Choke

Clark Gregg's strangled adaptation of lit cult favourite Chuck Palahniuk's novel of masculine malaise really wants to be an edgy, twisted little indie satire but fudges all its promise of energetic sleaze and cynicism with an uncertain blend of diluted hipster nihilism and glib sentimentality. Sam Rockwell is suitably louche and skittish as sex addict (and indefatigably irritating narrator) Victor Mancini, alternating between his two default attitudes – horny and glum – attending group therapy sessions and boinking pretty much every female that wanders into the frame. The obligatory Oedipal subtext gives Anjelica Huston, as Victor's unhinged mother, something to chew on, but she has so much plodding exposition to get through that all the zanyness begins to fall rather flat. Lacking the energy and bite of David Fincher's adaptation of Palahniuk's Fight Club, Choke just isn't as debauched as it thinks it is, ending up a tired and sloppy paean to the woes of fucked-up self-pitying white guys everywhere. And American independent filmmaking was really crying out for another one of those. [Laura Smith]