Category: Film Review

David Fincher’s apocalyptic, hysterical, and blood-soaked satire of male (wish)fulfillment Fight Club escaped into theaters in 1999, and yet its message still rings loud and clear: FUCK THE MAN. And make no mistake – this film literally escaped. How did they ACTUALLY get away with all of the stuff in this movie? I’m not going to delve into all of the various ideas and storytelling levels that the wild narrative operates on; that’s been done hundreds of times by very intellectual writers and I don’t feel I can really offer anything new. But what I can state is how this movie made me feel as a 19 year old film student and obsessive movie fan when I saw it opening night with my college buddies – it made us feel alive and explosive in a way that few films ever have. And now that I’m a 37 year old father and looking to the next chapter of my life, the film’s themes of societal placement, advancement, and the construct of family and its importance (or lack thereof) seem more relevant and thought provoking than ever. This film is an anarchist’s dream come true; look no further than the beyond ballsy final moments with the collapse of the American credit system.

I love how this movie doesn’t give a fuck about anything, it could care less if you like it, and at times, seems to be openly mocking the viewer for enjoying any portion of it. Fincher’s subversive streak was in full swing here, and because the material was so fertile with ideas, his lightning-quick visual style had tons to leap off of. Fincher, Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, Helena Bonham Carter, screenwriter Jim Uhls, original novelist Chuck Palahniuk, cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, and editor James Haygood were all in perfect synch with regards to the aesthetic construction of this film and how it tied into the dense and mordantly funny narrative. Everything is up for analysis, critique, deconstruction, and destruction in this berserk and ferocious piece of work, and when it came out, I remember the critical community proudly taking sides over the merit (or lack thereof) of the film’s message, and asking if it was a dangerous piece of propaganda or a masterfully satirical comment about the male psyche and how it’s influenced by various forms of emotional and visceral stimuli, in an effort to smother, suppress, or fully control. This is a ballsy movie, a film with something to say, and the live-wire nerve to say it.

The extra-slick visual tricks that Fincher and his creative team employed still feel fresh in that hopped-up manner that was desired, while the film’s hysterical sense of its own self has become more and more apparent and downright incendiary over the years and countless viewings. Thank you, Bill Mechanic. Thank you, David Fincher, Chuck Palahniuk, Jim Uhls, and all of the hugely talented people that made this form-busting piece of cinema come to life. There’s absolutely ZERO CHANCE this film gets made today, even with Fincher’s clout that he’s attained. I got some flack the other day for “demanding” that Fincher get back to challenging and risk-taking films such as this. And while I understand that the marketplace is VERY different now than it was in 1999 (hell, the entire industry changed yet again, for the worse, in 2008), the fact that Fincher is capable of films such as Seven and Fight Club and Zodiac, well, it just makes me yearn for something truly exceptional again. Something that literally bursts through the screen and chokes me at the neck saying LOOK HOW OUT OF BOUNDS BRILLIANT I AM. I’m greedy, and I love David Fincher’s unique view of the world. And for me, Fight Club is endless in its cinematic glories.

I was 12 years old when my father took me to see David Fincher’s Alien 3 on opening night, totally unaware of the behind the scenes fiasco that had occurred during production, and that’s probably why I’ve always enjoyed it more than most. I still think that, for all the documented issues that befell this film during the creative, shooting, and post stages, it’s pretty damn good. And really grim and bleak, which of course would become Fincher’s cinematic stock in trade – delivering subversive and sinister thrills (the corridor chases are fantastic), upending expectations (a bald Ripley!), and delivering a climactic deathblow (with chest-burster!) that should have ended the series. Sure, thanks to the amazing Alien Quadrilogy Blu/DVD set you’re now able to see various cuts of the film, including the much-loved but not Fincher-sanctioned “assembly edit” that everyone seems to point to as the best possible version. But I’ve always found the theatrical release cut to be a very effective piece of cinema, and after multiple viewings, I still sort of scratch my head as to what the big fuss was about with the final product. Sure, it’s not a masterpiece like Ridley Scott’s original and it’s not the full-on rousing action-adventure like the James Cameron sequel. But rather, this is a ruminative, somber, and cerebral entry in the franchise, which has employed new directors throughout the lifespan of the series, continuing with Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s derided-by-many-but-loved-by-me Alien: Resurrection (swimming Xenomorphs!) before Scott returned for his rather striking 2012 prequel Prometheus; the less said about this summer’s waste-of-time Alien: Covenant the better.

