shesnake:

Fight Club (1999) dir. David Fincher

oatscarwilde:

blackstar:

blackstar:

once every few weeks i remember exactly how bad the narrator of fight club wanted tyler durden to raw him and wake up in a cold sweat haunted by the hordes of straight dudes who thought that this character was heterosexual

straight dudes: boy, fight club sure does speak to our specific, heterosexual form of masculinity! what a classic!

fight club’s actual narrator: i am in love with a man

Slammed In the Ass By The Alternate Personality I Created to Vent My Frustration With Consumer Culture and My Confused Sense of Masculinity by Chuck Tingle

imagine-cinema:

The things you own end up owning you.

Fight Club (1999) Dir. David Fincher

anthonyedwardstarks:

During rehearsals, Brad Pitt and Edward Norton found out that they both hated the new Volkswagen Beetle with a passion, and for the scene where Tyler and The Narrator are hitting cars with baseball bats, Pitt and Norton insisted that one of the cars be a Beetle. As Norton explains on the DVD commentary, he hates the car because the Beetle was one of the primary symbols of 60s youth culture and freedom. However, the youth of the 60s had become the corporate bosses of the 90s, and had repackaged the symbol of their own youth, selling it to the youth of another generation as if it didn’t mean anything. Both Norton and Pitt felt that this kind of corporate selling out was exactly what the film was railing against, hence the inclusion of the car; “It’s a perfect example of the Baby Boomer generation marketing its youth culture to us. As if our happiness is going to come by buying the symbol of their youth movement, even with the little flower holder in the plastic molding. It’s appalling to me. I hate it.” 

marlasingre:

And then, something happened. I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.

fassy:

You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.