Like Kevin Spacey's narrator/protagonist in "American Beauty," Jack is figuratively and/or literally dead (and it doesn't much matter which). His soul is numb and empty and, in a kind of compulsive re-enactment of ancient hunter-gatherer instinct, he keeps trying to fill it with retail goods. But he's never satisfied. "What kind of dining set defines me as a person?" he finds himself wondering. Jack tells himself that he's acquired a good couch, a decent stereo system, and a nice wardrobe; that he's just on the verge of feeling "complete." But, instead, he's suffocating under the weight of his purchases. He imagines himself a prisoner of his IKEA catalog. Shopping becomes his only outlet for self-expression, sexual or otherwise, in a society ruled by the cult of consumerism. To anyone who's ever felt possessed by his/her possessions, this is painfully familiar -- and funny -- stuff.
Pathetic, tormented Jack discovers that the only way he can find any peace (or get any sleep) is to attend support groups for people with terminal conditions. Being that close to death and hopelessness somehow soothes him and makes him feel, perversely, more alive. And, besides, when people think you're dying they tend to actually notice that you exist. "Fight Club" explores modern modes of addiction — to consumerism, to 12-step programs, to ritualized "extreme sports" risk-taking — as Jack goes from being an IKEA addict, to a support-group addict, to a fight club addict. (The "Fight Club" itself could be an offshoot of a bungee-jumping fraternity.) Turan accuses the movie of "playing like the delusional rantings of testosterone-addicted thugs" — which is exactly the point, though he misses the movie's irony. Unlike Turan, "Fight Club" and its Narrator do not unquestioningly accept these characters' patently grandiose delusions at face value.
When (upon abruptly awakening from a self-destructive wish-fulfillment nightmare that his plane is exploding in mid-air) Jack meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), he's encountering nothing less than his own Id, his alter-ego, his doppelganger. Tyler (decked out in garish red duds to suggest danger, excitement, bloodlust, and a complete lack of anything resembling taste) is a volatile dude -- cocky, confident, spontaneous, irrational, irrepressible, infantile, aggressive, anti-social, hedonistic, uncontrollable. Jack is fascinated by him, drawn to him, and also scared of him. Like any (in-)decent Id, Tyler is prone to crude, impulsive, and reckless behavior: He splices frames from porno movies into family films, pees in the soup at his restaurant job; he is a mess of raging appetites who likes to drink, fight, screw, and blow up things. But for all that, Jack sees Tyler as his breakthrough, a way out of his rut, the voice that will finally tell him: "You are not your f***ing khakis!"
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