But Alien 3 has a distinct personality and tone all to itself, and I’ve always loved this rather poetic bit of dialogue that Ripley so thoughtfully states during a key moment in regards to her relationship to the Xenomorph: “You’ve been in my life so long, I can’t remember anything else.” There’s a severity to Alien 3; it’s not anything like the previous two pictures that had come before it, and I’m glad no attempt was ever made to replicate any of the beats from Alien or Aliens. Even after replacing director Vincent Ward and scrapping much of what was to be used from a narrative and visual standpoint, the idea that a FIRST TIME director was put in this PARTICULAR hot-seat and STILL delivered something of merit says a lot, and speaks to the start of Fincher’s quest through Hollywood. I know he doesn’t like the film; he doesn’t have to, and if I were him, I might feel the same way. But it’s good stuff. And those shocking final moments with Ripley taking her furnace bath are poignant and oh-so-Fincher-esque. I always loved that after all the violent insanity that went down during the story, that it was good old-fashioned WATER that serves as the ultimate defense. Alex Thomson’s gritty cinematography perfectly matched the dank, decrepit production design by Norman Reynolds and his team. Much maligned and certainly not perfect, Alien 3 is still better than its reputation, and will always carry a certain level of notoriety given that it’s Fincher’s directorial debut.

I expect more from David Fincher than remakes of airport novels, but even when he’s “slumming,” the end-result can be fascinating and visually striking. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo had of course become a smash-hit in both book and film form in its home country of Sweden, but that meant nothing to the Hollywood bean-counters, who felt the need to adapt this exceptionally dark and nasty piece of work for the big screen. Fincher and big-money screenwriter Steven Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Moneyball, Searching for Bobby Fischer) were drafted, and a needless yet entertaining remake was born, one that softened some of the grimier elements of the original in favor of more digestible thematic ingredients and yet still explored the depths of human depravity. Which is, often times, what Fincher has enjoyed doing as a dark-arts craftsman. He is, of course, the filmmaker who has been famously quoted as saying that “movies should leave scars” and that he and the audience are nothing more than “perverts,” so I guess it doesn’t surprise me that he would be attracted to this inherently sadistic material. But this is a film where it felt like Fincher could have directed it from a remote location, with one hand tied behind his back.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo remains watchable, for me as a viewer, because of the exceedingly sophisticated aesthetic package and the juicy, full-bodied performances. The film looks and sounds like a feverish nightmare, with frosty cinematography and an unnerving musical score that could cut glass. Rooney Mara was fabulous in the leading role, physically disappearing into a character that has some seriously prickly emotional currents, and Daniel Craig wasn’t afraid of taking on a morally questionable character that rarely emerges as the victorious alpha male we’ve seen in narratives such as this and previous films he’s appeared in. The supporting cast is peppered with familiar faces and some rather creepy unknowns, and even if the material ultimately took Fincher nowhere new as a storyteller, there’s a bracing dynamism to his imagery that cannot be denied and often times has you coming back for seconds. The opening credits sequence is also completely stunning, a small tour de force in and of itself. But I need more from Fincher as an artist, and a sequel to WWZ is not what I’m interested in seeing. Give us another Fight Club. Break the mold again, and take us somewhere we’ve never been. That’s what I demand as a viewer.

