I wanna tell you a story about a really cool
friend I have. This person dresses really
slick, always says the right thing, dates
the hottest people. My friend can win in any
fight.
And guess what: that person is MEEEEEEEE.
That’s basically the argument of Fight Club.
One guy telling us about how cool someone
is, then revealing that “actually” that
guy is me. How come when we watch a movie
that makes that argument, it’s compelling,
but if someone did that to you in person,
you’d think they’re a garbage person?
Maybe if we look a little closer at Fight
Club, we can figure it out.
The standard reading of Fight Club is that
Jack is schizophrenic; that he invents Tyler
as an alternate personality out of either
boredom or a sense of inferiority, and then
the Tyler personality takes over Jack’s
mind for a while, does a bunch of terrorist
stuff, but eventually Jack saves the day.
Even though society seems like it’s about
to crumble, the bad man is sent away. Happy
ending, right? But I would like to propose
a different reading: that this is a story
told by Tyler from the very beginning. “This
is it. The beginning.” That the personality
of “Jack” never existed within the fictional
world. Tyler is real. Jack is just a character
invented by Tyler to manipulate us, the audience.
Talking about a fictional character within
a fictional story can be a bit confusing,
so… we need to go over some concepts first.
I’ve always felt like I’m not alone when
I watch a movie, or TV, or a YouTube video.
The person on screen is talking to me, even
though I know they’re just pixels flashing
on a monitor and vibrations emanating from
speakers. I know that they’re not really
here. That all these characters and places
are absent, but I know that these images and
sounds represent people places and emotions.
I feel--no, I don’t just feel, I KNOW that
they are present. This is known as “absence/presence.”
Some movies are so clever, they’ll even
draw attention to their own absence/presence:
“We have front row seats at this theater
of mass destruction.” That “we” is Jack
and Tyler, but we is also us, the audience.
The disembodied voice-over acknowledges that
we’re aware we are about to watch a show.
Then “we” impossibly float through walls
in a complicated VFX shot. All these things
are absent, but at the same time we feel they
are present.
As you can find in a basic film studies textbook:
”The spectator knows very well that what
he is watching is a fiction, but all the same
he maintains the belief, indeed his pleasure
is dependent on the belief, that it is not.
Cinema is thus founded on a regime of spectating
at once knowing one thing and believing its
opposite, which, as we have seen, is precisely
the structure of disavowal.”
The process of disavowal has been described
by the formula: ‘I know, but all the same.’
We KNOW that the movie we are watching is
not real. BUT in order to enjoy a movie, we
must *believe* on some level that it is real.
By starting with “I know,” we seem to
acknowledge something or someone’s point
of view, then by adding the “but” we disavow
what we just claimed to know as true. Not
every “I know, but” statement is disavowal.
And not every statement of disavowal requires
“I know, but.” When a politician says
“let’s not make this political,” they
are disavowing the fact that everything is
inherently political. Dishonest people love
disavowal because it makes them seem rational.
It’s already weird that we’re able to
follow the average film, following characters
from scene to scene, across time and space.
In Fight Club, Tyler and Jack are a weird,
extremely literal manifestation of absence/presence
and disavowal. By the end of the movie, Tyler
is popping in and out of existence even within
a single shot, the way characters pop in and
out of existence when we change from one scene
to another in any movie.
By pushing absence/presence and disavowal
into the foreground, Fincher keeps our minds
so busy, we forget exactly what it is we’re
even disavowing. Hint: it’s terrorism. “And
let me pause to say, film theory and psycho-analytic
concepts like these are not inherently good
or inherently bad. Personally, I’m glad
I can enjoy a movie through disavowal. Even
a fictional narrative can reveal deeper truths
about the human condition. What we need to
ask is: what are the effects of a particular
film’s use of these concepts? And, are the
implications of the narrative true? So, with
that in mind...
There’s one more term we need to cover.
Fetishism in pop culture is usually understood
as someone getting overly horny at the sight
of an object, like a pair of sexy red shoes.
Cultural theorist Thomas Ying-ling wrote that
it’s more useful to think of fetishism “as
it has been defined in psychoanalysis not
as the overvaluation of some part-object but
as the denial of lack.” For example, the
American flag is a fetish object, often used
to deny a lack of freedom. How can you say
I’m not free when I’ve got this piece
of dyed cloth that stands in for freedom?
By continually filling his life with Swedish
furniture, Jack fills his life with fetish
objects that comfort him. Collecting all these
objects distract from what is lacking in his
life. Clearly he’s lacking something. “Please
just give me something.” If only Jack had
a friend who would tell him what’s lacking
in his life.
Just as Jack fetishizes his furniture, audiences
participate in fetism while watching movies.
Film theorist Christian Metz wrote on the
subject in the 1970s: “Fetishism occurs
on screen within the image, as in the case
of the fetishizing of the body of the femme
fatale in film noir. But, says Metz, fetishism
operates also at a far more basic level. The
image as image and the cinematic apparatus
as apparatus are both fetish, because they
stand in for, make present, what is absent.
As such, they disavow what is lacking.”
Just as Jack fetishizes furniture to deny
the lack in his own life, we fetishize the
cinematic image to deny the lack of reality
represented by that image. I know Spiderman
is a fictional character, but when I see him
die, I feel like a real person has died. If
only we had a movie to tell us what we’re
lacking in our lives.
Fight Club is a story told by an unreliable
narrator, whose goal is to explain away his
own guilt and justify the position he’s
established as the leader of a terrorist organization;
an organization he knowingly and willingly
created because he wants the rest of the world
to be as miserable as he is.
The narrative is told by, and controlled by,
Tyler. Jack isn’t Tyler’s alter ego, or
imaginary friend. In Jack, Tyler has created
the perfect candidate for Project Mayhem,
confident that we will see ourselves in Jack.
That we’ll identify with Jack’s insecurities,
doubts about society, and fear of self examination.
