Film

Chuck Palahniuk writes novels with the callow, comic viciousness of an amused surgical intern. Sitting through David Fincher’s Fight Club is a bit like backpedaling in front of a shark. Typically, Palahniuk’s characters are self-abusers, yet onscreen, it’s the audience that bears that brunt. But what’s this? Choke, like a lot of indies coming out of Sundance, is sweet and huggable. That is, of course, a serious deviation from Palahniuk’s original text. But director-actor Gregg, who also adapted the novel with the author’s blessing, hasn’t exactly failed. He’s made a zingy amusement about sex addicts, those so drawn to humping, they cut out of group therapy to do it in supply closets. Gregg puts a stronger emphasis on their healing. And heal they do; no sharks here.

Leading this randy if sensitive squad is Victor, who, as played by the likably louche Rockwell, can’t help but steer the film into benign territory. Victor, a good son, patiently endures the alienating rants of his institutionalized mom (Huston) and agonizes (not for long) over getting into the whites of a hot doctor (No Country for Old Men’s Macdonald). His sideline is induced public choking to gain financial sympathy from Samaritans, a ploy that doesn’t feel especially germane. Best are the scenes set at a Williamsburg-like colonial town, where Victor glibly serves as a “historical interpreter,” which means regular trips to the barn with milk maidens. All of the emotional breakthroughs are safely telegraphed; fans of the film will be terrified if they dig any deeper between the book covers.