Gag…reflex? There is something disarmingly refreshing about witnessing a debut. We can almost forgive the naïve mistakes: watching beginners is often more enjoyable for the fibs and fumbles they make along the way than for the actual content of their work. With established artists this is of course different, looking back, we can take pleasure in pinpointing unripe similarities between their juvenilia and their later work, which would either sputter away or blossom into a more clearly refined and confidently pitched idea or aesthetic direction. Few literary debuts have been more incendiary than Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club, which first appeared on the shelves in 1996 and quickly garnered the support of a cult audience. Its got a huge boost in 1999, when David Fincher - auteur director who was then largely known for Se7en, The Game and a string of music videos - wielded his snazzy-but-pitch-black magic to adapt the book, casing a powerhouse trio of Brad Pitt, Ed Norton and Helena Bonham Carter to bring Palahniuk’s unforgettably vivid characters to life. No other films were made from Palahniuk’s subsequent novels until now, which is surprising considering the gradual success of Fight Club among the popular consciousness (Empire Magazine recently nominated Tyler Durden, Brad Pitt’s anarcho-Mr Hyde, as the greatest movie character of all time). But it is Palahniuk’s fourth novel, Choke (which ‘does for sex what Fight Club did for violence’) that finally gets a cinematic treatment. Its protagonist, Victor Mancini, is a typically Palahniukian blend of pre-millenial neuroses: having dropped out of medical school, he gets by working as a ‘historical interpreter’ (“not a tour guide!”) at a park that simulates Colonial America, in between hospital visits to his Alzheimer’s-ridden mother Ida (Anjelica Huston) and his sex-addiction support group: both of which he frequents with flailing interest. But while visiting the bizarre old people’s home his mother has been thrown into one day, he meets Paige Marshall (Kelly McDonald) a nurse who suggests a radical procedure that could potentially cure his mother’s plight. Since the procedure involves the two of them having sex (something about tissue or whatever), Victor assumes he might as well go with it, until something remarkable happens: he is unable to achieve an erection because maybe, just maybe, he might have genuine feelings for Paige. But why ‘Choke’? In the midst of all these grotesque details, one almost forgets the conceit that gives the book and film its titles. Victor, riffing on the old Chinese proverb that if somebody saves your life, they’re responsible for you until their dying day, makes a habit out of choking on his food in restaurants on purpose, in order to trigger people’s saviour complexes. And sure enough, they send cash regularly, grateful for the new lease of life Victor has given them. Gregg is no Fincher, and he can’t be expected to effect as iconic a cinematic transformation as Fight Club. The jaunty story gets an equally jaunty treatment (both in terms of pacing and quality), which would not have been possible if an established director and/or studio (Fox Searchlight are a mercifully ‘artsy’ branch of their mother-company) would have gotten their filthy mitts on the novel. Choke will be showing at the St James Cavalier Cinema tonight and on April 27 and 28, from 19:00.
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