Given the dark dynamism of Chuck Fight Club Palahniuk's writing, it was only a matter of time before a second of his books made that proverbial leap from page to screen. I mean, it's been nearly a decade since David Fincher cast the pages of Palahniuk's robust debut into a combustible black satire- reducing commercialism and consumerism to mere ashes as viewers looked on in shock and awe. The result? A stone cold classic. But of all the books to follow Fight Club, few could've expected Chucky P's reluctantly praised, riotously quaint yarn, Choke. A seedy, semi-psychotic headscrew about sex, sons, sex, mothers, sex, love and scams that's now, thanks to bit-part actor-cum-director Clark Gregg, strutting ominously into cinemas across the UK: horny as hell, looking for some action.
Echoing Fight Club's depressing sense of modern life, Choke draws us into the oddball life of ill at ease sex addict Victor Mancini (Sam Rockwell), a Colonial times reenactor who's spun a wretched swindle to pay for his mother's fancy hospital care: pick a restaurant at random, wine there, dine there, then pretend you're choking on a hunk of food so that the person who "rescues you" will feel emotionally and, more importantly, financially responsible for you for the rest of their life. Hideously shrewd, right? Well Choke's that kind of film. So if sexually explicit dialogue, morally wrong narration, randy conmen and chronic masturbators fail to float your boat then, oh what the hell, Choke is a must see as far as this month's movies are concerned. After all, it's not all dicing with death and decree and sexual compulsion: elements of intimacy and romance do surface in this cloudy con/sex pool.
Like Fight Club, although not quite as profound, Choke - at heart - is a gross and exaggerated journey through one of the various dark veins lining the underbelly of urban America. It isn't pretty, nor is it what you would call akin to the norm. It's a raw, dirty-minded character driven comedy peppered with outrageous moments that rarely cease to entertain or amuse, touch or transgress.
As Victor Mancini, Sam Rockwell defines the archetypal comedy anti-hero: droll, charming, cynical, but a man of odd principle. Imagine Austin Powers on Prozac. Hurled onto the streets of a society-sanctioned, institution-shrugging America: unruly, dense and sneering. The character fits Rockwell like a glove. Giving the ever impressing thesp' his best role since Chuck Barris in Clooney's Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. He acts up a sardonic storm in a turn to trump the character's kudos. Add to Rockwell's, the performances of veteran Angelica Huston and top Scot Kelly Macdonald and you've got yourself a very well acted film.
And the direction? Neat. Clark Gregg's coughed up a wryly amusing, ably structured spin on one of modern literature's most repugnant and hilarious books. There's no disguising that. His droll cameo tops off a good all-round job. Sure, the first time helmer's no David Fincher and Sam Rockwell's no Edward Norton but, then again, what right does any aspect of any movie really have to compare itself to Fight Club!? Okay, Choke may feature a forlorn anti-hero who takes some odd pleasure in attending group therapy sessions, but to compare the two in terms of celluloid worth and innovation would be off beam and unjust.
Choke is a stand alone, illicitly moral and blissfully satirical film that just about lives up to the quality of Palahniuk's novel, even if Gregg's attention to detail and depth he was willing to dive into the psychology of Victor was somewhat shallow. As a fan of the book, this came as the only real letdown. But you have to expect this when 300 page novellas are streamlined into 90 minute movies. Cutbacks get made. Details get shaved. Episodes: altered. Pages: lost. Thus, it's not a film that exactly lodges hard in the jugular, or the memory, but one that's chock full of wit, grit and revolt. Just not enough kick to crack the kudos.
Echoing Fight Club's depressing sense of modern life, Choke draws us into the oddball life of ill at ease sex addict Victor Mancini (Sam Rockwell), a Colonial times reenactor who's spun a wretched swindle to pay for his mother's fancy hospital care: pick a restaurant at random, wine there, dine there, then pretend you're choking on a hunk of food so that the person who "rescues you" will feel emotionally and, more importantly, financially responsible for you for the rest of their life. Hideously shrewd, right? Well Choke's that kind of film. So if sexually explicit dialogue, morally wrong narration, randy conmen and chronic masturbators fail to float your boat then, oh what the hell, Choke is a must see as far as this month's movies are concerned. After all, it's not all dicing with death and decree and sexual compulsion: elements of intimacy and romance do surface in this cloudy con/sex pool.
Like Fight Club, although not quite as profound, Choke - at heart - is a gross and exaggerated journey through one of the various dark veins lining the underbelly of urban America. It isn't pretty, nor is it what you would call akin to the norm. It's a raw, dirty-minded character driven comedy peppered with outrageous moments that rarely cease to entertain or amuse, touch or transgress.
As Victor Mancini, Sam Rockwell defines the archetypal comedy anti-hero: droll, charming, cynical, but a man of odd principle. Imagine Austin Powers on Prozac. Hurled onto the streets of a society-sanctioned, institution-shrugging America: unruly, dense and sneering. The character fits Rockwell like a glove. Giving the ever impressing thesp' his best role since Chuck Barris in Clooney's Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. He acts up a sardonic storm in a turn to trump the character's kudos. Add to Rockwell's, the performances of veteran Angelica Huston and top Scot Kelly Macdonald and you've got yourself a very well acted film.
And the direction? Neat. Clark Gregg's coughed up a wryly amusing, ably structured spin on one of modern literature's most repugnant and hilarious books. There's no disguising that. His droll cameo tops off a good all-round job. Sure, the first time helmer's no David Fincher and Sam Rockwell's no Edward Norton but, then again, what right does any aspect of any movie really have to compare itself to Fight Club!? Okay, Choke may feature a forlorn anti-hero who takes some odd pleasure in attending group therapy sessions, but to compare the two in terms of celluloid worth and innovation would be off beam and unjust.
Choke is a stand alone, illicitly moral and blissfully satirical film that just about lives up to the quality of Palahniuk's novel, even if Gregg's attention to detail and depth he was willing to dive into the psychology of Victor was somewhat shallow. As a fan of the book, this came as the only real letdown. But you have to expect this when 300 page novellas are streamlined into 90 minute movies. Cutbacks get made. Details get shaved. Episodes: altered. Pages: lost. Thus, it's not a film that exactly lodges hard in the jugular, or the memory, but one that's chock full of wit, grit and revolt. Just not enough kick to crack the kudos.