misogyny. A viewer with his or her social-science ear to the ground will probably be struck by the similarity between this movie's thesis and Susan Faludi's recent book, "Stiffed," which hasn't been getting a great reception among feminists either. Both accuse the culture of acquisition and appearance of setting up impossible expectations for the average man, who has enough trouble getting a six-pack of beer, let alone a six-pack of abs. The result is a melancholy sense of pointlessness and failure, which some men (such as the men presently under consideration) try to fight back against with pointless violence. In this film, they set up the titular fight club in a dirty, dank basement and have at each other until one man can take no more. Eventually, of course, it all gets to be Too Much, and everyone starts strolling down the well-trod path of self-destruction.

It's to this movie's credit that it never feels like a treatise. Of course, no film that contains this much hand-to-hand violence can be dry, but that's not all. Dark humor courses through this film, mostly delivered by Edward Norton in his wonderfully sardonic voice-over, and effectively advances the plot while consistently delivering the rueful yuks. David Fincher, who directed "Seven" (another movie featuring a not-so-annoying performance by Brad Pitt), has apparently never met a weird computer animated special effect that he didn't want to put in this film. The effects work; the opening rush up someone's spinal cord as the opening credits roll does a splendid job of setting the mood, and another effect that makes Norton appear to be strolling through an Ikea catalog is the funniest scene on screen this year. Fincher also provides his trademark photogenic decayed, dank urban locales which over the years have proved the main event of so many nightmares, and which fit this film exceptionally well.

The actors in these locales comport themselves with a similar, very appropriate dankness. Edward Norton, who just seems to get better with every film, imbues his archetypal Frustrated Male character with a wonderful sarcasm and self-awareness. His pasty-white face, bereft of expression, and constantly slack jaw communicate perfectly his vague sense of unrealized alienation. Brad Pitt is just the man to identify and detonate that alienation, playing the role of the id to the hilt, all snarling and slurring words and quick, impulsive, restless motion. The only problem with him is that no one who looks like Brad Pitt is at all qualified to critique the obsession with appearance that has overtaken Modern Man. It is hard not to wince when Mr. Female Swooning looks at an underwear ad on a bus and asks rhetorically, "Do men really look like that?" Well, you do, Brad.

The above-mentioned thankless female role is played by Helena Bonham Carter (!), and basically consists of being skankily attractive and acting pissed when Norton and Pitt are being asses, which happens fairly frequently, especially when they are ignoring her transparent allusions to past sexual abuse. It's hard to stomach this behavior in an absolute sense, but it fits into the film's emotional system. (Feminists looking for something to protest should note that the film does not approve of Norton and Pitt's actions, but it rankles nonetheless.)

"Fight Club" does have flaws. It runs a bit longer than it needs to. Some sections, such as the one that introduces meta-film jokes into the film, simply don't work. And it's still hard to see why the movie couldn't have included a semi-sympathetic female character. But this shouldn't take away from "Fight Club""s great accomplishment: it deals with great themes of modern American life, doesn't shrink away from any of the messy details, and yet remains an engrossing, entertaining, and provocative film. You heard it here first: "Fight Club" is the best film you'll see this year.

Another step forward, review-wise: the prose is a bit tauter and I feel a bit more self-assurance. The first few gains are the easiest. Progress becomes much slower after I get back from winter break after my first year at Maryland.

I realized a bit after I wrote this that, while "Fight Club" was the best film I'd seen that year, that did not exactly mean it was the best film anyone reading this would see that year. I softened my praise in the future.

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