MIDNIGHT REVIEWS American Psycho 25th Anniversary Retrospective

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Matthew D. Smith also has a podcast he co-hosts with Leslie Wai. You can find it here.

American Psycho (1hr 42mins)

Directed by: Mary Harron

Featuring: Christian Bale, Chloë Sevigny, Willem Dafoe

Synopsis: Patrick Bateman (Bale) is a wealthy Wall Street banker, intent on hiding his psychotic blood lust from his peers and co-workers.

Review: Patrick Bateman, he would be terrified to hear, has an image problem.

Twenty-five years on from the opening of American Psycho, Mary Harron’s adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’ work of despair and yuppies is as misunderstood as ever. Some see the character as a positive role model. Others consider ownership and enjoyment a red flag, concern rising at just why the fan has a dog-eared copy on their shelf. Others still actually enjoy American Psycho 2: Meg Griffin Boogaloo.

It’s not helped that the movie was marketed as a straight horror.

What both book and movie actually are, are scintillating, shocking satires of the money-grabbing, image-driven socialite age that people thought ended in the 1980s. It’s the tone of voice that enable American Psycho to also be hilarious, a dark comedy that probably wouldn’t have sold as well to mass audiences.

Reactions to the movie were and are interesting.

Patrick Bateman, wearer of sharp suits and sharper haircuts, is vice-president of some company. He strolls into a job his daddy gave him and strolls into the office two hours late. That anyone should think Patrick Bateman is a heroic image to look up to could not be more wrong; lateness is impolite! Also, all the murder.

Bateman spends his days sitting on his office couch pretending to work, and spends his nights at the club with his rich friends, trying to get reservations at the hippest restaurant, and killing women he’s cajoled or paid to come home with him.

Reactions to the movie were and are interesting to say the least. Even before cameras rolled, Gloria Steinham famously persuaded Leonardo DiCaprio (so the story goes) to drop out of the movie for fear of how his teenage fans would react seeing him in such a role. That DiCaprio went on to star in Martin Scorsese’s entertaining but flawed Wolf of Wall Street perhaps indicates an interest in this sort of thing. But whilst Jordan Belfort was a pitiful, swindling loser much like the character of Patrick Bateman, American Psycho (like a lot of Ellis’ novels) seems to inhabit a dreamlike space in comparison. An American dream, as the old cliché goes, that turns quickly into a nightmare.

The flipping of morals Wall Street-types do with this character seems relatively indicative (think Wall Street or Harry Enfield’s Loadsamoney sketches). Some people see the character’s flash apartment (complete, hilariously, with a poster for Les Misérables) and all the other lovely things he has and aspire to be just like him. This in spite of the clear message that Bateman is not a character to emulate. His smart suits, his slick haircuts, his thousand dollar watches — they all mean nothing despite the importance placed on them by the clones wandering up and down the halls.

Bale is pitch-perfect, incorporating a mixture of dead monotone (“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman”) alongside a barely held-together manic energy and loose physical comedy. He plays Bateman as an absolute loser, a dork, a goon, a dope; he is the exact opposite of what all the so-called fans say when they hold him up as an example of their precious sigma male. This sort of language can even be imagined coming out of characters’ mouths, cajoling and ranking each other like a flock of chattering, gossiping birds.

For proof, check out his moonwalk to Huey Lewis and the News’ Hip to be Square, a move so dorky, people probably ignore its implication. But they shouldn’t, because the film’s not just about the horror of violence, and the stylish dark suits; it’s also a statement about the characters themselves.

The book and movie are both about the horrors of privilege and the massive gap between rich and poor. Bateman seems to be able to murder with impunity, something that gives American Psycho a terrifying relevance today. And despite the horrific violence, despite the goofiness of the character, Bateman is cherished and validated by most of his inner circle. But this is all self-perpetuating, even when in the confines of a group. Everyone is staring into a mirror.

As such, both texts are also about loneliness. This is where they both also seem most personal, a fear that the things our culture tells us to own and aspire to are actually the things that’ll push us away from what we need. Most of the film follows Bateman as de facto protagonist, but the film never admires or sympathises with him. His voiceover and actions read as someone who barely knows how to socialise with others, someone clinging on to the cliff edge with his finger nails (in one panicked, sweaty moment, Bateman even forgets how to behave in a restaurant, copying someone else’s actions as they sit down to eat).

The immaculate way he presents himself doesn’t bear any weight.

When he insists to his girlfriend that he wants to fit in, it’s said with aggression but also desperation. But he’s someone so in love with himself that this lack of connection is a choice; even when he’s not longing after himself in the mirror, a junior Mr Narcissus champion, Bateman still ignores the other characters Harron chooses to focus on. While the women Bateman traps are the focal point of a scene, he’s sat in the corner monologuing about Phil Collins. In love with his own regurgitated opinions as much as his abs. Patrick Bateman would probably feel at home re-watching videos from his own YouTube channel.

Harron took a novel that is admittedly already quite cinematic in its style, but also had the tough task of moulding something very freeform in its structure into something audiences could more easily digest. The novel isn’t as tough as something by Jack Kerouac, say, but that dreamlike quality doesn’t exactly translate to an ‘easy’ story with a beginning, middle and end (purposefully so). It’s a remarkable feat on Harron’s part, and it’s insane that her other work isn’t as lauded or available today.

The adaptation goes for the oft-talked about suggestion of violence doing more work than actual violence being presented onscreen. Compare this to the starkly described gore from the novel. Both methods work in their own shocking way. Ellis’ novel features a highly-detailed, horrific description of torture; Harron’s movie features Bateman pulling out some tools, before a startling jump forward in time forces us to imagine what happened in between. So while the novel was making a point of having Bateman describe his murders in the same mundane tone and specificity as he would describe his surround sound system, the movie tasks us with picturing Bateman’s actions ourselves. The immaculate way he presents himself doesn’t bear any weight. With each passing scene he becomes more repulsive, an ode to unchecked privilege and immunity. Pure fiction, of course.

At time of writing, the author doesn’t need to return anymore video tapes.

Matthew D. Smith likes to overshare his views on movies and TV shows whenever and wherever he can. Indulge him, and follow him on Twitter or enjoy the podcast he co-hosts with Leslie Wai.