There's a whole lotta fucking going on in Choke, Clark Gregg's adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk's first-person novel about a sex addict named Victor (Sam Rockwell) with severe Mommy issues—fucking in an airplane bathroom, on a barnyard's itchy haystack, in a toilet stall, in a chapel even. Gregg has shuffled around some scenes (the book's first is now toward the film's end) while rendering the story altogether stickier with sentiment. But in the end, Gregg and Palahniuk wind up in the same place—with a dude for whom doin' it just ain't cuttin' it anymore. And Palahniuk and Gregg, who has perhaps the film's funniest role as the theme park's strict taskmaster, both suffer the same flaw: They explain and explain again the genesis of Victor's demons, to the point where the novel and movie play almost like parodies of novels and movies in which a character has to get in touch with his feelings in order to become a better man. Basically, Victor's gonna fuck himself crazy or fuck himself sane—yawn.
Brad William Henke (left) consoles fellow theme-park worker Rockwell in Choke.
Opens at Metro and other theaters, Fri., Sept. 26. Rated R. 92 minutes.