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It's probably the cinema's most beautiful (and senseless, yet here lies the perverse pictorial pleasure) depiction of on-screen violence, and even if that's all Fight Club is, and it very well could be, its slickness and grime gathers a commune of spectators. Each blow and pummel is Opera, echoing against sacred, battered basements and 'Power Animal' caves. Is any image in the late-20th century as sardonically moving, as bruising, as tactile as one with two old-young-adults embracing after a bloody, primal showcase? Probably not.