John Warner
Man and his Madness
At 32, I am still too young, but soon enough the time will come when I
need to start planning my midlife crisis. Even my wife is starting to come
on board with the idea that it may at some point prove necessary for me to
rejuvenate my spirit with an overpriced auto and a tryst with a young lady
of borderline age, just as long as I’m willing to conduct my crisis
without the service of my gonads.
As cliché as the midlife crisis may be, it remains real, documented
daily in the searching looks of men in hotel bars. In fact, in recent
years it has even begun to acquire society’s sanction. Previously, the
midlife crisis-guy with his fake tan and his hair plugs was pitied. He
could not pull off the Miami Vice era Don Johnson look because his gut
bulged beneath the pastel sport shirts, body hair crept up his knuckles,
and there always was that unfortunate glandular problem. He was a clown,
comic relief at best, or tragedy at worst, as we followed him back to his
efficiency, the putative bachelor pad rented after deserting the wife and
kids. We laughed at the man who imagined that black light was still cool.
We shook our heads and tsk-tsked as he sat in front of the television,
shirtless, fat and hairy, and shoveled microwaved turkey dinner into his
face. So sad. The world had passed him by. His wife ends up remarried to
someone better looking, with a higher income. On weekends, he sees his
children who now seem to delight in calling this other man "dad." He buys
them ice cream and they sit silently through movies none of them really
want to see. A cautionary tale for sure.
Today, though, it seems as though the tide is turning towards an
embracing of the midlife crisis. We see it in the rise of McMansions, or
the increasing market for male cosmetics, or the speed with which new
electronic "toys" are rushed to market to satiate the demand for
distraction. We see it in the explosion of magazines like Maxim,
which seek to move the midlife crisis forward, into one’s early 20’s, and
declare it a lifestyle all its own.
Fortunately, when looking for models for my crisis, the turn of the
century has brought us two celebrated movies which collectively form the
current apotheosis in the portrayal of middle-class disaffection and
midlife crisis, Fight Club and American Beauty. (Yes, I’m
aware that Fight Club was a book first, but the ratio of those who
have seen the movie vs. read the book is likely in the range of 10,000 to
1 or greater.)
American Beauty swept most of the major Academy awards in its year
of release, including actor, director, screenplay, and picture. (So glad
we were it won best picture over that hokey, middle-brow Green Mile
garbage, weren’t we?) At the time it was embraced by those of us with
"taste" and anointed as something different, a new perspective.
Of course, a wee bit of hindsight tells us all that happy backslapping
over an "art film" that can gross a hundred million and win awards
was only so much horse shit.
As the movie opens, Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) informs us that in a
year, he will be dead, but it doesn’t matter, he is dead already. His wife
(Carolyn, played by Annette Benning) and daughter (Jane, Thora Birch) hate
him. The downsizing axe hovers over his work as a journalistic pimp at a
trade magazine named (oh, so subtly) Media Monthly. He declares
that he moves through life feeling…"sedated."
But soon he is transformed by an encounter with youth, as embodied in
cheerleader Angela (Jane’s friend, played by Mena Suvari as a kind of ur-Maxim
covergirl), as he watches her bump and grind during the halftime routine
of the high school basketball game.
Now we watch Lester go.
Lester smokes pot and works on his physique in the garage. Lester looks
smug as he blackmails his bosses into a nice severance. Lester, looking
smug, triumphantly hurls a plate of asparagus at the wall. Lester talks
rough to his vapid wife and exposes her affair with the goofy-haired local
lothario/real estate king and looks pretty smug doing it. Lester goes to
the brink with his daughter’s nubile young friend. Lester blinks more
slowly than before. In the garage scenes, his body appears to be greased
with baby oil, so Lester appears to be literally shiny and new, improved.
Clearly, Lester knows something we do not.
Lester is our hero. (So brave all of these things!) Lester even goes to
work in fast food. (So very brave! Have you seen the people who
work in fast food! Greasy-faced youngsters and old people! Ethnics!) In
case it isn’t clear that Lester is to be revered for his regression, at
the end, he is tragically martyred just after he realizes that he has
moved from walking through life "sedated" to feeling, "great," but it’s
all just as well, because dead, and soaring above (now an angel?) this
horribly average, stultifying place we live in, he is frequently so filled
by "beauty" he should burst.
The "beauty" of the denouement, though, seems to be mostly in Lester
realizing that there were a few moments of his life – stretched out in a
field, watching falling stars at boy scout camp, his daughter in a fairy
princess costume at Halloween, his wife, mouth open and laughing as she
rides the tilt-a-whirl – that weren’t so bad after all, and all it takes
is a bullet cleaning out your brain to remember them. In the end, what
we’re left with is that life is "great" if you just remember to look
hard enough. This parade of Hallmark moments is what Lester, in all
his smugness, has come to know. This. Oy. (Despite evidence to the
contrary, there is no truth to the rumor that Maya Angelou served as
script doctor on the film.)