In a 1999 interview, Fincher spoke to Tyler’s
embodiment of disavowal: “[Y]ou have to
have a guy that’s going, ‘Well, I can
see your point, but it seems to me… You
can look at losing all of your stuff both
ways. Yeah, it’s all of your stuff; yeah,
it took you years to collect; yes, they were
all tasteful, interesting choices. But there’s
another side to it.’” Tyler anticipates
our moral reservations, lays them out in very
childish terms, then goes “but!” and gives
Jack a pre-packaged, simplistic counter-argument.
“I say, let’s evolve. Let the chips fall
where they may.” Okay, whatever that means.
Tyler needs to invent the character of Jack,
to give us a friendly, gullible fetish object
to identify with. Jack is the image we can
attach ourselves to, so that we can tell ourselves
we--just like Jack--were innocent all along.
We are free to enjoy the violence, even up
to and including terrorist acts, because in
the end we see Jack’s image, standing there,
victorious. The image of Jack remains, although
he now admits that he’s Tyler. Jack’s
image is present, but Jack is absent. Tyler’s
image is absent, but Tyler is present. By
ending on Jack’s image, we deny the lack
of morality in what Tyler has done. “Everything’s
gonna be fine.” We can deny that this kind
of power fantasy is appealing, to “guys
like us,” because the good guy--or at least
the image of the good guy--is the one left
standing in the end.
Also, that’s not how schizophrenia works.
Fight Club is a movie that’s clearly designed
to be watched multiple times, but with each
viewing, we disavow more and more. The first
viewing is exciting. We the audience experience
revelation after revelation along with Jack,
up until we learn that “Tyler is Jack.”
Usually when we watch a movie for a second
time, we’re able to break down a story’s
structure a little better, and recognize key
themes more clearly. We start to see the strings.
It’s why the Sixth Sense is kind of boring
on the second viewing, because now you’re
just paying attention to how M Night Shyamalan
“pulled it off.” But that’s not the
experience of watching Fight Club for a second
time. As viewers, solving a mystery is both
entertaining and comforting. We want to understand
what really happened in this fictional universe,
and Tyler lays out a pretty fun, sardonic,
flashy answer to the mystery of 'who is Tyler
Durden?’ Once we feel like we have that
answer--even though it’s just ‘Tyler’s
version of what happened in this fictional
narrative--we get to sit back on the second
viewing and just enjoy the ride. However,
repeat viewings do not give us a deeper understanding
of Marla’s perspective, even though she
would have a pretty insightful view of Tyler.
A view that we should want if we truly wanted
to understand him more accurately, or understand
the deeper implications of the story. But
we don’t. Instead, Tyler frames her emotions
as the butt of a mean joke, while seeing his
emotions as valid. On a repeat viewing, instead
of breaking down the movie, we’re sucked
deeper into Tyler’s narrative, deeper into
his perspective. We’re not just seeing puzzle
pieces fit together in the order that Tyler
has preordained. We’re FEELING how he wants
us to feel about every character.
Rewatching scenes with Marla, which should
make us empathize with her since we now know
that Tyler is treating her like garbage, instead
make her the object of ridicule. Fincher’s
choice of angles, tone, and pacing still privilege
Tyler’s point of view.
Look how often Marla is framed with the camera
looking down on her. And how often Tyler is
framed looking down on us. We are rewatching
the exact same scene was saw on first viewing,
telling ourselves that we’re watching something
different this time, since we have new knowledge.
But the same argument as before--that Marla
is a trash human and sucks and Tyler hates
her, and we should hate her too--is only reinforced
on this viewing.
Jack’s inflection seems clueless. “What
are you getting out of all of this?” On
first viewing, that inflection was understood
to be Jack’s honest confusion about why
Marla is hanging around with Tyler. On second
viewing, there’s a surface level reading,
if we take Tyler’s narrative at his word,
that Jack is schizophrenic and is truly confused.
But that’s not what’s going on. Because
Jack is not there. Jack is absent. That’s
Tyler talking. Tyler is present. Tyler is
telling us this story. By acting ‘confused’
Tyler keeps us from empathizing with Marla
in this situation and instead we empathize
with Jack, because we’ve seen this scene
before and were just as confused as he is.
It’s relatable! It keeps us from acknowledging
that in the actual world of the story, it’s
Marla who is infinitely more confused because
she’s dealing with this irrational obnoxious
person. “Talk to me!” Tyler knows exactly
how much of his asshole persona he can reveal
without losing his intended audience. And
this movie has an intended audience. This
movie is not meant for everyone. This movie
is meant for “guys like you and me.” It’s
for nice guys who know they should be getting
more out of life. “I used to be such a nice
guy.” Except Jack was never a nice guy,
because he never existed.
The mythical nice guy is simply a convenient
tool in Tyler’s rhetorical utility belt.
This movie is for guys who were never nice,
but want to claim: “It’s the world’s
fault I’m not nice anymore.” Guys who
want a fabricated excuse for their toxic,
abusive behavior.
On the fourth viewing, Marla is still gross.
On the sixth viewing Jack still provides excuses
for Tyler’s actions. On the eighth viewing
we still disavow that Brad Pitt is a Hollywood
sex symbol, so we can pretend he’s just
a regular guy like us.
Because no matter how many times you watch
it, Tyler is still in control of the story.
At best the narrative constructs him as a
Messiah, at worst he’s misguided but still
“right” about society *wink.* Tyler narrates
scenes that literally did not happen, so that
we don’t even have a chance to question
Tyler’s lies. Tyler has to show us the provocative
fight first. After all, seeing someone assaulting
themselves, or pretend to be assaulted in
public, would make them seem ridiculous. This
is provocative. But from a more objective
angle, we see it’s simply a dork pretending
to get beat up. By the time Tyler shows us
this he’s preached so much about how terrible,
absurd, and messed up society is, we’re
primed to see this kind of behavior as justified,
or even noble.
If society is absurd, the means of rebelling
might as well be equally absurd. This is why,
even on a repeat viewing, when we know that
Tyler is punching himself in this scene, we
don’t think “That’s a sad guy punching
himself.” We still think: “This is cool
and funny and different. This is the origin
story of the cool secret club I know about.”
We disavow critical thought, in favor of being
part of the in group.
“Losing all hope was freedom.”
Tyler talks a lot about freedom, about being
free. But the kind of freedom Tyler is talking
about isn’t found in Enlightenment philosophy
or the Declaration of Independence or even
in ads for oversized American pickup trucks.
