Movie Marathon #21: Fight Club

by thethreepennyguignol

I remember watching Fight Club when I was sixteen. David Fincher’s adaptation of Chuck Palanhuik’s genius novel really blew my mind the first time I saw it; until this, every grown-up movie I’d seen had been incredibly worthy and slightly boring, but this-this was different. Funny, sexy, clever, engrossing and thrilling, it was one of the handful of movies that I’ve seen more than ten times.

And I can’t stress enough how much I admire this film. Among other things, it suddenly legitimized the existence of Brad Pitt, who I’d seen as little more than a moderately pretty human wig. His interpretation of Tyler Durden is dazzling, you’re equally as caught up in his slick charisma and anarchic idealism as The Narrator. And speaking of the same, Edward Norton turns in a performance that easily matches Pitt’s, the poster boy for disillusioned yuppie losers the world over. And that’s not even going into the rest of the great acting that peppers the movie; from Helena Bonham-Carter setting the screen on fire as the effortlessly sexy she-demon Marla Singer, to a somehow-perfect Meatloaf as a man trying to reclaim his masculinity after a bout of testicular cancer. It’s a grubby, grimy, filthy addition to Fincher’s oeuvre and one that pretty much marks the peak of his electric career.

But I have one issue with Fight Club. The majority of people I’ve watched it with have been men; specifically, middle-class kids with a similair upbringing to mine who have usually fallen in love with Norton’s defiant and violent spiel about men and masculinity in the modern age. And, although I can appreciate the film, understand the themes, and still think the thing is beautifully put together in every way-I’m not a man. Those themes don’t apply to me. And I always get the feeling there’s something about this movie that will never be able to totally get through to me, simply because I don’t have the urge to reclaim my masculinity and prove myself as a man. What with being a girl, and all.

That said, Helena Bonham-Carter kicks proverbial ass.