by Art Linson
He was unassuming. His office was bare: two chairs and an empty desk. He told me that he used to work as a projectionist in Oregon and had seen hundreds of movies, even some forgettable movies that I was involved in, hundreds of times.
‘I’m working on something that interests me.’
‘I’d love to hear it.’
‘Let me tell you the opening.’
‘Great.’
‘Manhattan’s Lower East Side is crisscrossed with magnetic lines for elevated trains. These magnetic tracks cut massive chunks through the old buildings to make room for the high-speed cornering of the train cars.’
‘Nice.’
‘Three guys enter a Lower East Side Manhattan hovel carrying pizza and begin to watch television. Inside the kitchen, we see a figure dressed in a full-length coat and glacier glasses hanging upside down outside the window. One of the guys enters to get a beer. Suddenly the guy with the glasses is standing next to him by the refrigerator. He shoots him with a dart gun in the throat, walks into the TV room, announces that he is body hunter number 209, says, “All of your rights are rescinded,” and coldly shoots the rest of them in the throat.’
‘Okay.’
‘He then proceeds to take out large plastic sheets, spread them on the floor, and line up the bodies in a symmetrical row. He thoughtfully closes their eyes, inserts a large rubber plug in his mouth, and begins to smear his face with thick Vaseline. The rubber plug serves as an air hole. He then takes out a laser knife and splits each body from the esophagus to the pubic bones, rips them apart, and methodically removes the kidneys and other assorted organs.’
‘I see.’
‘He carefully places each organ in separate plastic bags, and leaves.’
‘So, who’s going to get this guy?’
‘No one.’
‘He gets away with it?’
‘No. No. He’s our hero.’
‘The guy with the plastic bags filled with organs?’
‘Yeah. What do you think?’
This was vintage Fincher taking delight in the wild mixture of irreverence and audaciousness. His first movie had yet to be released and he was already excited about ideas that were almost indefensible in the corporate culture that would pay for it. At the time, we were still climbing out of the Reagan years, with a climate in Hollywood that made making this kind of movie almost unthinkable. In addition, I was at the point in my life where coasting downhill had enormous appeal. This guy was trouble. I knew I was around somebody whose ambition was to maul and excite. I wasn’t sure I had the stomach anymore for the fight. I liked him, but I could barely muster the energy to say, ‘Very nice to meet you, I’ve gotta go.’
The screening of Fight Club was about to start. I moved to a seat near the door. Then, after the lights went down, I spent most of my time standing in the back of the room. I found that whenever I was at an early screening, I got too caught up in watching those who were watching, and I completely lost my concentration for the film. I couldn’t help it. So as not to distract the person next to me, I preferred to observe the audience from the rear. In this case, the studio’s reaction turned out to be a hard read.
A costly title sequence filled the screen. With the music blasting, a computer-generated tracking shot pierces the darkness and flies through the motor neurons, navigating the folds of a human brain, revealing electron-microscopic synapses squirting clouds of cerebral fluid, for some ninety seconds, until it emerges from the prefrontal lobe above the eyes to reveal a badly beaten Edward Norton. And then the shot pulls farther back to reveal a loaded .38 jammed into his face.
This was a quick appetizer from the mind and imagination of the hot chef in town. Fincher had devised this intro with Digital Domain before he’d ever started to shoot Fight Club, but permission to execute it was only granted later by the studio as a sugar bonus for his being good – a euphemism for his keeping on schedule. I glanced around the screening room. They were hooked.
When the unnamed narrator, whom we call Jack (Edward Norton), was smothered by the huge breasts of a large fat man (Meat Loaf) while participating in a support group for those suffering from testicular cancer, the executives were so still you could watch the movie reflected off their eyeglasses. I remember that Ziskin, who had left us pretty much alone during the start of filming, was concerned about the giant nipples on the giant breasts and wanted them removed from the fat suit, or at least not have them appear so erect. Fincher denied the request; the nipples remained vast and hard.