Journalist I. A. R. Wylie interviewed a young
man who could have been a real life candidate
for Project Mayhem when he said: “We are
free from freedom.” Wylie elaborates: “He
meant that he no longer had to make his own
decisions or even think his own thoughts.”
Wylie was interviewing a young Nazi who made
that proud statement shortly before World
War Two. Eric Hoffer, in The True Believer:
Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements,
explains that this kind of freedom “is not
freedom of self-expression and self-realization,
but freedom from the terrible burden of an
autonomous existence. They want freedom from
‘the fearful burden of free choice.’”
“It’s only after we’ve lost everything
that we’re free to do anything. The idea
of free will, of free choice, is antithetical
to Tyler’s worldview. “Freedom” means
having a gun placed at the back of your head
and being told what to do. And, conveniently
for Tyler, he sets up a system which strips
everyone else of choice, leaving Tyler with
the ability to choose for them.
You are free to punch, you are free to blow
things up, but you’re not free to do just
anything. To Tyler, these violent, physical
categories of knowledge are good. But there
are categories of knowledge which he finds
distasteful, which he wants to eliminate.
Tyler: “Why do you guys like you and I know
what a duvet is?” Simply knowing what the
word duvet means is immoral to Tyler. “Guys
like you and me” should not be allowed to
know what a duvet is. We are men. We are hard.
Duvets are prohibited for “guys like you
and me.”
Why does Jack feel so empty? Why does Jack
feel so lost? Does he feel crushed by the
superficiality and alienation inherent in
capitalism? Does he have a terminal illness?
Is it because the word duvet exists? It’s
because Jack isn’t real. He’s a straw
man whose mortal enemy is a fancy word for
blanket.
Let’s take a close look at one of the characters
Tyler indoctrinates. A character whose life
Tyler believes Tyler changes for the better.
“What are we doing?” “Human sacrifice.”
In the only scene where we actually see Tyler
intimately engage with one of his converts,
Tyler drags this stranger, Raymond, outside
while he’s working, and puts a gun to the
back of Raymond’s head. Then, based solely
on the fact that Raymond has an expired community
college ID in his wallet, Tyler assumes a
heck of a lot about Raymond’s hopes and
dreams, gets him to admit under duress that
he gave up on his goal of being a veterinarian,
then threatens that if Raymond doesn’t go
back to school, Tyler will find Raymond and
murder him. Very inspiring stuff.
We know that Tyler just wants to push this
guy to be his best self. We know that Tyler
is trying to motivate men to be men. To take
charge of their lives. We know this, because
Tyler knows this.
Raymond does not know this. We do not know
Raymond’s perspective. We do not establish
his mundane job. We do not see him standing
behind the counter as Tyler rushes in like
an ordinary robber. If we heard Raymond’s
side of the story, he would tell us about
the time a lunatic robbed him, spouted a bunch
of pseudo philosophical BS -- “The question,
Raymond, was what did you want to be?” -- only
stole his drivers license, then left. Tyler
tells us a story about how Tyler is a messiah.
We are left assuming that Tyler changed this
man’s life for the better. We do not know
that. Whether or not Raymond actually gets
his degree, doesn’t matter. “Imagine how
he feels.” Tyler doesn’t want us to imagine
how Raymond actually feels. Tyler wants us
to imagine how Tyler wants Raymond to feel.
“Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day
of Raymond K Hessel’s life. His breakfast
will taste better than any meal you and I
have ever tasted.” In reality, Raymond is
not liberated. In reality, Raymond has no
choice, but to follow Tyler’s orders. Raymond
hasn’t been watching this movie, so Raymond
has no reason to trust Tyler, no reason to
buy into his arcane plan.
Tyler asks Raymond a straightforward question:
“Raymond K Hessel, 1320 SE Spanning Apartment
A. Small cramped basement apartment?” The
answer to his question is “Yes,” but since
Tyler is telling this story, Raymond answers
“How did you know?” Tyler is telling us
about a time when he robbed someone and pointed
a gun at the back of their head, and in telling
this story, Tyler needs to emphasize that
he knows everything, so he has this person,
in the middle of what they think might be
their last moments on earth, praise Tyler’s
intelligence. Tyler is right about everything.
“How did you know?” “Because they give
s**tty basement apartments letters instead
of numbers.” I don’t even know if that’s
true, but we don’t have time to question
it. Because Tyler is never wrong. “I just
can’t win with you, can I?” Tyler wins
in every situation no matter how absurd. Everything
Tyler sets out to achieve, he accomplishes,
because this is Tyler’s story and he is
the hero. “Tyler, you are by far the most
interesting single serving friend I’ve ever
met.” Even his victims think so. “How
did you know?” Even on a second viewing.
“How did you know?” Notice how, when Tyler
was trying to ask Raymond “what did you
want to be?” It takes multiple questions,
and the threat of physical violence. “What’d
you study, Raymond?” “Stuff.” “Stuff?
Were the midterms hard?” But when it comes
to praising Tyler, Raymond’s response is
immediate. “How did you know?” Watching
Tyler drift through the story is like watching
someone play a video game with god-mode on.
Raymond’s existence in Tyler’s story serves
Tyler. Later, we see a door covered in drivers
licenses. We never see Raymond again. Raymond
is reduced to a bureaucratic identification
card. If he did not go back to school, he’s
dead because Tyler killed him. If he did go
back to school, he’s dead because he is
no longer in control of his own life. He has
been sacrificed to appease Tyler. Raymond’s
name and face are present. But Raymond’s
point of view is absent.
“You had to give it to him.” No we don’t.
Jack is there to put up the FLIMSIEST defense.
Except Jack is not there. Tyler tells us he’s
there, to reassure us that we’re questioning
this ridiculous situation along with Jack.
“That wasn’t funny! Wha the f*** was the
point of that?” But Tyler is holding the
gun. There’s no actual voice of reason in
this scene. Only in the telling of it, for
our sake.
The underground fight clubs are supposedly
formed in search of some truth, in search
of freedom, but they are predicated on deception.
