A ticking-time-bomb insomniac and a slippery soap salesman channel primal male aggression into a shocking new form of therapy. Their concept catches on, with underground "fight clubs" forming in every town, until an eccentric gets in the way and ignites an out-of-control spiral toward oblivion.
The sardonic, testosterone-fueled science fiction of this grunge parable means to hit raw nerves. Making a tougher but less stomach-turning film than his earlier "Seven," David Fincher taps into the nexus of computer-age malevolent fantasy and attempts to psychoanalyze an entire culture in ways that aren't entirely clear until the film's whammy of a denouement arrives. A reckless but fascinating attempt, expertly acted, to make sense of contemporary frustrations. — Janet Maslin
1999-10-15 | Janet Maslin | Read the New York Times Review of Fight Club