By admitting the following, I’m probably a terrible person: I really, really, enjoyed Choke. There are no press screenings at the Sydney Film Festival, meaning that critics—though judging from the sparsely attended press row there seem to be very few about—watch all films with the paying public. What lining up for the day’s tickets every morning lacks in convenience, it more than makes up for in gauging general opinion. Borne along by an enthusiastic audience, which was positively smitten by Sam Rockwell’s turn as a weasely and charming reprobate, I was sucked in, in spite of myself, and oddly able to overlook Choke’s flaws. Like a Seurat painting, it falls apart under the magnifying glass, nothing more than a confusion of garish, brightly colored dots; and yet viewed from far away, in the moment if you will, it is completely beguiling. But I was first seduced by Fight Club too, and Choke is David Fincher’s film reflected in a mirror lightly. Chuck Palahniuk, the dark prince of skewed satire, provides the source material yet again, glossing the same thematic sitting ducks: insanity, help groups, mind numbing employment, officious bureaucracy, the mute middle class desperate for human contact, dime-store psychology blaming negligent parents, and even airlines.

The wrinkle here is that Victor Mancini (Rockwell) goes to Sex Addicts Anonymous, works at a historical re-creation of an American colonial village, and runs a sideline con where, as per the film’s title, he forces himself to choke in restaurants in front of wealthy patrons—who then feel so responsible for bringing Victor back to life that they send him money to care for a bevy of phantom illnesses. Like the rest of Choke, the scam has a kind of perverse logic—Victor dubs it a “savior” experience, where money is traded for a sense of self-worth—but falling for that reasoning also means giving credence to a pretty dire and pessimistic view of the human species.

There are flashes of humanity, delivered by the captivating trio of Rockwell, Kelly Macdonald, and Anjelica Huston. Although greatly reminiscent of her matriarch figures from Wes Anderson’s universe, Huston is a quiet revelation as Rockwell’s asylum-bound mother clinging to the last vestiges of her sanity—less quirky and more brokenly human. However—and here’s an emblem of what’s wrong with Choke—when viewed in flashback, she’s a domineering and self-actualized social protester, and hateful because she’s obliterated her son’s childhood during her life on the run. The about-face that’s required to suddenly identify with a character because of one single epiphany is simply too big of an ask—not that I noticed it at the time, being too much drawn in by its sardonic streak and smug intelligence after days of bleak and protracted observational dramas. Choke’s black and mordant but also impossibly overwritten, excessively structured, and runs around with signal flares directing us towards how clever it is. Palahniuk is bent on eviscerating society for being a dead-end cesspool filled with charlatans, whores, pimps, perverts, hucksters, and false prophets. But what does he offer as an alternative, other than a limp road-to-Damascus conversion? At the time, I was taken in, drawn to Sam Rockwell’s cynical, self-deprecating shtick. But the further I get from Choke, the more I hate it (and hate myself for liking it): the very definition of a guilty pleasure. —JAMES CRAWFORD

If you are looking to Chuck Palahniuk, or any writer (or filmmaker, musician, artist) to give you an answer as to how we can make the world a better place, then you have taken a wrong turn somewhere in your life. That's not their job. The only person who can figure out how to make your world a better place is yourself. Stop foisting responsibility onto strangers and take control of your life. The first step you need to take is you need to start listening to yourself. You like the movie, but you don't, not really. You have to question whether or not this kind of passive attitude is the best weapon which to attack life. I would argue that it does nothing but relegate you to the sidelines, make you an extra in the movie of your life. Don't feel bad for taking pleasure in something that you think others would find reprehensible. Guilt is for victims. Pick a side. Ambiguity is the offal of a mind saturated in trivia and leisure. The more you take yourself seriously the less you will look to others to supply meaning to what is essentially a meaningless existence. Birth, school, work, death. That is the cycle of life and it is the same for everyone. Someone would need to have lived outside of this closed system in order to diagnose how best to overcome it. So if it makes you feel any better, read Walden, then close it, and throw it in the trash, or better yet, toss it in a stainless steel sink and set it on fire. In a couple of minutes I'm going to hit the post button, and when I do, you're going to have the opportunity to read what I've written. You might not take this oppotunity. You might ignore me. In that case, my thoughts will disperse into the atmosphere, where they will float until gravity takes hold and they return to earth, landing on top of someone else, perhaps someone you know, and this person will repeat these words to you, and there is the chance that you may recognize them as thoughts of your own, and you will think it uncanny, something that I wholly encourage. My point is that you can hear it now or hear it later, it's your choice. You see, there is a perfect example of what I am talking about. It's your choice, that's not something I would normally say, it's something that my father would say, and he does, or did, all the time, but I refused to listen to him, and off his words went, but now they are back, and they are mine. I realize that there is a chance you're not reading this anymore, or never have, but if you are, please understand that I am only trying to point you in the right direction. In a few minutes I am going to walk into the office of my boss and I am going to tell him that I would like to take my ten days of vacation. He's going to ask me where I plan on going, and I'm going to tell him that I plan on driving across the country and back. He's going to say yes, and then, come November, I am going to get into my car and drive and quite possibly get into a car accident before I even leave the city. The knowledge that this is most likely going to happen to me is not going to stop me, though. The pervasive sense of dread I will feel for the next five months will only make me second guess whether or not it is a good idea for me to go on vacation. It will affect my relationship with my co-workers and my patients. I will become irritable, which, in turn, will make me highly introspective and reticent to speak to anyone who does not offer to comfort me. All of this should be ringing a bell in your head. If it is not, then you no longer have any use for me. Maybe you'll go an see a movie that will explain to you what the hell it is that I am rambling about, but the chances, I think, are close to zero.

Give it a little bit - you'll just hate it. And listen to DR. STAN!!!

I read the book and was incredibly underwhelmed, which left me unmotivated to see Choke...