Moments later, when Marla enters the hall (Helena Bonham Carter’s introduction), chain-smoking, and interrupts the all-male testicular support group with the line ‘This is cancer, right?’ the executives froze. Did we go too far? A woman in sunglasses joining a testicular cancer meeting! Every time I’ve watched this scene, I’ve laughed. But there were no chuckles from this group. For the remainder of the first hour, they sat absolutely motionless, as if they were marines on full parade. No hand movements, no facial spasms, nothing. They were either rapt or stunned or both.
In the second hour, I began to notice that some of the women, and a couple of the men, would occasionally jerk their heads backward, a sudden ticlike movement, as if they were trying to avoid a collision. When Tyler (Brad Pitt), in front of his men, begged his assailant (Lou) to hit him again even harder, even though his face was already pulverized, a young assistant to Ziskin put her hands over her eyes and dropped her head. I was getting apprehensive, but I could tell they were jolted.
Perhaps one of the most provocative scenes in the movie is where Tyler initiates Jack into the mayhem with a savage acid/lye burn to the hand in the form of a kiss. While Jack is overwhelmed by the searing pain and quivers around the room in tears, Tyler, the darkly drawn devil in all of us, grabs him by the arm. Jack tries to pull his hand free. Tyler won’t let go. Jack tries to think of a series of images to distract himself from the overwhelming pain. Tyler doggedly insists Jack confront the moment while he explains its purpose:
TYLER: This is the greatest moment of your life and you’re off somewhere, missing it.
JACK: No, I’m not …
TYLER: Shut up. Our fathers were models for God. And, if our fathers bailed, what does that tell us about God?
JACK: I don’t know …
Tyler SLAPS Jack’s face again.
TYLER: Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility that God doesn’t like you, he never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen …
JACK: It isn’t … ?
TYLER: We don’t need Him …
JACK: We don’t … ?
TYLER: Fuck damnation. Fuck redemption. We are God’s unwanted children, and so be it …
Jack looks at Tyler – they lock eyes. Jack does his best to stifle his spasms of pain. He bolts toward the sink, but Tyler holds on.
TYLER: You can run water over your hand or use vinegar to neutralize the burn, but first you have to give up. First you have to know, not fear, that someday, you are going to die. Until you know that and embrace that, you are useless.
JACK: You … you don’t know what this feels like, Tyler.
Tyler shows Jack a LYE-BURNED KISS SCAR on his own hand.
TYLER: It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.
Tyler grabs a bottle of VINEGAR – pours it over Jack’s wound.
Jack slumps to the floor.
There are tears in Tyler’s eyes.
TYLER: Congratulations. You’re a step closer to hitting bottom.
There was no need to check out the audience anymore. Instead, I glanced over at Fincher. He was curiously relaxed. He looked like a man who was getting his money’s worth. He wasn’t at all concerned if the impact of what he had done was gratifying to them or not. He knew he was doing something to these onlookers, something darkly powerful, and that pleased him.
One of the true surprises for me during the making of Fight Club was Brad Pitt. H
e never showed any evidence of an actor who was out there trying to protect his ‘Brad Pitt–ness.’ Usually when this happens to a young actor, the first instinct is hang on and play it safe. He doesn’t want to fuck things up. And for sure, his manager, agent, and lawyer don’t want to fuck things up. An awful lot of money is at stake. The result is that actors tend to repeat the same performances and the same kind of roles that created the most success. Without a shred of false vanity or the use of old tricks to win over an audience, Pitt proved to be a formidable actor of enormous talent. Can anyone imagine, thirty years ago, Robert Redford or Warren Beatty shaving his head or working without caps on his teeth or exposing himself so raw and ruthless as Brad had done and just let the chips fall? With all the hype that’s associated with movie stardom, I was not expecting Brad to be almost reckless about challenging the boundaries of what others were expecting him to do. His work in Fight Club was stellar.