“The first rule of fight club is you do
not talk about fight club. The second rule
of fight club is you do not talk about fight
club.” By repeating that rule, Tyler is
inviting us to break it. His cadence even
punctuates the sentence as if to say “You
do not” period “talk about fight club.”
Talk about fight club. Do not, period. Talk
about fight club. We are a group of people
who want to break society’s rules. Here
are rules. Break them. And of course the rules
are being broken. That’s the only way the
group can grow. The rule itself prompts members
to disavow: “The first rule is, I’m not
supposed to talk about it.” But here I am,
talking about it. Later, when Tyler calls
out his followers for breaking the rules,
it’s not to punish them. Rather--after a
brief interruption by an authority figure
whose rules they’ve been breaking this whole
time--Tyler rewards his men with a new development:
“This week, each one of you has a homework
assignment” -- the beginning of Project
Mayhem. Tyler not only expected people to
talk publicly about Fight Club, he already
had the next step of his plan ready, for when
more recruits showed up. Congratulations,
you have all been promoted in the corporate
structure of Project Mayhem. Also, Tyler only
says “Do not talk about fight club” twice.
And as Tyler himself says: “Promise.”
“I just said, I promise.” “That’s
THREE TIMES you promise.”
For Tyler, being a loser is the first step
toward being a winner. Whether it’s Jack’s
status as a loser with no life. Or literally
losing a fight. So Tyler has a plan. Is it
a plan to succeed? To get a win under his
belt to strengthen his leadership position?
Nope! “You’re gonna start a fight, and
you’re gonna lose.” So Tyler recruits
people who are already losers, then immediately
gives them a losing task that will make them
feel even more powerless. This increases their
dependence on Tyler, and increases his power
base. Like the way the ringleaders of Gamergate
target insecure gamers, then tell them that
all their problems are caused by womz, people
of color, and polygon tiddies not being big
enough. Or Teal Swan, the YouTuber who preys
on people with suicidal thoughts, gets them
to pay her big chunks of money for “therapy,”
then encourages them to kill themselves by
telling them to “visualize killing yourself.”
For Tyler, feeling like a loser is the basis
for identity, and the first step into reclaiming
masculine superiority. This conflating of
winning and losing parallels the way neo-Nazis
romanticize World War Two, a contest the Nazis
resoundingly lost. Or the way pro-slavery
Americans romanticize the Civil War, a contest
pro-slavery Americans resoundingly lost. In
his 2006 essay about Fight Club and fascism
titled Masochism and Terror, Andrew Hewitt
writes: “This internalization of loss--this
paradoxical affirmation of lack as the very
basis of identity--marks the apotheosis of
‘the novel assertion that it is precisely
this loss of the war that is characteristically
German… [T]he fascist internalizes lack--ontologizes
alienation--as the very condition of German
subjectivity.” Being a loser becomes the
basis for identity. Instead of feeling shame
or regret about war and loss, the fascist
doubles down, forming their identity in opposition
to an “Other” who has cheated them out
of victory. Hewitt continues with this quote
from Nietzsche: “Every sufferer instinctively
seeks a cause for his suffering… more exactly,
an agent: still more specifically, a guilty
agent who is susceptible to suffering--in
short, some living thing upon which he can,
on some pretext or other, vent his affects,
actually or in effigy.” Tyler is the sufferer
who points to society, consumerism, women,
or whatever’s convenient in the moment,
as the cause of his suffering. This is why
he narrates Jack’s life as so utterly pathetic.
As suicidal. As practically a zombie. Tyler
needs Jack to seem powerless, because Tyler
is going to show us, through Jack, the path
to power. Assuming that Project Mayhem actually
succeeds and resets debt to zero--which is
itself an absurd, fetishized plan--then Tyler
will succeed in reordering society based around
loss. Based around lack. A lack of economics,
a lack of structure, a lack of order. And
he happens to be the leader of an organization
that is ready to step in and impose its own
economics, its own structure, its own order.
Man, cops suck! “F***ing pigs!” But also
we are the cops.
In 1999, when asked “Did you see [Tyler]
in terms of the literary device of the unreliable
narrator?”, Fincher said: “Oh, he’s
totally unreliable.” Fight Club is extra
frustrating because not only is our narrator
unreliable, but Fincher himself is also an
unreliable storyteller. Unlike Rashomon or
The Last Jedi, where directors Kurosawa and
Rian Johnson utilized unreliable narrators
to blatantly call out the subjectivity of
storytelling, Fincher indulges in subjective
storytelling. He uses clever dialogue and
flat acting to misdirect our attention. “Did
you know that if you mixed equal parts gasoline
and frozen orange juice concentrate you can
make napalm?” “No I did not know that,
is that true?” “That’s right.” So
instead of thinking “oh my god he’s a
terrorist” we--prompted by Jack’s dialogue--think
“wow, what a quirky guy.” “Wow, that
Nazi so casually talks about ethnic cleansing!
That’s interesting!” Fincher structures
his shots, visuals, and narrative to impose
his order on the viewer. “I just love the
idea of this omniscience, like the camera
just kind of goes over here perfectly. There’s
none of that documentary kind of feel to it.
It’s very much like what’s happening is
doomed to happen. And I like that as the psychological
underpinning.” Fincher’s style does not
open things up to interpretation or question.
He has a point of view, an objective, and
he will not allow you to stray. Just as Tyler,
in telling his story, has a point of view,
an objective, and he will not allow you to
stray.
Fincher utilizes a structure that director
Peter Watkins has termed the Monoform, a linear,
predetermined format meant to drive the audience
toward a specific conclusion. “Which is
simply a name I give to the basic structure
of what we see on television and in a majority
sense most of what we see in the commercial
cinema today. Of course it’s a series of
rapidly edited pictures, constantly displacing
us from one thing to another, from one subject,
one visual image with all its associated metaphorical,
symbolic, personal meanings. Different weight
of information on screen, different mass,
different shape, different movement, and we’re
asked to deal with that, usually in five,
six or seven seconds, which is the average
cutting rate. And you change to the next,
change to the next, and so on and so on, endless
barrage of visual information, which is of
course being accompanied by an audio barrage,
all being thrust at the audience, in a one
way monolinear push from beginning to end.”
