|
|
|
|
|||
| Experiencing
director David Fincher's explosive new film Fight Club is akin to punching
a wall of glass with your fist — though the fragments prick and tear at
your skin, the pain is mixed with the delirious, reviving feeling of being
truly alive. It's a splash of cold water on all of our faces, a daring
and surprising (some might say irresponsible) major Hollywood studio release;
a potentially dangerous, anarchistic film that will surely be greeted
with as much controversy as excitement. To describe Fight Club's storyline
without giving it away is tricky. Based on the novel by Chuck Palanhiuk,
it's the tale of a nameless insomniac (Edward Norton) who begins attending
cancer and disease support groups, faking whatever illness applies, in
a desperate attempt to reconnect with his own humanity. It's an innovative,
albeit pitiful, remedy for his deadening lifestyle as a corporate cog
and slave to consumerism. Enter Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a sleazy, sweaty, soap salesman intent on introducing Norton's nameless lemming to a more fulfilling way of living. Together they establish an underground fistfighting club, a place where frustrated men can reconnect with their primal needs by pummeling each other senseless. Soon fight clubs begin to pop up all over the country, endowing Tyler with the power to start his own fanatical army of followers bent on sabotaging a too-civilized nation with deliberate, organized chaos. But when the very screwed-up Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) makes the duo into a combustible threesome, things begin to spin violently out of control. Much like David Cronenberg's Crash, Fight Club is a thoroughly warped, ambisexually erotic, nihilistic thought-provoker fused with an unlikely but entertaining Twilight Zone premise. Whether you accept the huge U-turn the story eventually takes will depend on how addicted you are to this film by the time the twist occurs. In hindsight, most will agree that the flick's outcome doesn't make a lick of sense, and ultimately Fight Club works best as a visually arresting, immensely satisfying adrenaline rush and/or a devilish black comedy. At the core of this wonderfully cancerous film is a trio of flawless performances. Brad Pitt is terrific as the oft-unclothed, semi-fascistic troublemaker Tyler Durden, a role that effectively showcases both the actor's ample sex appeal and expanding acting talent. Edward Norton is nothing short of brilliant in an Oscar-worthy performance that requires that he flash through a catalogue of emotions while simultaneously keeping this outrageous tale believable. However, Helena Bonham Carter may be the best of the bunch — absolutely galvanizing with her hilarious, on-target characterization of the chain-smoking Marla. Another star here is Jeff Cronenweth's truly amazing cinematography, which lets slip a dazzling array of startling, unforgettable images. In one sequence I will never forget, Norton's character walks through his apartment, which transforms into a three-dimensional page from an Ikea catalog, complete with free-floating furniture descriptions and prices. Also worth noting is the ultra-effective yet unobtrusive techno score by The Dust Brothers, which provides both ambience and emphasis akin to David Holmes' work on Out of Sight. And, of course, there is director Fincher himself, whose beguiling film career continues to evolve in tantalizing new directions. Tyler Durden is a character destined to be embraced by movie buffs with the same devious enthusiasm as Travis Bickle (Taxi Driver) and Keyser Soze (The Usual Suspects). Had it not compromised its own malignant power with an implosive conclusion, Fincher's film would easily have been one of the most staggering movie achievements of the '90s. As it is, Fincher has created a hypnotic high that runs so fast and entertains so furiously that you can almost forgive it for painting itself into a conventional corner by the end. I can't wait to see it again. |
||||
| ||||
|
|
|
| | | |
|
|
