American Psycho Review
by Edward Johnson-Ott (ejohnsonott AT prodigy DOT net)April 14th, 2000
American Psycho (2000)
Christian Bale, Willem Dafoe, Jared Leto, Reese Witherspoon, Samantha Mathis, Chloe Sevigny, Justin Theroux, Josh Lucas, Guinevere Turner, Matt Ross, Bill Sage, Cara Seymour. Screenplay by Mary Harron and Guinevere Turner, based on the novel by Bret Easton Ellis. Directed by Mary Harron. 97 minutes.
Rated R, 3 stars (out of five stars)
Review by Ed Johnson-Ott, NUVO Newsweekly
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In 1991, "Less Than Zero" author Bret Easton Ellis stirred up a hornet's nest with "American Psycho," possibly the most reviled book of the decade. The novel detailed the thoughts of Patrick Bateman, a yuppie obsessed with status and murder, offering non-stop brand name dropping and surgically explicit descriptions of the mutilations of his prey. Outraged readers denounced the story as a misogynist (most of the victims were female) piece of gore-porn.
Nine years later, "American Psycho" returns to the spotlight as a film, written and directed by women.
Director Mary Harron, who co-wrote the screenplay with Guinevere Turner, dismisses the critics, calling the novel "a brilliant social satire and a devastating portrait of the 1980s." By keeping most of the violence off camera, she has crafted a highly stylized fable, a combination creep-show and pitch-black comedy that steadily builds to an almost hallucinatory climax. While virtually every element of the film was better explored in last year's exceptional "Fight Club," Harron's adaptation holds several distinct rewards.
Chief among them is the performance of cult favorite Christian Bale ("Empire of the Sun," "A Midsummer Night's Dream") as Patrick Bateman. Bale looks like an elongated, stressed-out Tom Cruise and adopts an upscale Eastern American accent. He starts with a mildly exaggerated power tone that gradually escalates to full hysteria, venturing extremely close to caricature while never quite crossing the line.
Bale spent months weight training for the role and looks great, but in the context of the story, his body appears less like that of a sexually attractive male and more like a well-designed android. Despite his constant grooming and preening, Patrick Bateman is just an anonymous capitalist, so indistinguishable from his Wall Street peers that he is often mistaken for another of the corporate boys.
Boys, by the way, is the operative word. These arrested adolescents define themselves totally by their clothing and acquisitions. Instead of comparing penises, they whip out their business cards to determine whose is the most tastefully extravagant.
Of course, attacking materialists for being shallow is about as daring as calling politicians dishonorable, but Bateman's personal life does provide some twisted fun. He does crunches while watching "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." He peppers his conversations with serial killer references and drops hints about his homicidal leanings (asked what he does for a living, he glibly says "murders and executions," which his companion hears as "mergers and acquisitions").
During foreplay, he gives impassioned lectures about his favorite pop artists. Particularly enjoyable are his inane comments on Huey Lewis. Bateman states that the homogenized popster's early works were "too New Wave" for his tastes and describes one of whiter-than-white Huey's songs as "too black sounding." He also rhapsodizes about Whitney Houston and Phil Collins, going so far as to play Collins' infamous "Sussudio," one of the most wretched songs ever recorded, while having sex.
Incidentally, that sex scene, which shows Bateman gazing adoringly in the mirror at his muscles as he makes it with two women, was the only segment that had to be edited to satisfy the prudes in the MPAA. To avoid the dreaded NC-17 rating, a couple of thrusting motions had to be cut out (Harron intends to put them back in when the film hits DVD).
After a round in the sack, Bateman likes to cap things off by hacking up his partner. The film's most memorable stretch has him chasing a hooker through the halls of his apartment building (a la "The Shining") while hoisting a chain saw in front of his nude form like some mega-phallus. Not exactly subtle, but it works.
If, like me, you grow weary of "American Psycho's" repetitious narration and lack of plot, try entertaining yourself by deciding (WARNING: POTENTIAL SPOILER AHEAD) whether the murders are real or figments of Bateman's imagination. A case can be made either way, although oddities in a number of scenes, coupled with a wildly surrealistic finale, point strongly to the latter. I prefer the it's-all-in-his-head scenario; serial killer movies are a dime a dozen, but the idea of a nicely mannered co-worker smiling and nodding while quietly fantasizing about hacking me to pieces is chilling (END SPOILER ALERT).
When I give even a qualified positive review to a film like "American Psycho," I inevitably receive a handful of letters from readers furious that I "lured" them into wasting their money on "a parade of utter crap." As a preemptive strike, I wish to clearly state that "American Psycho" is a difficult movie. D-I-F-F-I-C-U-L-T. If you generally prefer mainstream fare, there's a good chance you will not enjoy yourself. Got it? Good.
© 2000 Ed Johnson-Ott
Originally posted in the rec.arts.movies.reviews newsgroup. Copyright belongs to original author unless otherwise stated. We take no responsibilities nor do we endorse the contents of this review.