Fight Club not only drives toward a foregone
conclusion, Fincher even shows us the ending,
without proper context, at the beginning.
“What the audience is to feel or decide
at the endpoint here, is already determined
at the beginning point, on all sorts of levels.”
By showing us the ending out of context at
the beginning of the film, and then dropping
in key information throughout the film, Fincher
makes us feel as if we are undergoing a process
of discovery. In actuality, Fincher withholds
key information so that we continue to like
Tyler, so that we never think of him as the
terrorist leader he truly is. “Why do you
think I blew up your condo!” We are given
the illusion of choice, but we lack choice
when confronted with the monoform. “The
whole purpose of 20th century Mass Audio Visual
Media is that it is not predicated on incorporating
the ideas, feelings, experiences, subjectivity,
memory, knowledge, wisdom of the audience,
or the viewer or viewers, and engulfing them
and taking them into the process, and sharing.
20th century mass audio visual media MAVM
is designed to withold those, to push those
away, and to instead engulf the people with
this fabricated, fragmented, arbitrary process,
where the person’s participation is held
out. And that’s why everything is moving
very fast. To hold back any opportunity for
the person to have time to come in, and enter
the material and challenge it or negotiate
with it or anything.”
When Tyler encourages us to question the authority
inherent in consumerism, we as an audience
disavow that there are other forms of authority
we should question as well. For example: Tyler’s
authority, and the police state he’s trying
to create. When it comes to questioning *Tyler’s*
authority, Jack--our standin--only provides
one very specific type of quesiton. “What
do you want me to do? You want me to just
hit you?” “Come on, just do me this one
favor?” “Why?” “Why why do we need
bunkbeds?” “What why? What’re you talking
about?” He frames his questions as a child
asking a parent for their reasoning, instead
of actually challenging Tyler’s authority.
Jack never challenges Tyler, never gives an
alternate point of view. Always asks for Tyler’s
justification, giving him another platform
to lecture at us. And he always accepts that
justification, prompting us to accept that
justification. “You had to give it to him.”
If Jack had a YouTube channel today he’d
probably be a centrist, insisting: “I’m
just trying to hear both sides.” Tyler dazzles
new recruits with his cool, seemingly anti-authoritarian
message while simultaneously stepping into
the role of authority figure.
Tyler uses a flat, cool tone of voice to seduce
us, whether he’s playing Tyler or playing
Jack. “In a catastrophic emergency, you're
taking giant panicked breaths. Suddenly you
become euphoric, docile. You accept your fate.”
Tyler lulls us into feeling docile, into accepting
the fate he’s laid out for us. Brecht wrote
about the alienating effect of certain kinds
of meta theater. Regarding actors tone of
voice, Brecht said: “[The actor’s] way
of speaking has to be free from parasonical
sing-song and from all those cadences which
lull the spectator so that the sense gets
lost.” Tyler and Jack utilize the exact
kind of sing-song cadence that Brecht denounces.
“You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.
You are the same decaying organic matter as
everyone else.” The soundtrack to the movie,
which you can buy at any major music retailer,
even includes a bonus track, co-written by
Fincher. Listen, as Tyler Durden coos a bunch
of self-help advice at us. “It’s only
after you’ve lost everything that you’re
free to do anything.” If that isn't sing-song-y,
I don't know what is. Whereas Brecht’s goal
was to alienate us from the narrative, Tyler’s
goal is to pull us further into the narrative,
further into his world. Tyler doesn’t want
to elevate the spectator, and seemingly neither
does Fincher.
The formal aspects of Fincher’s films--more
“insider knowledge,” such as editing,
framing, and even the slightest camera move--are
ritualistically fetishized by cinephiles.
For example, this youtube video: “Did you
see that? It’s a very small thing, and it’s
easy to miss. What is it, exactly? Well, it’s
a camera move.” Fincher’s perfectionism
and artificiality are admired, to the point
where any ethical implications about how these
techniques are used, become irrelevant. I
don’t mean to call out any youtube channel,
specifically. Nerdwriter does great work.
I’m trying to highlight how--when a director
is able to trick us, or seduce us with flashy
film production techniques and visual effects--we
invest more emotionally, not just in that
narrative, but in the very means of production,
themselves. Film has always been a constructed
medium, but the depth of Fincher’s visual
manipulation is unprecedented, especially
since he uses these techniques for the most
basic dialogue scenes. Even digital editing
techniques that we would never spot with the
naked eye are fetishized. “We’re not just
editing shots together anymore, we’re editing
pixel by pixel.” Humans are manipulated
on screen, pixel by pixel, to manipulate us,
the audience at home. Even though it feels
kind of Big Brother-ish to me, film enthusiasts
only show more reverence, more admiration
for Fincher. Metz wrote about this type of
film nerd, which he refers to as the cinema
fetishist. “The cinema fetishist is the
person who is enchanted at what the machine
is capable of, at the theater of shadows as
such. For the establishment of his full potency
for cinematic enjoyment he must think at every
moment of the force of presence the film has
and of the absence on which this force is
constructed.” One might assume that behind
the scenes videos, directors commentaries,
and YouTube videos explaining the meaning
behind a movie would strip away the artifice,
but to the cinephile obtaining this sacred
knowledge only adds to the depth of the film,
and their enjoyment. Just as we want to participate
in the Tyler Durden power fantasy, so we want
to participate in the Fincher-as-director
power fantasy. Wouldn’t it be fun to have
all that control??
While his more recent films have a cleaner,
sterile look, for Fight Club, Fincher sought
a more gritty, “authentic” look.
[Cinematographer] Jeff Cronenweth and I...
talked about making it a dirty-looking movie,
kind of grainy. When we processed it, we stretched
the contrast to make it kind of ugly, a little
bit of underexposure, a little bit resilvering,
and using new high-contrast print socks and
stepping all over it so it has a dirty patina.
What’s resilvering?
Rebonding silver that’s been bleached away
during the processing of the print and then
rebonding it to the print.
What does that do?
Makes it really dense. The blacks become incredibly
rich and kind of dirty. We did it on Seven
a little, just to make the prints nice. But
it’s really in this more for making it ugly.
