Why "Fight Club" Is Better Than I Thought (And The Value Of Second Viewings)

The first time I watched David Fincher’s Fight Club, I think I was in my sophomore year of high school. Among my friends, it had been carelessly shuffled into the same category of violent, masculinity-loving films as the über-idiotic The Boondock Saints (the poster of which peppered the walls of my friends’ rooms) and a parade of war films, which probably began with Full Metal Jacket (which I’ve still only seen the boot camp section of, which was the ‘good part’ as I remember a high school friend insisting) and ended with Saving Private Ryan (which we adored more as a method of hero-worship than proper film-going admiration). There were good and bad films among them, but I remember all of them through a shade of, quite literally, sophomoric understanding. Since high school, I’ve found myself returning to some films (Boondock is not, happily, on the list) and experiencing a shift in perspective.

Anyone who has seen Fight Club probably remembers the titular aspect of the film better than any other and, as high school boys with our heads up in masculine clouds, that’s the aspect that we tended to focus on when watching the film. The entire focus group section at the start of the film and the dull corporation-directed anger infused by the narrator into the narrative were simply an interesting prelude to the entrance of Tyler Durden and the initiation of the fighting. I remember being far less interested in ‘Project Mayhem’ and the anti-corporate, anti-government scheming going on by the end of the film; I was more invested in the violent encounters between the men in shadowy basements and back rooms. It was the fight that interested us boys—safe in our boarding school rooms in western Massachusetts, most of us raised in safe, upper-middle class families—that kind of brutal, physical encounter that none of us had ever known, with the hedgy exception of contact sports, whose envelopment by rules prevented the non-regulatory Fight Club spirit: First rule of fight club: You do not talk about fight club. Second rule of fight club…

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Over the past six years since my first viewing, I came to realize that an audience far broader than that of hormonal high-school boys recognized the film as an achievement. It was a film, I understood, to be admired. But in what way? All I could remember when I thought back to the film was the extraordinary violence and the anti-…well…anti-everything spirit that it seemed to espouse. [Spoilers to follow.] I remember being vaguely disappointed by the Jekyll-and-Hyde twist and the explosions that capped off the ending. In taking another look at the film, I was excited to explore the parts I once admired about it, but I was more excited to have another look at those parts that I disliked.

Before I dig deep into the film, I should acknowledge the genesis of my newfound interest. About a week ago, my fellow intern Danny mentioned in passing that he had looked at Fight Club in a film class, particularly in terms of its use of product placement. “Product placement?” I interrupted him. “There was product placement in Fight Club?” He shrugged off my incredulousness. I declared, as if it were suddenly a necessity, that I would rewatch the film that night. (I actually saved it for the weekend…) But once I got around to the film and settled into the experience, I found that I completely understood the role of product placement in the film. Even if Tyler Durden is vehemently opposed to advertising and the supposed ill effects it has on society, the film industry certainly is not. There is a point in the film in which the narrator and Durden climb aboard a public bus and mock a Gucci ad set into the crease between ceiling and side of the bus. “Is that what a man is supposed to look like?” sneers the narrator, as he and the Durden consciously brandish their war wounds from the previous night’s violence.

Product placement, I had foolishly forgotten, depends less on positive or negative treatment within the film itself and more on the lasting impression it can have on the audience. Any publicity is good publicity, according to product placement. So the product placement that occurs in Fight Club treats the film essentially as a smokescreen. When the screen fades to black at the end, we’ll exit the theater thinking how great we would look in Calvin Klein underwear. It struck me in watching the film, though, that the film functions as a smokescreen in an entirely different way, largely unrelated to product placement. I had missed it the first time around: the glorying in what is essentially a totalitarian regime run by Tyler Durden. Even as we—as the audience—cheer on the anti-corporate mayhem and idealistic charm that the film’s latter half indulges in, I don’t think people walk away from the film thinking: Hey, I’d like to join a fight club and start a revolution.

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The film, if looked at critically, provides an argument against totalitarianism and for capitalism, but to first arrive at the basis of that argument, you have to take a few steps away from the film and consider the circumstances. It goes—almost without saying—that most, if not all, Hollywood films are the product of capitalism. Fight Club is an edgy, artsy film, but that doesn’t exclude it from having been produced, filmed, and publicized with a financial motive. I don’t mean to undervalue it as a work of art or diminish its impact by referring to it as a ‘consumer product,’ but, in many ways, that’s what it is. One has a more difficult time judging the ‘capitalistic content’ of a piece of visual art or a musical concert or a book of poems. With a Hollywood film, it seems hard to put up much contention.

