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AMERICAN PSYCHO Send This Review to a Friend
When I read "American Psycho" I saw it more as a satire on false values than as a vile, misogynous, violence-filled novel, but thought the valid subject needed brilliant writing by a Nabokov instead of the pedestrian writing by Bret Easton Ellis. He had a good idea that worked here and there, but wasn't up to the task of making the satire dwarf the killings depicted. Now Mary Harron has come along to direct the screen adaptation, which she co-wrote with Guinevere Turner, and the gruesome aspects have been softened in favor of the morbid humor. Although at times unnerving to watch, Harron's film is compelling in its execution, an apt word when you consider protagonist Patrick Bateman is a serial killer, real or imagined.
The joke is on greedy, upwardly mobile Wall Street types of the 1980s, typified by their endless efforts at one-upmanship, whether it be by having the ritzier business card or snaring hard-to-get reservations at the hottest restaurants in town. Christian Bale, a marvel to watch in the controversial role, skillfully plays Bateman as arrogant but frenzied, outwardly the model of yuppie success, inwardly psychotic and getting worse by the minute. Is he really the butcher depicted? Is the head in the fridge real? Or are the killings only in his warped mind?
The film seems to want it both ways, but it doesn't much matter for an audience, which gets to watch brutal murders whether they are in Bateman's mind or not. The film develops the tension of a horror film; we cringe when a young woman moves into the orbit of his insanity, especially if he is behind her head with a power drill. My favorite among a good supporting cast is Chloe Sevigny ("Boys Don't Cry") as his secretary who has a secret crush on him. There's a muted warmth to her performance that is admirable and appealing. Reese Witherspoon is also good as Bateman's perplexed girlfriend for whom he no longer cares.
The film, as did the book to a greater extent, emphasizes the commercialism that inundates the public, from the brand name lotions Bateman uses to a range of status-symbol possessions. But the metaphor of a murderous psychotic for Wall Street crassness is a far-fetched one that evokes humor but makes the film a stretch. Still, you have to compliment Harron for making such a skillful film out of a problematical book that was so hysterically denounced. The censorship pressure that compelled cutting a bit of a sex scene to get an R rating instead of an NC-17 is itself a subject for satire. It's about time serial censorship stopped. A Lions Gate release.
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