We wanted to present things fairly realistically.
So much effort to make a perfectly “ugly”
product. “Even the glass dishes with tiny
bubbles and imperfections.” To Tyler, life
is trash, so the film looks trashy.
So there's this apparent contradiction in
Fight Club. On one hand, Fincher's desire
to manipulate, pixel by pixel to create the
perfect, idealized image. And on the other
hand, this trash aesthetic--a desire to portray
the world as a giant pile of garbage. These
ideas may feel out of sync, but there is an
ideology that thoroughly embraces this contradiction.
Here we go, this is where we blatantly connect
fight club to fascism! Fascism. Sorry, was
that too much of a hard turn? Okay, let me
set up this section about fascism with a quote
about fascism. David Fincher said a movie
set’s a fascist dictatorship, when he said:
“I think a movie set’s a fascist dictatorship.”
Andrew Hewitt writes: “We have forgotten
the proximity of totalitarian thought to the
eco-logic of the compost heap. When the narrator
of Fight Club tells us that he ‘wanted to
put a bullet through the eyes of every panda
that wouldn’t fuck to save its species,’
the affinity of that eco-logic with a murderous
eugenicism becomes exaggeratedly apparent.”
And regarding the way Tyler turns human fat
into explosives, Hewitt writes: “This trope
has itself been recycled--this time from the
proto-fascist writings of the Futurist F.
T. Marinetti, in whose writings we find ‘the
plainest, most violent of Futurist symbols”:
‘In Japan they carry on the strangest of
trades: the sale of coal made from human bones.
All their powderworks are engaged in producing
a new explosive substance more lethal than
any yet known. This terrible new mixture has
its principle element coal made from bones
with the quality of violently absorbing gases
and liquids.’” Fascists and proto-fascists
have always viewed humanity as disposable,
as single-serving, as garbage. Of course an
ideology that views humans as compost would
devise policies that lead to the glorification
of death in battle, mass graves, and death
camps. The blonde haired, blue eyed superman
is fetish object, denying the lack of perfection
in all humans; denying the alienating, painful
existence of living under an autocratic regime.
Leni Riefenstahl, the Nazi documentarian,
was hyper-aware of the fetish-value of photogenic
young men. While filming her Nazi propaganda
films she got upset that so many actual Nazis
didn’t live up to her aesthetic expectations.
Prominent Nazi Albert Speer recalled: “I
was present when Riefenstahl, in a restaurant
with her staff, was a little bit frank and
made some mocking remarks about the bellies
[of the Nazi Brownshirts] not being so good
for photographs or some such thing.” Riefenstahl
mocked literal Nazis for not being ideal enough.
Riefenstahl biographer Stephen Bach adds:
“[Speer] conspired with her to hide the
[Brownshirt] potbellies she mocked behind
thousands of swastika flags.” In this instance,
the ultimate fetish symbol for Nazis--the
Swastika--literally obscures actual, pot-bellied
Nazis. Nazis with pot bellies are present
at the rally. But they are absent from Riefenstahl’s
film. Idealized Nazi imagery is present in
Riefenstahl’s film. But it is absent from
reality.
Tyler’s body--actually sexy, sexy Brad Pitt’s
body--obscures Tyler’s true form--that of
doughy Edward Norton. Tyler invites us to
mock Gucci models, disavowing Brad Pitt’s
own highly sexualized body. In fight club,
at least one conventionally unattractive member
is allowed. Who happens to be the only member
who dies a violent death. Bob's body--which
his fascist buddies considered grotesque and
wrong--is re-coded by those same buddies after
his death; recycled into a perfect symbol
of fascism. “In death, a member of Project
Mayhem has a name.” Yes, Robert Paulson
truly achieved glory by smashing the windows
of a Starbucks coffee, and then getting shot
in the head.
Tyler tells us he had it all: “I had it
all” However, Tyler is aware that he’s
missing something that society expects an
adult male to have: a wife. His father even
suggests this as a next step: Dad, now what?
He says, I don’t know, get married.” But
he refuses, for abstract reasons. “I can’t
get married. I’m a 30 year old boy.” I
know I’m thirty years old and it’s like
time to get married but I’m only thirty
years old I can’t get married.
Tyler holds this anti-romance and anti-sex
attitude, despite the constant sexual dialogue
and imagery--especially homoerotic, phallic
and anal imagery--splattered all over the
film. But none of the sexual innuendo in the
dialogue or imagery is ever titillating. It’s
usually disgusting. It’s almost always played
either flatly, or ironically. “Could check
your prostate?” “I think I’m okay.”
Powerful sexual dialogue is usually heard
over scenes of violence. “Sometimes all
you could hear were the flat hard packing
sounds over the yelling. Or the wet choke
when someone caught their breath and sprayed.”
But any kind of emotional or vulnerable sexual
dialogue is usually associated with impotence
and disgust. “You cry now.” “Strangers
with this kind of honesty make me go a big
rubbery one.” And in the void left behind
in his mind where sex would exist, Tyler finds
human suffering. “I’m so close to the
end and all I want is to get laid for the
last time.” It's ironic that Chloe is talking
about sex, because sex is not what arouses
Jack here. He's getting off on her suffering.
Immediately after that, while talking about
the meetings, Tyler talks in a sing-song voice
about how it makes him feel. “Every evening
I died, and every evening I was born again.”
Tyler is referring to his orgasm. The pain
he witnesses in these groups is the pornography
he needs to reach climax. When he “dies,”
he’s experiencing “la petit mort.” The
little death. Which is a fancy term that means
“the sensation of orgasm as likened to death.”
When he’s resurrected, or rises again…
he’s talking about his dick.
In framing the story, Fincher visually links
sexual desire with physical illness. It’s
very telling that Chloe and Bob are both the
most emotionally honest and open characters
in the entire movie, and the only characters
who die in Tyler’s telling of it. Not to
mention, they are the characters most guilty
of transgressing the gender binary: Bob, with
his massive breasts and missing testicles,
and Chloe, whose femininity has been ravaged
by her illness, assuming she presented as
“feminine” in the first place. God forbid
Tyler acknowledges any kind of sexual curiosity
outside the heteronormative binary.
