The Automatik

It’s called a changeover: the movie goes on and nobody in the audience has any idea.
The first time I saw Fight Club I had an epiphany and its impact stays with me to this day. It took me two or three hours to be able to speak coherently about how perfectly the film encapsulates all I worship and despise about post-modern consumerism and masculinity. The script, as well as Chuck Palahniuk’s novel, is full of brilliant sound bites, a pop culture treasure trove for years to come.

Prior to seeing the movie, I only knew it starred Edward Norton and Brad Pitt, both of whom I liked, but I had no idea the ground it would cover and how far it would take me. The first part of the film, where Jack’s castration at the hands of corporate America is vividly portrayed, was a magnificent surprise. It both horrified and amused me, as I recognized myself clearly there, particularly the line, “No matter what happens, I’ve got that sofa problem covered.” How sad it was that I had allowed my need for the trappings of grown-up domesticity to define my worth as a person.

The anarchy of the original fight club that Jack and Tyler established allowed me such a vicarious release of pent-up frustrations that I was shocked at how much I did not mind the violence of it all. It wasn’t that that they were pissed off and taking out their anger on the world, it was that they were feeling pain instead of feeling numb. Sometimes masochism is preferable to nihilism.

Yet, as much as I loved the subversiveness of ideas like “Operation Latte Thunder,” the evolution of the Space Monkeys was ultimately disillusioning. I began to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the mindlessness of their rage as well as Tyler’s infidelity to Jack and the original vision they had embraced. How did it all go wrong? My disappointment turned to bewilderment as the plot became more and more unclear. And then the floor dropped out from below me.

The plot twist of Fight Club, the one that has been called both ingenious and implausible, was the most clever and unexpected one I had seen since The Usual Suspects. It was thrilling to watch this movie unfold without a clue of what was in store. Not until later did I grok that the twist was an apt metaphor of the way my fellow corporate drones and I have become. Pretending to care about priority action items at work just so we can have a paycheck and health insurance, but not having fulfilled our “real life” priorities or even identifying what they are, it’s a wonder we haven’t all vanished in a collective fugue. It’s not that I have any complaints about civility and professional behavior; I don’t think we should act as if we have been afflicted with Tourette’s Syndrome. But how did we get to the point of relinquishing our idealism in favor of clever Swedish furniture and a closet full of business casual?

Like any movie that affects me profoundly, I had to see it again and again. I developed a need to watch it, as if the process of watching was like my own personal fight club. Every evening I died and every time I saw Fight Club I was born again, resurrected. I had to take Fight Club up a notch, though; I had to put at least part of its philosophy to work in my own life. I broke up with my boyfriend, ending a relationship that had become a crutch for both of us. I ceased to think of furniture purchases as proof that I was an adult. I started wanting to write again. In time, I even gave up most network television. I felt things; I became happy again.

I don’t advocate blowing up buildings or blackmailing your boss after punching yourself into a glass table. And I still have my cell phone, though I’ve quit the corporate world. The things of this world are not all inherently bad, only if you allow those things that you own to own you.