Goatmoose

Many people consider themselves pretty hardcore Chuck Palahniuk fans. I know I do. Survivor is one of my favorite books of all time, and I recommend everyone on the planet read it. Fight Club is a classic that has been brought to film by David Fincher to great praise. Even Palahniuk’s lesser-known semi-nonfiction titles like Stranger Than Fiction make for a great read and are worth being on everyone’s library shelf. And of course, the strange journey towards self-realization by sexual deviant and colonial theme park guide Victor Mancini, Choke, always makes for a good read. But how about the movie?

Ehhh, not so much – but you knew that from the title of the post. Weighing in at just under an hour and a half, I already knew from the runtime it wasn’t going to live up to par with the book. There’d be too many little details that would need ignored to fit into that time period, and it’s the little details differentiate Chuck’s stories between poetry and trash.

The story was beat and the things that make the book interesting and definitive (the anal beads, Denny’s rock collecting, the Jesus element, Paige’s big secret) were all sort of ho-hummed over in the movie, effectively eliminating the things that make the story compelling. The acting was alright, I guess, but if they’re acting about boring bs, who really cares?

The thing about Palahniuk’s writing is this – it’s written with such a poetic flow, a unique rhythm, a style that is so honestly his own. It’s what defines him as a writer and coupled with his abstract, somewhat wicked views of the world and characters, it makes for a great story time and time again. This film was unable to capture any of that verbiage and flair. Fight Club, which was largely told through Edward Norton’s narration, which was largely taken straight from the novel’s pages, was able to do a better job of grasping the original material. Plus it’s just a better story. This movie didn’t grab any of that, and it’s a shame.

That said, it’s pretty much what I expected from it.