Fight Club Review (Unpublished, 2004)
December 7, 2009, 1:21 am
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One U.S reviewer at the time pontificated that Fight Club, released in the last months of a dying 20th century, could only hope to find its audience in hell. For a while Fincher and friends looked like the sniggering pixies of Hollywood with f*ck you scrawled on their knuckles. A career-best flop for the seemingly infallalable Pitt and business as usual for the studio-cursed Fincher, neither seemed bothered owing to the singular opportunity FC afforded both to visit the mainstream with a never again witnessed leftfield subvesion. In between sweating carcasses leaking diesel for blood, monumental man mammaries and more than one instances of righteous cool, a maelstrom of incendiary idea and imagery is zapped across screen.

So what if the Wachowskis reveal Bullet-Timeto the world months earlier. Fight Club astonishes with hordes of similarly scintillating rug-pulling moments, employing of a bqnquet of futuristic technique in what  can still be defined as a black comedy, not sci-fi. Most memorable of the tech being Fincher’s pioneering ‘virtua-cinematography’ bag o’tricks.  Se7en looks as visually inventive as a 70’s Australian soap in comparison, with Fincher emblazonimg an inimitable style onto the sometimes literally unfurling celluloid. Dizzying and dazzling and built on an acutely stylish neon-macabre cinematography, Visually steets ahead of it’s  time Fight Club did more more to advance cinematic form than a thousand films since Bladerunner.

Tyler Durden, punk provocateur and ultimately ghoul to Edward Norton’s narrator is Brad Pitt’s career zenith, Norton’s own waspish intelligence is yet to be better employed. Adapting from Chuck Palhanuik’s acidic novel Jim Uhls aces the job of engineering the multi-story complexity required for a twist script without subtracting from the bite of Palhannik’s staccato prose.

Since Fight Club’s hi-tech millennial gut punch there seems to be a leaning towards the whimsical 70’s informed from 21st century auteurs the likes of Wes Anderson, David O Russel and Michael Gondry. High time then, for Fincher to destroy something beautiful.