Tyler strives to make sex undesirable; to
make sexual pleasure feel unattractive and
pathetic. It’s possible to read Fight Club
as homoerotic, however, there’s no actual
love or attraction between men. Despite the
constant homoerotic imagery, he seems completely
uninterested in any kind of sex. The most
homoerotic moments are between Tyler and Tyler.
Even Marla seems like a toy at best.
Marla is portrayed as disgusting, haggard,
unkempt. Fincher does everything he can to
make us feel that Marla is stinky, and once
again links sexual desire to physical illness.
“This is cancer, right?” Her sex scenes
are so depraved--”I haven’t been f***ed
like that since grade school”--so extreme,
or so abstract, they’re devoid of any conventionally
erotic imagery. This is not sex for pleasure.
This is sex as performance. Tyler is performing
heterosexuality. Sex for the sake of telling
his friends: “I banged that chick.” Marla
is never attractive. Except for one instance.
But before we get to that, let’s go behind
the green door.
In the novel Fight Club, there’s mention
of various doors: orange, blue, green. But
Fincher only keeps the GREEN door in his version.
“Now we’re going to open the green door.”
Behind the Green Door was a pornographic movie
released in 1972. It was a massive success,
and helped commodify porn by bringing it into
the mainstream. The movie Behind the Green
Door is the story of an underground group
of criminals who dress in all black in order
to carry out an anarchic mission. They kidnap
people and force them to perform at a sex
club. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are about
to witness the ravishment of a woman who has
been abducted. A woman whose initial fear
and anxiety have mellowed into curious expectation.”
Within the film, the green door itself comes
to symbolize an entry point into a safe space,
similar to the support groups. Outside this
safe space--in the outer world--is sexual
repression, anxiety, patriarchy. But in here,
on this stage, the participants find a safe
space to pursue pleasure. Sexual gratification
for the female main character is framed as
positive. It’s telling that the support
group leader in Fight Club says we’re going
to open our green doors, and soon after, Chloe
talks specifically about her *sexual* desires
in front of the group. Clearly, Fincher is
drawing a link between the two. But I don’t
think it’s simply the pursuit of sexual
pleasure that links Fight Club and Behind
the Green Door.
Before the main character engages in an orgy
on stage, she undergoes a kind of guided meditation,
led by a woman whose dialogue is oddly similar
to the kinds of things Tyler says. “Poor
child, I know exactly how you feel. I’m
going to tell you everything that’s going
to take place, so there’s no need to be
frightened. I’m your friend.” Both characters
use a soothing tone of voice to coax the audience
stand-in into doing things they wouldn’t
otherwise be okay with. In addition to the
massage lady, as the performance begins, a
disembodied voice tells us to obey. “Remember,
you are sworn to observe silence. If you break
this rule, you will be dealt with severely.”
The implication becomes: obey the rules and
you will find pleasure. “With the knowledge
that you are powerless to stop the performance,
just relax, and enjoy yourself to the fullest
extent.” Just as Tyler’s words and deeds
give us the illusion of agency or choice in
his theatre of destruction, so too, this announcer’s
assumption that we could somehow interfere
helps us feel as though we have agency. As
though we could somehow interrupt a movie
that’s already been shot and distributed.
In Behind the Green Door, we have an authority
figure giving the main character--our standin--the
freedom to enjoy something transgressive:
her own sexuality; permission to enjoy something
that she should already be free to enjoy.
In Fight Club, we have an authority figure
who gives the main character--our standin--freedom
to enjoy something transgressive: terrorism;
permission to enjoy something that is antithetical
to the very concept of freedom.
And these are the themes that link Behind
the Green Door and Fight Club: this tension
between pursuing what you want, but also looking
to an authority figure for permission to pursue,
or looking to them for a list of pre-approved
pleasures you may pursue.
The green door metaphor used in the support
group is meant to help people cope with long
lasting emotional pain, or chronic physical
illness. In the chemical burn scene, Tyler
has set up a false parallel to the support
groups. Tyler’s goal in this scene is to
make this act of physical assault seem comparable
with the existential and chronic pain experienced
by members of the support group. Tyler, who
is a physical and emotional abuser, manages
to make his actions seem as inevitable as
death by terminal cancer. Those support group
members do not have a simple, immediate means
of alleviating their pain. They cannot just
pour vinegar on their cancer, or missing testicles,
or tuberculosis. But to a naive audience member
who hasn’t had to cope with long-lasting
emotional or physical trauma, who is looking
for a reason to claim victimhood, the comparison
may feel attractive . Tyler “feels” like
he has the answers--”You can run water over
your hand to make it worse, or, look at me,
or you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn”--even
though he’s concocted an absurd scenario
with a predetermined conclusion.
And this happens to be the only moment in
the entire film where Marla is presented as
sexually desirable in a visual sense. Jack
makes one last ditch effort to block out the
pain and pursue pleasure. And this is the
moment that “Jack” closes his green door.
He stops trying to escape to his safe space,
and never bothers trying to go there again.
He’s left with a scar which resembles vaginal
lips. Sexual imagery recoded as a mark of
pain. A fetish object that denies the lack
of pleasure. Shortly afterwards, he denies
Marla the sex that she’s come to expect.
“Are we done?” “Yeah, we’re done.”
We see her again in the Paper Street house,
but there’s no sexual tension anymore. He
has metaphorically closed his door to his
pleasure center, and chosen to pursue pain.
Tyler's safe space is not just a *room*. Not
just a single location where you're prohibited
from saying the word 'duvet.' It's a world
where you're prohibted from saying the word
'duvet,' or doing anything else he doesn't
approve of.
If Fincher set out to tell a cautionary tale
about the way we are so easily manipulated
by media, celebrities, and people in positions
of power, then he failed because his target
audience--guys like us--clearly didn’t get
that message.
I mean, they went on to actually create fight
clubs. Or if he set out to make a movie that
exploits that same bro-ey audience, and he’s
laughing at anyone who enjoys it for being
such gullible losers, then… okay? Good on
you?
