What regrettably shields Fincher, the screenwriter Jim Uhls, and Chuck Palahniuk, author of the underlying novel, is that no reviewer can, in good conscience, give away that preposterous gimmick. Too bad, too, that the film begins with a storyline that, though far-fetched, is not without interest, but is soon dropped in favor of matchlessly sadomasochistic virulence combined with perfect incredibility.

We start with Narrator (no other name is given), a mid-level white-collar worker so bored with his job as to become addicted to amassing IKEA furniture he cannot use. To ease his malaise and insomnia, he seeks out all conceivable nocturnal support-group meetings, and, under an assumed name, pretends to be a fellow sufferer, just to feel something. His troubles begin when he meets Marla Singer, an attractive but hyperneurotic young woman who plays the same game, yet, at first, harshly snubs his attempts at co-conspiracy.

Soon, worse befalls both him and the movie. Tyler Durden, a young man who sat next to him on a plane, leads Narrator on night-prowling expeditions on which the two fight each other, or get a growing legion of fellow nightcrawlers to engage in bloody brawls. They form a fight club, heavily laden with overtly macho and covertly homoerotic symbolism, eventually leading to the unspeakable, or at least the not-to-be-divulged.

Do not, however, hold out the hope that if the whole is absurd, the parts, at any rate, might satisfy. How seriously can you take, for example, a reputable office-worker arriving on the job every day more bloodied, disfigured, and disreputable-looking without being fired by his prissy supervisor? If the more improbable stretches of Fight Club could be marketed, they might put rubber bands out of business. Also, bits of dialogue are so unintentionally laughable as to keep the wrong side of your mouth working overtime.

As Narrator, Edward Norton continues his recent predilection for unsavory roles well played. As the bisexually heartthrobby Tyler and the daintily dirty Marla, Brad Pitt and Helena Bonham Carter also do their damnedest in a hopeless cause that, given current audience and critical tastes, may not be all that hopeless, alas. Conspicuous among a rogue's gallery of supporting players is the musician Meat Loaf, whom the New York Times once referred to as Mr. Loaf, and who here qualifies as Mr. Oaf. And let's not forget the Dust Brothers, whose music adds its not inconsiderable bit of wormwood to the rest.

Bruce Willis and Michelle Pfeiffer as Ben and Katie Jordan live in a model home with model teenage children (one boy, one girl), and play happy games at the dinner table. But it's all a sham: The moment the catered-to kids are off to camp, the infighting begins and divorce lurks around each cozy corner.

As co-authored by the television sitcom-writer Alan Zweibel and the actress-turned-filmmaker Jessie Nelson, the screenplay puts two potentially interesting actors through embarrassing routines, such as Willis running around the kitchen naked save for a skimpy apron, and Pfeiffer consulting with two ditsy matrons in a restaurant on how to ward off one's husband's connubial ardors. Willis, you see, is the kind of clod who does not notice when the family car's dashboard indicator points to low windshield-wiper fluid, while sensitive Pfeiffer notices acutely. (Unfortunately, there are no needles to point out when authorial invention is running low.) When the Jordans take a trip to Venice to rekindle their marriage, they are sabotaged by a couple of cliché ugly-American tourists, goons who block the lagoons.

The movie ceaselessly switches periods, indicated by giving the balding Willis more or less fake hair, the lovely Pfeiffer one more exaggerated coiffure after another. This is, of course, of tremendous interest to the wigmakers and hairdressers in the audience, but leaves the rest of us sadly out. The climax is reached in an endless, bathetic speech wherein Pfeiffer suddenly pleads for keeping the marriage together, which the hapless actress rattles off with the film's only convincing emotion: embarrassment.