That bit said, the argument against totalitarianism ought to be painfully clear to anyone once the notion has been raised. The militaristic, anti-individualist, jingoistic attitudes of the tertiary figures in the ‘fight club’ are terrifying. What is so chilling is that we never witness Durden bearing down on his little army (Norton’s narrator, we assume, is schizo’d out of the picture while this is taking place). Instead, we only witness the efficient, charismatic side of Durden. There is, however, one scene in which Durden’s rhetoric ought to tip us off to his nefarious project: the infamous Raymond K. Hessel scene.

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Fight Club from Joon on Vimeo.

Once upon a time, I thought that this scene was a weirdly efficient vehicle for an idealist/existentialist lesson: follow your dreams. Which it still was when I saw it for a second time…but in a totalitarian way, because that lesson comes with a caveat: Tyler Durden decides what your dreams are. It might help to reproduce the dialogue from this scene—TD is Durden, N is the narrator, and RH is Raymond K. Hessel:

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TD: Give me your wallet. Raymond K. Hessel. 1320 SE Benning, apartment A.  A small, cramped basement apartment. […several lines…] An expired community college student ID card.  What did you study, Raymond?

RH: S-s-stuff.

TD: “Stuff.” Were the mid-terms hard? [hits him] I asked you what you studied.

RH: Biology, mostly.

TD: Why?

RH: I don’t know.

TD: What did you want to be, Raymond K. Hessel? [cocks the gun] The question—Raymond—was what did you want to be?

N: Answer him! Jesus…

RH: Veterinarian! Veterinarian!

TD: Animals.

RH: Animals and s—

TD: Stuff. Yeah I got that. That means you have to get more schooling.

RH: Too much school!

TD: Would you rather be dead? Would you rather die—here, on your knees, in the back of a convenience store? [puts the gun away] I’m keeping your license. I’m going to check in on you. I know where you live. If you’re not on your way to becoming a veterinarian in six weeks, you’ll be dead. Now run home. [gives him a shove and Raymond runs] Run, Forrest, run!

[…a few lines…]

N: What the fuck was the point of that?

TD: 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.

N: [narration] He had a plan and it started to make sense in a Tyler sort of way. No fear, no distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.

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There’s a lot packed into this brief scene, which occurs about two thirds of the way through the film. In watching this clip and then reading through portions of the dialogue, you’ve probably developed a bit more of a feel for what is going on here. When I first saw this part of the film, I took it as a very weird, nearly violent act of goodwill on Durden’s part: he was helping Raymond K. Hessel ‘find himself’ again. In shorthand, he was helping Raymond be free. There’s obviously a great irony in that first impression, because Durden is doing anything but help Raymond achieve freedom.

It begins with the fact that Durden assumes that he knows what is best for Raymond. He doesn’t bother to note the grammar of his question: “What did you want to be?” The question is phrased with regard to the past, not the present. For all Durden knows, Hessel is perfectly happy working at the convenience store: a convenience store worker is what he wants [pr. tense] to be. He wanted to be a veterinarian. Durden is forcing Raymond on a career path that he may no longer have any interest in pursuing. Of course, it might sound silly to say that someone would rather make change all day over working with animals, but that is his choice to make. Raymond’s career choice (and the path he takes to get there) ought belong with him. In threatening him the way he does, Durden usurps Raymond’s freedom and asserts that he is making Raymond ‘more free’ than he would be otherwise. Durden knows ‘what is best’ for everyone.  

The final horrifying moment in this scene is Durden’s claim that “tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessel’s life.” The narrator does not bother to contradict the statement. Upon consideration, however, I doubt that Raymond’s meal will taste all that good. It will be the first day of many days under the yoke of Durden’s idealistic life plan. I doubt that it will be a good breakfast. Raymond might even go so far as to imagine that breakfast of the day beforehand was the best one he ever tasted.

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I could dig deeper—into more examples of the totalitarian spirit of Fight Club—but you’ve probably gotten the point. The larger question I’ve been trying to answer, however, remains unanswered: how many viewings is enough? How much do we change with age in terms of how we interact with and understand art? I suspect there are lots of films out there that I will see again and see differently. There are films I’ve seen in the past months that will seem different when I see them years from now. It’s a worrisome thing…what lessons am I missing? what intended ironies have I taken seriously? I can at least say that I no longer march to the beat of Tyler Durden’s drum, but I’m sure there are other beats that I follow with a sure and steady step, not suspecting their disagreeable natures.