‘Fightville,” you had me at “gladiator school.”
This alternately hair-raising and chuckle-unleashing documentary peeks at the droll goings-on inside a sad little Lafayette, La., academy (it shares a strip mall with a Piggly Wiggly) that teaches slightly angry men to become amateur (or maybe even professional) mixed martial arts fighters who aspire to cage matches in which pretty much everything seems to be legal — short of bringing a chain saw to the party.
“Fortune favors the bold,” says one fighter, quoting Virgil. But alas, fortune does not much favor the film’s dishwashers and truck drivers, who for a hobby slug and belt each other in an effort to exorcise their demons. Generally speaking, they have little hope of getting paid for their bouts.
Directors Petra Epperlein and Michael Tucker show a respect for and fascination with these chiseled men, who speak of honor, poise and a visceral need to knock the tuna salad out of each other, without either overemphasizing or ignoring the pathetic comedy of guys who think they are living “Fight Club,” but would fit in better with the crew of “Eastbound and Down.”
The fighters work out to “Rock Me Amadeus,” speak in self-actualization gibberish more suited to Dr. Oz than the arena (“How I express my jujitsu is different from how Aaron expresses his”) and listen solemnly as an authority tells them that women and children will be present at one bloodletting, so “keep your language down.” One guy harbors an unhealthy fascination with “A Clockwork Orange” and likes to enter the ring dressed as Alex, complete with bowler and “Singin’ in the Rain” on the sound system, while another confesses, “In a sense, I do feel like a monkey when I’m fighting.”
The wife of a brawler avers, “Blood is superficial . . . there’s no brain damage.” Well, maybe, but on the evidence presented, not a lot of brain power is at stake.