We’re
the middle children of history. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No
Great Depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our
lives.
- Tyler
Durden
At the turn of the last century, a little film snuck into the cultural zeitgeist and held up a big fat mirror - and finger - to 20th century life. Fight Club, in itself, was an act of provocation meant to defibrillate us from the coma of our comfortable, content lives. It challenged us to keep up with a hectic, if not intentionally splintered, narrative. It blasted capitalistic staples of our modern culture, ranging from IKEA furniture to Blockbuster to the auto industry. But more than anything, Fight Club epitomized life in 1999 as a numbing everyday chore, something that was just waiting for a catalyst to blow open its ugly, disturbingly false insides.
Most generally, Fight Club could – and in many ways, should – be labeled as a quintessential “guy movie.” It springboards from man’s most instinctual and primal emotion – anger – and crystallizes into a giant metaphor for everything that’s wrong with the modern patriarchal society. It examines the lonely, if not altogether alienating, journeys young men often take in their attempt to forge a legacy for themselves. And more importantly, it shines a revealing spotlight on our contemporary lifestyles, toying with every facet of our increasingly materialistic and capitalistic endeavors to form either the most insightful cautionary tale for our times or the grimmest reflection of our own sad little lives.
Fight Club, released on the hysterical verge of Y2K, centers on a nameless narrator at odds with the supreme insipidity of his life. Undoubtedly, Fight Club echoes the banality of the late 90’s. The dot-com bubble had spawned the internet. Chic condos popped up faster than McDonald’s. Gallons of gas were cheaper than gallons of milk. Most of all, waves of commercial and consumer propaganda were vomited in heaps on the general public. And despite all these social advancements, something dire seemed lacking in the life of the ordinary, nameless, everyday man.
Indeed, this nameless narrator’s day job consisted of a common cubicle, indistinguishable from others. At night, he battled severe bouts of insomnia as he dazed in and out of late-night infomercials. But soon enough, the narrator’s stale life received a jolt of electricity from a complete stranger – Tyler Durden. Introduced over a quip about a “single-serving friend” that was more alarmingly true than funny, Durden forged a hasty connection with the narrator. Indeed, Durden dressed wildly, spoke candidly, and acted instinctively. In essence, Durden was everything the narrator was not: ambitious, decisive, proactive, and dangerous. Yet instead of reassurance, Durden urged the narrator to punch him. As hard as he could. Just to feel something real. And in this one simple act of primal aggression, fight club was born and the narrator’s entire life turned upside down.
But as these underground fight clubs quickly took shape, it became clear that Durden’s ultimate plan involved much more than petty brawls. Indeed, Durden’s grand scheme evolved from punching people in desolate basements to pummeling society in the balls. Indeed, this “Project Mayhem” – pioneered by nameless drones of men around the nation – rapidly grew into an uncontrollable force. But more importantly, Project Mayhem yearned to press the master reset button on modern society as an entire generation of young men turned on the world around them, targeting the very staples of the American dream molded by previous generations. And amidst all this growing civil frailty, the lonely, nameless narrator finally faced his own shortcomings as the world he knew slowly crumbled around him.
At one point, Durden laments the modern generation’s general lack of purpose. Previous generations were given the opportunity to define their legacies through life-defining social struggles. Indeed, our fathers and grandfathers lived through adversity; and in surviving the ordeal, they controlled their own legacies, pioneered their own futures. But our current generation, as Durden reflects, is aimless and our lives thereby, useless.
This sense of patriarchal abandonment and social aimlessness is pervasive throughout the film. It’s so pervasive in fact, that I see the entire film as a reflection on futility. One could argue that Fight Club essentially contains no story arc. The hero begins in an emotionally stunted, socially crippled state of mind only to embark on a journey to discover that something dire was – and ultimately still is – missing from his life. In the end, Project Mayhem succeeds. Anarchy reigns. And regardless of whatever personal growth the narrator accomplished in suppressing Durden or finally grasping his shortcomings, society’s capital structure was still destroyed. Y2K was not averted. The dynamite still went boom.
This nihilism seems to speak more to the will of lesser men rather than the weaknesses of greater men and how men can impose their legacies regardless of class, situation, or circumstance. Indeed, the narrator’s journey from a nameless, aimless, worker bee to Messianic Leader of Project Mayhem is undermined by the fact that he gained nothing. In fact, one could argue he lost everything – his house, his furniture, maybe even his own fears and dreams. In this sense, Fincher seems to argue that in order for a man, no matter how weak, to gain an identity and leave an imprint on the fabric of society, he must overcome not only his own faults, but also ignore – if not altogether, break – society’s rules. A man must create something for himself; but if he follows what other people deem “acceptable,” what does that say about the man’s legacy? Great men, after all, dare to be uncommon.
