Fight Club

From the guitar roar on the Dust Brothers' opening title track through to the thundering drums of Pixies' Where Is My Mind? it is pure synapse-splitting sensory overload and the road that commercial cinema refused to take.

David Fincher’s adaptation of the Chuck Palahniuk novel is a shrewd and expertly crafted study of the male in crisis.

Perhaps it is postmodern filmmaking, whatever that means. In any case, Fight Club remains the ugliest, most inhuman film since Natural Born Killers.

The movie demands a certain attention and is not easily dismissed, but there is something deeply unsettling about a work that uncritically espouses brutality as a function of alienation and nonconformity.

An outrageous mixture of brilliant technique, puerile philosophizing, trenchant satire and sensory overload, Fight Club is the most incendiary movie to come out of Hollywood in a long time. It's a mess, but one worth fighting about.

Oh, for the time when men were men and were encouraged to beat the tar out of one another. That's the world "Fight Club" pines for.

David Fincher created a masterpiece in this mind-bending psychological drama that features a star-studded cast with extraordinary twists.

David Fincher's prescient rumination on manhood at the close of the 20th century was a revolutionary movie about revolutionary men in a time of complacence.

Fight Club feels like a declaration of artistic intent with an axe to grind. It comes across as a tour de force from director David Fincher, and aggressively courts controversy whilst remaining a truly riveting piece of work

Fight Club did indeed fly over the heads of audiences expecting straight macho action thrills, as opposed to a mind-messing critique of the same, as well as capitalism, material acquisition, masculinity and other sacred cows of national identity.