American Psycho Review
by "David N. Butterworth" (dnb AT dca DOT net)May 14th, 2000
AMERICAN PSYCHO
A film review by David N. Butterworth
Copyright 2000 David N. Butterworth
***1/2 (out of ****)
Whether it's a caustic indictment of yuppie Wall Street do-nothings with more money than they can shake a platinum American Express card at, or an equally derisive put-down of popular music (think Robert Palmer, Genesis, Huey Lewis and the News), "American Psycho" delivers its message--blam!--like a nail gun to the back of the head.
Some critics have damned Mary Harron's film--she made the indie hit "I Shot Andy Warhol" with Lili Taylor--as being nothing more than an upscale version of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." But that comparison proves accurate for reasons opposite those intended.
Tobe Hooper's influential horror masterpiece from 1974 succeeded by showing a true face of horror without catering to excessive gore and bloodshed. And in "American Psycho," Harron has, with almost eerie confidence, done the same. Save for one sensationalistic scene in a stairwell (featuring that old staple a chainsaw no less), "American Psycho" bottles up its horror in the mind and contradictions of its central character, leaving the graphic realization of his actions as much off-screen as possible.
Based on Bret Easton Ellis' satirical novel, "American Psycho" centers on one Patrick Bateman (played with wild abandon by Christian Bale). Bateman is a wealthy, white-collar executive for the Manhattan-based firm of Pierce and Pierce which specializes in mergers and acquisitions (or "murders and executions" as Bateman cynically refers to his trade). Since Bateman's father virtually owns the company store, Bateman spends most of his workday listening to tunes on his walkman and reading pornography, while his nights are spent schmoozing in the flashiest New York restaurants, where it's deadly important to get a dinner reservation even if you're not particularly hungry.
Bateman obsesses about everything: his wardrobe, his toilette (which he dictates in great detail like an Esparce waiter describing the daily specials), his physique (and it's some physique), right down to whom at the office has the finest business card. Bale mugs his way through the role splendidly, as if his Bateman were Chevy Chase possessed by Travis Bickle. Because this smart, mannered sophisticate has a tendency to allow the fervor inside him to erupt in homicidal bursts of rage.
Chloë Sevigny ("Boys Don't Cry") plays Bateman's beleaguered secretary Jean in a nicely subtle turn. There's a point in the film at which Bateman invites Jean back to his West 81st Street penthouse and things quickly start to turn sour. "You'd better go now" he advises. "I might hurt you if you stay." Delicate, knowing moments like these make "American Psycho" an extremely effective thriller, since we are privy to Bateman's depraved excesses long before the other characters discover them, usually after it's too late.
But the film isn't all doom and dismemberment. It has a lighter, brighter side too. There's something gleefully subversive about the way in which Bateman whips two hookers into shape while espousing the merits of Whitney Houston's debut album, backed by Phil Collins singing "Susudio," for example. Sick and twisted yes, but darkly comedic just the same.
"Killer looks" reads "American Psycho"'s tagline. Killer looks indeed. And one stone-cold killer performance from Christian Bale. Add to that Harron's tight direction and a creepy Bernard Herrmann-esque score from John Cale and you've got a stylish exercise in modern-day sociopathy that bears strong comparisons to some of the best comic horror films around.
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David N. Butterworth
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