This stance on the potential of the male ego is present in all of Fincher’s works. John Doe from Se7en is the most obvious case: he literally breaks the laws and murders people in an attempt to open society’s eyes to its own shortcomings. He’s labeled terrible things; and he’s seen as an evil man. But by the end of his journey, it’s clear he succeeded in at least one regard: he has completed his goal of seven murders and in the process, changed the social outlook of a jaded Detective Somerset. In The Game, Nicholas van Orten goes on a similar journey to grapple with his own familial angst. He’s continually at odds with himself, whether seen through his father’s suicide, his brother’s immaturity, or even his own marital failures. And in order for him to admit his shortcomings as a man, he must dare to step outside of what society deems right and wrong.
These ruminations on a man’s “success” surely stem from our societal emphasis on masculinity. Indeed, our modern society is a sexist one – one in which men are still largely expected to lead, create, and pioneer legacies that will withstand the test of time. Not unlike the passing down of the family name, men are ingrained with the expectation to bequeath a creation that will live on long after they have passed.
“Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God?” questions Durden. Surely, this question poses numerous tangents. But at a basic (and secular) level, it highlights the notion of solidarity in an increasingly apathetic and distant society. Here, it's interesting to note that Durden implies the faults of modern men are merely the failures of our fathers. In essence, he seems to deflect blame and present the current generation's issues not as the cause of what's wrong in our world today, but as the effects of our previous generations' failures.
One could argue that this stance is present in Fincher's other works. After all, Doe’s killings are not the cause of chaos, but rather the effect of widespread apathy (or so he claims). Similarly, Nicholas’ insecurities with his own masculinity are only highlighted through his lonely house, rigid offices, and empty relationships - staples of what a masculine society has defined as "successful." His weaknesses as a man reflect society’s pressure to define success; he is a product of society, not the cause for its increasingly materialistic fetishes.
One could argue that this stance is present in Fincher's other works. After all, Doe’s killings are not the cause of chaos, but rather the effect of widespread apathy (or so he claims). Similarly, Nicholas’ insecurities with his own masculinity are only highlighted through his lonely house, rigid offices, and empty relationships - staples of what a masculine society has defined as "successful." His weaknesses as a man reflect society’s pressure to define success; he is a product of society, not the cause for its increasingly materialistic fetishes.
It’s important to note here that it is precisely because of this abandonment that Durden even exists. Recall, Durden is not truly introduced until after the narrator first attempts to reach out to a woman, Marla Singer. With his home destroyed, he calls for her help but he can't bring himself to speak to her, much less admit how much he needs her. So instead, he hangs up and creates a split personality, an imaginary best friend.
But Durden is merely the effect; Marla is the cause. One could argue that Marla is largely reduced to sex, drugs, and chain smoking for most of the film. And based on the treatment of female roles in Fincher’s other films, this argument is not without merit; Marla is primarily reduced to the periphery of the story. But in the third act, Marla seems to evolve from a disinterested, hedonistic girl into something else entirely - an opportunity to offer not what a man wants, but what he needs.
Where Fincher so cruelly dangled Christine’s purpose throughout The Game, he pushes Marla into the forefront by the end of Fight Club. Indeed, the narrator doesn't comprehend the danger awaiting all of society until Marla's life is threatened. It is not until Durden sets his crosshairs on Maria that the narrator finally differentiates himself from Tyler. In doing so, the narrator is not fighting for society but actually just a guy who likes a girl. And more importantly, he’s a guy who realizes his life is missing something (and it’s not a soap-making anarchist). He’s a guy who finally understands that in order to grow up, boys need women to teach them how to become men. After all, “we’re a generation of men raised by women,” Durden reflects, “I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.”
The bottom line to all this masculine angst and social unrest is that if nothing’s going to happen, make something happen. As Fincher states himself, there are only two constants in this world: entropy and anarchy. The current generation – this so-called Facebook generation – precisely lacks the uniting adversity of previous decades; and its absence defines us. So what do to? Hate the past or fear the future? Destroy or create? Project Mayhem or Facebook? (Side note: This notion of a lost generation and its hectic search for purpose, whether through destruction or creation, is exactly the reason why I was not surprised when Fincher took on what could be viewed as Fight Club’s antithetical sister project, The Social Network, in 2010…but more on that in the upcoming post!)
Either way, one thing is clear: through Fincher’s eyes, the modern man has admitted that he is incomplete – personally, emotionally, and socially. He tries to express himself through unconventional, provocative and often times, chaotic, means. And yet, all these male leads in Fincher’s stories who we so quickly and passionately label as unfit, uncouth, or unbelievable are in actuality simply augmented reflections of our own selves. The only difference is, these “disturbed” men dare to confront society's assumptions and force feed it their own legacies by any means necessary, regardless of convention, perception, or acceptance.
