FIGHT CLUB
THE SEARCH FOR AN AUTHENTIC LIFE

While so many recent (as of 2001) films have been dismissed as shallow and plotless, several have been thought-provoking commentaries on the solidity of the "reality" we take for granted, whether that reality be physical (The Matrix, Pi), social (Fight Club, American Beauty), or conscious (Fight Club, Run Lola Run, Being John Malkovich). This one may be the best - knocking over like so many bowling pins everything you think you know about your mind, your life, your co-workers and your hip Swedish furniture.

The film offers a two-prong attack on modern society, criticizing not only our ravenous materialism, but also our lack of challenges that act as rites of passage into adulthood. It seems all too obvious that the latter has led to the former. Anyone who has studied Native American or Asian culture, anyone who has read The Golden Bough or the works of Joseph Campbell (one of whose books I finished recently) knows that rituals, especially rites of passage, are important events. They define the stages of our lives, connect us to our peers who endure the same trial, and give us a sense of purpose and pride. Religious sacraments, the onset of puberty, graduations, even fraternity hazings mark accomplishments and stages in our lives. Without them, many of us feel lost. This is why gangs are so popular - with no father figures, many young men look to their peers for guidance and "family," and their gang initiations only strengthen their bond (tattoos and violence have long been associated with coming-of-age ceremonies).

In Fight Club, the blue-collars and cubicle hostages are given a chance to reconnect with the part of them ("their hunter-gatherer side," as Tyler Durden would say) that has been slung into a noose by their Hugo Boss neckties. Buried alive in faxes, Ikea catalogs and $30 DKNY wool socks, these men have probably not had an authentic, adrenaline-infused experience for several years; and never a test of true manhood. Finally the panacea of consumerism, where the closest you can get to rebellion is a "sporty car that doesn't follow the crowd," is no longer enough. Tyler comments (in one of my favorite passages), "We're the middle children of history, man, no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives."

Tyler enlists in this war, knowing that redemption can only be earned through violence and loss - hence the fights, the chemical burns, the blaze in the apartment, the outpost of a lonely shack; cleansing rituals, so to speak, like the more ancient practices of blood-letting, scarification or nights spent alone in a forest. Though the "can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs" cliche does slip out toward the end of the film, Tyler articulates this idea more eloquently earlier on: The liberator who has destroyed my property has realigned my perception. It is only when the narrator is literally evicted from his former life (the poignant line, "I am Jack's wasted life" comes to mind) can he begin anew. Only when he has lost everything is he free to do anything, as Tyler tells him. Even in the major story arc of the film, the narrator could only cultivate his new persona that would set him free after he lost his most precious asset - his mind. And in losing it, he regains his soul.

Was I asleep? Had I slept?

The answer is yes and no. Throughout most of the film, the narrator did not sleep, as he spent his nights as an insomniac or as Tyler Durden - moviehouse worker, soap maker, revolutionary - and yet for those months he was spiritually out cold. Only after he fully became Tyler Durden was he truly awake - and allowed to sleep in peace.

The narrator's last words to Tyler, his outgrown alter-ego ... "I want you to really listen to me... My eyes are open."

In the spirit of Tyler's homework assignments, I dare anyone still reading this to "pick a fight" with the daily routine that is modern living. Follow in the footsteps of the Situationists and "vivez sans temps mort" (live without dead time).

His Name Is Robert Paulsen...

Even though this film unravels a bit at the end, I think it makes another important point. I'm watching it again and I can't help but smirk (again) at the way that even those who rebel against mainstream life end up becoming sheeps of another stripe. Is that our ultimate desire -- to be lead, under any circumstances, toward any goal? It seems so. What was, in our parents' time, the need to fit in is now the need to rebel (all, of course, in order to fit in again). Pierce your nose, just like everyone else. And when rebellion is the hallmark of conformity, what can you do to rebel against that? In a way, you are trapped. Where is the loophole? Even Tyler's singular vision becomes a military-type combine with a ton of black-clad lemmings ready to jump off the edge of the nearest TRW building. There is one visionary for every 200 who follow him. What is the difference between them - intelligence, charisma, strength? Not really. Visionaries have a vision (hey! hence the name) they move toward, while most people only have a past, a self-image or a fear they run from. If you are dedicated to a goal, does it matter if you are going with the flow, against it, or escaping it entirely? The true rebels are not rebelling at all - they are just following their own path.

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