Hi there folks, Harry here. I can't comment on Moriarty's review... I won't read it... yet... I just saw FIGHT CLUB, I'm set to begin writing my own review and I don't want to be influenced by Moriarty's words. So I'll say this... Knowing Moriarty, I'm willing to bet he'd tell you before going into spoiler territory.... so if he does say... that he's going to discuss spoilers... go away. And stay out of TALK BACK unless you have seen FIGHT CLUB... remember... first rule is to not talk about Fight Club... to me... this pertains to people who haven't been a part of it. Talk only with those who have seen it. Here's Moriarty...

Hey, Head Geek...

“Moriarty” here.

The Labs are quiet. Every machine has been shut down.
All the henchmen are hiding tonight. They’re wise to
do so, too, since I’ve just returned from my second
viewing of the year’s best film, one of the finest
pictures of the decade, and one of my very favorite
movies of all time. I’m speaking, of course, about
FIGHT CLUB, the powerful new masterpiece by David
Fincher. I am so completely pumped up out of my mind
on a mixture of pure adrenaline and intoxicating ideas
that I am literally dangerous right now. I expect I
won’t be the only one affected this way, and because
of that, this film is on a collision course with
controversy.

That’s a good thing, though. This is a case where I
truly believe that anyone over 40 should be nervous
about this film. If it were just a case of a film
that gave me a visceral rush, it wouldn’t be worth
anyone’s time to be upset over it or threatened by it.
That’s not the case, though. Far from it. This is a
film that gets under your skin, that wants to get in
your head. Once it’s there, it wants to change you,
and if you’re open to it, it will.

Why will the film threaten the status quo? Because it
lays bare one of the primary feelings that my
generation has been soaking in for the past ten years.
It gives name to that dissatisfaction that has gone
from a whisper to a scream as we have aged into this
uneasy adulthood of ours. It’s the first film I’ve
seen that stands up and calls our society bullshit for
all the right reasons. It’s easy to be an angry young
man, but it’s hard to be right about it.
Screenwriters Jim Uhls and (uncredited) Andrew Kevin
Walker, novelist Chuck Pahluniak, and director Fincher
have collaborated to give a unique and terrifying
voice to this angst, and they’ve managed to give it a
wicked sense of humor that somewhat tempers the
scathing anger that lies just beneath the surface. As
a result, the film will sneak up on viewers. They’ll
watch the first half thinking that they’re witnessing
a dark comedy that’s a little stranger than average.
But once the film really kicks into high gear... once
Project Mayhem gets underway... there’s no turning
back, and there’s no more release valves. David
Fincher once said he is interested in cinema that
scars. If that’s true, then he should be brutally
proud of FIGHT CLUB, because it has the power to
literally rearrange a viewer’s body chemistry.

Let me back up a bit and tell you a little about the
film, even though summary seems pointless. Edward
Norton stars as the film’s nameless narrator, and it's
easily the best performance he's given so far. The
very first images of the film literally put you inside
his head, as we witness the electrical storm that
represents his fear centers firing. The credits play
over a long, complicated pullback through his brain,
ending as we continue to pull back to reveal a gun
jammed into Norton’s mouth. In voice-over, Norton
says, “People are always asking me, do I know Tyler
Durden?” Turns out it’s none other than Durden
holding that gun. Brad Pitt is glimpsed only in quick
flashes in this sequence. The two of them are locked
in a room far above the city, waiting for a series of
explosions to rock the world. As Norton tries to make
sense of this, he sorts back through events to find
where this all began.

Norton flashes back to a time when he was just another
faceless worker for a major automobile company, an
accident analyst whose job it is to decide if defects
in cars merit recalls or not. Suffering from
insomnia, he visits a doctor, desperate for something
that will help him rest. Instead of giving him a
prescription, the doctor half-jokingly suggests Norton
visit a support group for testicular cancer. When he
does, Norton finds himself addicted. He finds
something that makes him feel, even if he is lying.
He begins to visit a different group every night,
letting himself be moved to tears, and at first it
works. He sleeps again, better than ever. His
seemingly ideal solution gets screwed up by the
arrival of Marla Singer, played to decayed perfection
by Helena Bonham-Carter. Like him, she’s a tourist,
playing at her sickness. “This Marla Singer chick did
not have testicular cancer,” he seethes in voice-over.
He confronts her, tries to bully her, and ends up
splitting the groups with her.