Five minutes were left before the movie ended. On the screen, Jack had just blown a hole through Tyler’s head. I headed for the door. Soon Marla would join Jack on the top floor of an unoccupied office building to witness the total annihilation of a simulated Century City from a series of bombs that were planted by Project Mayhem. A massive explosion would rattle the glass walls as buildings collapsed into each other and imploded in a cloud of dust. Jack, utterly beaten and bloodied, would wearily turn to Marla and end with the ironic line ‘I’m sorry … you met me at a very strange time in my life.’
I positioned myself around the corner of the theater, trying to get a candid bead on the results. Remember, even if a picture ‘falls off the screen,’ key executives must go over and congratulate the director. Also, Fight Club had yet to be tested on a preview audience, so no matter what these executives actually thought of the movie on their own, the preview audience would eventually redefine those feelings. Even if they were apprehensive, it was too soon for them to overreact. Should the audience response turn out to be grand, they wouldn’t want to be remembered as naysayers.
Robert Harper, the marketing executive, was the first to exit.
‘Hey, how ’bout that, huh?’ I asked.
He looked pissed off, annoyed that I was already waiting for him. He nodded silently in my direction without facing me. He put on his sunglasses and walked stiffly back to the administration building. That he didn’t stay to commiserate with Bill Mechanic or the other executives could mean several things. He was just a marketing guy. It was too soon to draw any conclusions.
Tom Sherak, in his fifties, was then a high-ranking executive at Fox, theoretically in charge of distribution. This meant he was responsible for strategizing when and how many theaters a movie was to be released in, as well as for negotiating the specific terms with the theater owners. He reported to Mechanic, who reported to Chernin, but Sherak had been at Fox for twenty-five years, long before they were ever there. He knew where all of the skeletons were hidden, and he was smart enough to avoid involving himself in the content of a picture. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway because the executives above him, who thought of themselves as creative types, weren’t too concerned with his artistic opinions. In truth, they didn’t really give a shit. Tom was the guy that booked the movies into theaters. If they were bad, he could always blame the other Fox managers, who prided themselves on being a whole lot hipper than Sherak.
Through the years, I felt that Tom, a truly decent guy, would reflect the barometric pressure of the theater owners but not necessarily the audience. So when I saw him step out from the screening room, I was curious. It might have been my twisted imagination, but he seemed slightly disoriented. He shuffled around the parking lot like a man behind a couple of stiff margaritas struggling to remember where he had parked his car. I guessed the movie had gotten to him.
‘Hey, Tom.’
‘Whoa, whoa.’ He held his hand up as a shield.
‘Tom, I know it’s probably not your thing but …’
‘What is it?’
I began walking with him toward the administration building. ‘Tom, it’s a terrific movie is what it is.’
He looked at me queerly, trying to gauge my sincerity. He started to walk faster. ‘Well, there’s a lot going on, I’ll give you that.’
‘It’s about the disillusionment of an entire young male generation.’
‘Huh?’
‘You know, feelings of emasculation, materialism run amok, rage.’
‘Huh?’ He shook his head. It seemed to me that he just wanted to go home and hug his family.
‘Tom, you gotta admit it’s funny.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No. Don’t say that.’
‘I’ll grant you, I was surprised that nobody laughed, but this movie is funny.’
‘I didn’t see funny.’
‘Trust me, it’s funny.’
‘I want you to do me a favor.’
‘Sure, Tom.’
‘Next week, I have a psychiatrist—’
‘But, I …’
‘I want you to pick a day, any day, and I would like you to go with me and explain this to him, in my presence, why you think this thing is funny.’
‘Tom, do you really think that’s necessary?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I got a full week.’
‘It would do you some good.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
‘I think I know funny,’ he said.
Watching him walk away, I realized then that when the exhibitors saw the movie, they were going to freak. Incidentally, in Sherak’s defense, when he did see Fight Club the second and third time, with a younger audience that understood and responded to the humor, he admitted that although he hadn’t warmed to it the first time, the more he saw it, the funnier and better it became.