Whatever the meaning may be to you, or me,
or anyone else, Fight Club is unquestionably
a powerful narrative. It’s more than just
Fincher using his commercial director skills
to sell us fascism. It’s more than just
a tale of insecure masculinity.
In Hollywood, sometimes you hear the saying:
“We’re not in the entertainment business,
we’re in the empathy business.”
The optimistic reading of that statement is:
we’re looking to find the emotionally honest
core to our story; that we work hard to strip
away artifice and deliver a meaningful product.
The cynical, commercial reading of that statement
is that we’re simply taking a generic product,
then wrapping it in packaging that signals
to the audience that they are supposed to
feel empathy. And I’ll give you one guess
whether or not Fincher is cynical about commercials,
as one of the most successful commercial directors
of all time: “I’m extremely cynical about
commercials and about selling things and about
the narcissistic ideals of what we’re supposed
to be. I guess in my heart I was hoping people
are too smart to fall for that stuff.”
I talked a lot about how narrow and controlled
Tyler’s point of view is in framing this
story. There are very, very few moments where
his narrative slips. Very few times where
it feels like Fincher is commenting ON Tyler,
instead of Fincher simply having fun as the
one controlling the story THROUGH Tyler. Here’s
one example: In the first act, we see a woman
with a shaved head in the background. She’s
there again when Chloe speaks, and these two
seconds are the only time we really get a
good look at her, in focus. We may assume
Chloe has a shaved head, but she keeps hers
covered. In a movie where the vast majority
of shots are highly motivated, distorted,
emotionally jarring... this shot is quiet,
matter of fact. Almost an hour and a half
later, we see members of Project Mayhem shave
their heads. By the end, Tyler has a shaved
head. One woman’s actual experience with
cancer is these white guys’ idea of a ‘fun
haircut.’ In appropriating this look, Tyler
and his men attempt to appropriate a symbol
of victimhood itself. He goes from appropriating
the pain of being in a support group to appropriating
the haircut of a woman with cancer. As if
to say: “Look, my haircut shows that society
is killing me! Society is committing a genocide
against meeee! One might call it… a white
genocide!” As their actions escalate from
pranks toward straight up terrorism, they
escalate from simple appropriation of victimhood
to the colonization of victimhood. Their home
base even resembles a work camp, or concentration
camp, as if to constantly remind Tyler’s
followers that they “deserve” to identify
as oppressed.
There’s no frontier left to conquer, there’s
no more “New World” to pillage. So now,
we plunder hearts and minds. This “colonization
of victimhood” allows Tyler and his men
to justify pretty much anything, because now
they can claim they have been wronged, by
simply pointing to this visual marker: the
shaved head. Tyler is hell bent on teaching
young men that they’ve been disenfranchised.
That their feelings are cancer. That love
is death. And that ultimately, your death--in
service of Tyler--is freedom. And that’s
just sad, more than anything else. Sad that
we live in an age of technological miracles,
yet despite that, a lot of the people who
benefit most directly from society’s advantages
would rather spend their time tearing others
down, pushing people out, stripping freedom
from other people, and dehumanizing them.
Sad that the leader of the free world actually
did come up with an alternate personality,
named John Barron, so he could tell everyone
about how great he is, in the third person.
“Over the years I’ve used aliases. If
you’re trying to buy land, you use different
names.” “What names did you use?” “I
would use--I actually used the name Barron.”
And he did manage to fool reporters. But also,
he never shuts up about what a victim he is.
How “unfair” everyone is to him. “What
you said is so insulting to me. It’s a very
terrible thing you said.” How--actually--YOU
are the racist. “That’s such a racist
question.”
But as I’ve been wrapping up this video,
the universe supplied an even more apt comparison.
Gavin McInnes--founder of the violent, racist
Proud Boys, a group with obvious inspiration
from Fight Club--released a video to say he’s
quitting the Proud Boys. He’s trying to
distance himself from the group, after nine
of his followers were arrested for assault
shortly following an appearance by McInnes
himself, at the Metropolitan Republican Club
in New York City. At that appearance, McInnes
reeancted the assassination of a Japanese
socialist as part of a “comedy” routine,
because he’s not funny. The arrests only
came after New York Police were criticized
for protecting the Proud Boys. “I was never
the leader, only the founder.” I know that
I founded this group, but I did not lead this
group. As we watch Gavin McInnes squirm, trying
to distance himself from the violent hate
group he founded, we see the cowardly selfishness
of a paternalistic leader who is finally afraid
he’ll be held to account. His speech reads
like a list of the rhetorical devices we’ve
been covering in this video.
For the entire duration of this thirty six
minute video, even though he covers a variety
of topics, McInnes stands next to a photo
of one of the Proud Boys, and his wife who
happens to be a person of color. He appropriates
what he sees as the external symbol of her
oppression--her skin color--and uses this
image as a literal prop, as “evidence”
that he--Gavin McInnes--is the one who is
truly oppressed. He has chosen this photo
to disavow the fact that his gang targets
marginalized groups, to disavow his obvious
bigotry. Her image is present, but any voice
from those marginalized groups he targeted
are absent.
In this age of information, we really do have
front row seats in our theater of mass destruction
thanks to the internet. There’s so much
news, so much data, so many points of view
to sift through. And people in power use that
to their advantage. Whereas the 20th century
version of the Monoform was linear video in
the form of tightly packaged TV programming
or movies, now we have Twitter, Facebook,
and YouTube, which fragment viewpoints and
meaning even more. The very technology that
isolates us, also advertises itself as the
solution to that isolation.
I’ve been trying to figure out how I come
to a conclusions in a video where I’ve specifically
pointed out the dangers of driving toward
a predetermined conclusion. And I think that
conclusion is simply: we need to get better,
as a society, at questioning narratives, questioning
authority; stop just asking why, and start
asking who is benefiting from this story?
And the answer in Fight Club is only one person
benefits: Tyler.
Thanks for making it to the end of this very
long video. And a deep, special thank you
to all my patrons who were incredibly patient,
as this video took a long time to finish.
And thanks to all my wonderful friends who
provided voices for the video. You can check
out all their links below, I’m sure you
recognized a few of them already. And If you
want to see more videos like this, or more
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