When I first heard that David Fincher would be directing a film about the formation of Facebook, my initial response, as was likely the same response from many others, was one of befuddlement. Why would this exquisitely talented filmmaker spend his time telling a story about a relatively young social media empire? What’s so cinematic about that? In conjunction with Aaron Sorkin’s razor-sharp and dialogue-heavy screenplay, Fincher ended up crafting one of the strongest films of his career, and while not as deep or as emotionally shattering as Seven, or as detail-obsessed as Zodiac or as trendsetting as Fight Club, there’s a timeless aspect to The Social Network that encourages repeat viewings. The film also continued Fincher’s obsession with finding the absolute perfect shade of the color brown, as his visual palette became even more desaturated and icy in this film, thanks to the pin-point precision of Jeff Cronenweth’s foreboding cinematography that stressed shadows and low-lit interiors. All of the ego-driven and brilliant characters on display operate with a sense of emotional iciness which must’ve appealed to Fincher’s dark cinematic heart, while Sorkin’s rapid-fire dialogue contains sardonic wit as well as hyper-intelligence to match its subjects.

This is the role that Jessie Eisenberg will always be remembered for, Andrew Garfield projected empathy and stupidity at the same time, and Armie Hammer did a superb job in a double performance which consistently steals the show. The ominous and suspenseful musical score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross is a sonic delight, punctuating nearly every single scene with sinister energy, and was in perfect tandem with the slippery-smooth editing patterns set by Angus Wall and Kirk Baxter. A box-office hit and critical darling, The Social Network was nominated for eight Oscars, winning three, but not Picture or Director. Which is ludicrous. Because I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen this film a helluva lot more times than The King’s Speech. This was the film, along with Zodiac, where I really started to notice how Fincher was becoming his generation’s Alan J. Pakula: Seven was his Klute; The Game was his Parallax View; Zodiac/Social Network are his All the President’s Men; Gone Girl was his Presumed Innocent; Benjamin Button was his Sophie’s Choice; Dragon Tattoo was his Dream Lover. I’m probably stretching a bit, but I think the similarities between the two filmmakers are apparent in both aesthetics and themes, despite them working in very different eras of storytelling.

Disturbingly cool yet thoroughly ridiculous is how I’d describe David Fincher’s sleek thriller Gone Girl.  Disturbing because of what it says about marriage and how little some spouses probably know about each other. Ridiculous because, when boiled down, it’s all rather ludicrous in retrospect, with so much depending on contrivance and all-knowing manipulation and calculation. And cool because it seems that Fincher is incapable of making movies that don’t exude this feeling – cool.  He’s an emotionally icy string-puller, always has been, always will be. In Gone Girl, his trademark ominous music, gliding camerawork, and ultra-swift editing patterns amp up the tension and pace, resulting in a lightning-quick viewing experience that transcend the procedural elements and construction to the dense narrative.  He’s a master craftsman who always seems to be working at the top of his game, and for those who appreciate this sort of technical precision, Gone Girl offers unending pleasures.  You get the sense that, as a filmmaker, he gets a kick out of fucking with people – he’s our resident sadist entertainer. I just wish he’d get back to something a bit meatier with his subject matter.

Along with author/screenwriter Gillian Flynn, Fincher clearly saw lots of potential in this perverse, kinky, totally screwed up landscape of domestic “bliss” living, while they also set their cynical sights on the fiendish news media and society’s propensity for believing that someone’s guilty before a trial has even been conducted.  All of Fincher’s movies, The Game and Fight Club especially, have reveled in sick and twisted humor, and Gone Girl amps up the dark-hearted laughs in any number of scenes, underscoring a deeply nasty point of view.  Ben Affleck has rarely been better as Prime Suspect Husband and he got a chance to play with our expectations of how his character would and should act given the circumstances.  Rosamund Pike got an Oscar nomination and delivered a knock-out of a performance – she needs to get more work as she’s been criminally undervalued for years.  And it goes without saying that the film affords big-time Kim Dickens POWER. But for me, a far more scathing and brilliant dissection of modern marriage is Ruben Ostlund’s devastating satire Force Majeure, which thematically resembles Gone Girl in more than one instance.