Even this uneasy peace is temporary, though. Norton
meets the oddly charismatic Tyler Durden on a plane,
and from the moment he arrives onscreen, it’s clear
that Brad Pitt was born for one purpose only -- to
give life to this brilliant, prophetic figure. He’s
never even approached this level of performance
before, and it made me ache to flash back on the
wasted years of SEVEN YEARS IN TIBET and MEET JOE
BLACK. He is a god in this film, chiseled steel and
seductive intelligence wrapped up in one savage
animal. It’s the greatest blend of physical and
verbal charisma that I can remember in recent film,
like some twisted evil version of the characters that
young Paul Newman once played. It’s obvious why
everyone in the film is drawn to him immediately. The
audience will be, as well. He’s given the very best
lines in the script, and there’s a combination of
humor and truth in almost every line. Their initial
meeting is brief but memorable, and when it’s over,
Norton leaves for what he thinks will be a return to
his normal life.

And that’s as much as I think I’m going to say about
the story. This isn’t going to be a long review. In
some ways, it would be pointless for me to ramble on.
There’s no reason for me to try and explain anything
further. Even in the synopsis above, I haven’t
communicated to you the textures of the film or the
outrageously confident visual style or the
note-perfect use of score by The Dust Brothers. I
haven’t been able to convey to you how brilliant and
subtle the editing by James Haygood is. I haven’t
given due to the costuming work or the production
design or that astonishing cinematography by Jeff
Cronenweth. Until you witness the mind-boggling work
by makeup effects artist Rob Bottin or the
contribution of Digital Domain’s Kevin Mack and his
team, you can’t understand the impact of every single
collaborator on the film. I don't think I've done
justice to the perfection acheived by every single bit
of casting in the film, from the stars to bit players
(look for the lead singer of Live in a particularly
groovy cameo). The story is just one small part of
why this movie is so freaking great. I do love the
fact that it’s impossible to predict where this trip
is taking you. Midway through the film tonight (my
second viewing), the person I was seeing it with
leaned over and whispered, “This is one strange film.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I whispered back, and
it’s true. Even as you think you’ve got a grip on it,
the film twists out from under you once, twice, and
again. You can peel this thing back over and over and
never get any closer to the center.

I would say that this is a film you need to see at
least twice, but I suspect you’ll make that decision
on your own. Unless, that is, you’re one of those
people who are angry you even made it through once. I
know that as I left the theater tonight, I literally
bumped into Elliot Gould, who was also walking out.
All I heard him say was, “That was awful,” but it was
enough to almost stir me into violence of my own. I
understand his reaction, though. I can’t imagine what
this film must have looked like through his eyes. I
can’t imagine what my own parents will think when they
see the movie. As the last ten minutes unfold, I bet
they’ll just keep shaking their head, trying to will
the images off the screen. No film can possibly go
this far, they’ll think. No film can possibly be this
angry, they’ll think. By the time “Where Is My Mind”
by the Pixies blares out over the end credits, they
will be horrified and offended deeply. To them... to
the entire generation of them that sold out the dream
of change that defined them in their 20s... this film
should be read as a declaration of war. We may not
have had a defining issue that we protested, but we
also didn’t overdose on self-satisfaction before we
were thirty. We haven’t turned our backs on our
ideals and our standards in order to slip into the
corporate world. We’re still defining ourselves, and
this film dares you to find the truth of yourself, to
define yourself by what you believe and not what you
own.

If you see this film and you’re not stirred in some
way by it, either good or bad, then chances are you’re
dead already, and there’s no work of art, no matter
how great, that can help you now.

“Moriarty” out.