The movie’s other hero figure, next door neighbor Ricky (Wes Bentley)
clearly understands this, has understood this the whole time in fact, as
throughout them movie, he sees beauty everywhere -- in a wind blown
baggie, a dead bird, Jane’s humble breasts, or even Lester’s staring
corpse bathed in its own blood and brain matter.
If the movie’s conclusion is somehow meant to be delivered with an
elbow into our sides, wink-wink, nudge-nudge style, the clues are
well-hidden. If it is sincere, then…I don’t know what. Either way, we are
left nowhere.
Ultimately, therefore, American Beauty makes a lousy model for
my future midlife crisis, as there’s little fulfillment as the aesthetic
fetish object of the creepy next door neighbor kid.
With Fight Club, (for my money, a far more cohesive and superior
film to American Beauty) smashing each other’s brains in as a
reaction against the so-called "Ikea-ization" of our culture was made to
seem so sensible, people actually started doing it.
Like American Beauty, Fight Club portrays the soured
American dream. In Lester’s case, the promise of a loving family has
dissolved into hateful stares and silences from his daughter, and a frosty
marital bed. For the unnamed narrator of Fight Club (Ed Norton),
his job has become rote and defeating, and the stuff this awful job can
buy him (i.e., his IKEA furniture) has ceased to provide solace. He sleeps
only on planes and fantasizes about dying horribly. Like Lester, he has
become almost completely inert, tugged around only by abstract obligations
and expectations.
As we find out in the end (spoiler coming), this kind of negative
pressure has caused him to literally split his personality, giving rise to
the Tyler Durden alter ego, a sizzling, macho, libidinous, active
man with the good looks of Brad Pitt (mostly because he’s played by Brad
Pitt). From this point on, no matter which personality he inhabits, pain
and terror are the chief sources of energy, be it found in getting pounded
(or pounding someone) in a dingy basement, suffering a horrific chemical
burn, or threatening a convenience store worker at gunpoint to quit his
job and enroll in college.
The message is clear. (Abundantly so, and delivered with enough winks
and laughs to let us know that Fight Club is intended as a
burlesque. I mean, we’re treated to Meat Loaf with breasts in case we were
wavering.) Our consumer-oriented lifestyle has left us numb to the kind of
struggle that gives life meaning. The army of ascetics that assemble under
the Project Mayhem umbrella in the dilapidated headquarters that the
narrator/Durden has made home, understand this, or at least understand
that a punch in the face is preferable to the comfort of a Swedish foam
mattress because the knuckle sandwich at least allows them to feel
something.
To set the rest of us free, they are going to erase the source of our
narcotics, consumer credit. The movie’s conclusion is ambiguous. (As
opposed to American Beauty, which is simply mushy.) The narrator is
apparently redeemed by the love of a strange woman, and slays the Durden
alter ego (with a bullet to the head, mirroring Lester Burnham’s release),
thus becoming whole again, but is too late to prevent the massive
destruction that his project intended. He is reborn, but the world as we
know it is over. On screen, the exploding and tumbling buildings are
literally beautiful, rendered with incredible detail and loving care by
the best CGI technicians money could buy. It is not clear what is left in
its place, but at the very least, it will be different, which we’ve come
to learn is de facto better.
Fight Club didn’t win any major awards, but its fan base was
incredibly passionate about the film, as witnessed in the innumerable home
made web pages featuring Fight Club that embrace and espouse the
philosophy of the film. The rise of real life fight clubs following
release of the movie is well-documented. Clearly, the movie struck a cord.
Let’s not get too wrapped up in this particular revolution, though. It
is a safe bet that there’s an extremely high incidence of households that
own Fight Club (on DVD, no less) while also subscribing to the
consumerism orgy known as Maxim. These same households, I imagine,
display a very low incidence of awareness of the irony in this
juxtaposition.
In the end, American Beauty is a movie that has been labeled
smart, but is, in reality, rather dumb, while Fight Club is a dumb
movie that is much smarter than it first appears.
However, as radical as either of these movies may have felt in their
celebratory embrace of the midlife crisis, neither is particularly
revolutionary in its suggestion as to the cure for my forthcoming
postmodern malaise. The self-centered devolution of Lester sees its kin in
awareness seminars, or Dr. Phil haranguing some poor couple into finally
telling each other what they really feel.
Fight Club is simply souped up firewalking, or an EST seminar moved
from the Hyatt conference room to the bar basement and eliminating yelling
and being denied use of the bathroom, in favor of fisticuffs, thanks to my
wife whom I love, any of which would be a cakewalk compared to the reality
of my existence if I ever do decide to go ahead with a "real" midlife
crisis.
John Warner writes fiction, non-fiction and humor, and is co-author
(with Kevin Guilfoile) of My First Presidentiary: A Scrapbook of George
W. Bush. (www.myfirstpresidentiary.com)
He is a contributing editor to McSweeney's Quarterly, and his work has
appeared in Book Magazine, Salon, Zoetrope All Story
Extra, the Chicago Reader among other places. His essay
"Stroking the G(rief) Spot" is included in the current issue of Public
Scrutiny. John teaches in the Department of Communication Studies at
Virginia Tech University and can be reached at
jdwarner@vt.edu.
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