Mechanic and Ziskin finally emerged from the theater. They were white. They had thinly creased smiles etched on their faces, but it was evident to me that they weren’t sure what had just happened and were even less sure what was going to happen. They had a lot of personal career dreams wrapped up in this high-profile movie. If they had guessed right, they would be lionized. If they had guessed wrong, who knows, they might just have to pack up their underwear and ignominiously face their futures as independent film producers. That sort of fate can drain the blood from the hardiest of executives.
Throughout the film’s production, Mechanic – especially Mechanic – had taken on the pressure with a wavering composure. He had stood up for Fight Club as boldy as he could, but after this screening, he knew that if this baby didn’t fly, there might be a huge career price to pay. Gearing up for this eventuality was obviously causing some wear and tear. His eyes were slightly dilated, his shoulders a bit more slumped. He looked like one of those good high-stakes poker players in Las Vegas who, having just had all of his fingers broken, and having lost his entire stake, wanly addresses the crowd, ‘A mere flesh wound, ladies and gents, a mere flesh wound.’
Mechanic and Ziskin made their way over to Fincher to praise him. Ziskin clasped her palms together in prayer mode, touched her fingers to her mouth, spread her legs slightly for better balance, and almost knelt before him, saying, ‘Gosh, David, you’ve really done it this time.’ Then she continued with something along the lines of ‘I’ve got some issues, of course, it’s all in the details, you know … there’s lots to talk about … but … what a, what a, what a …’
Mechanic gestured stiffly to me with his hand, then nodded at Fincher, as if to reassure himself that everything was going to be all right. I figured he was already privately rehearsing how to explain this time bomb to Murdoch and Chernin. This left him even more preoccupied. When he finally spoke to Fincher, he mustered something brave like ‘Powerful, very powerful …’ Fincher smiled back and graciously thanked him. Then Mechanic addressed me with one of those fateful lines: ‘I don’t care what anyone says, I’m proud of it, really, really proud of it.’ Uh-oh.
What was clear was that nobody w
ould be able to come up with a simple, concise response to this early cut that would calm their nerves and make the journey more palatable. I recall when Brian De Palma and I presented The Untouchables to the Paramount executives for the first time, they were concerned about the violence. The executives focused on the shoot-out at the train-station stairs, where ‘the bookkeeper’ gets shot in the head against a marble wall. As he slid down the wall, De Palma revealed remnants of his brain, hair, and blood sticking to the marble. The executives had convinced themselves that this was the singular moment in the movie destined to turn off women. They knew we were not going to touch the soon to be famous Capone/baseball-bat sequence. So, instead of giving us a laundry list of suggestions, it became easier for them to focus on this one incident and try to get us to tone it down.
At the customary meeting the next day, they made their case. De Palma considerately said, ‘Okay, let me take a look at it.’ When we walked out, I asked him what his intentions were, since both of us liked that shot. He turned to me and said, ‘Two words: final cut.’
So many incidences in Fight Club were alarming, no group of executives could narrow them down. It’s not as if, let’s say, they could suggest cutting the scene with Chloe (the terribly disturbing Meryl Streep look-alike skeletal cancer victim who fancied Jack) and everything would be okay. I had felt the screening room collectively wince when Chloe talked about how she’s learned to face death but all she really wants to do ‘is get laid for the last time.’ Or, if not that scene, perhaps they might suggest losing the sex scene between Marla and Tyler, where Brad, leering naked in the doorway, wearing a yellow rubber glove, with Marla reeling from ecstasy in the background, asks Norton if he would like to ‘finish her off.’ Or, what about the scene where Tyler and Jack steal real human fat from a liposuction clinic to make designer soap and end up spilling it all over themselves while attempting to escape over a chain-link fence? Or, remember when Tyler, working as a movie projectionist, spliced a single frame of a man’s penis into children’s films? Or …