© 2000 by Cynthia W. Gentry, published on Dailygossip.com, April 2000.
What was that all about?
Those were the first words out of my mouth to the ever-winsome Dawn as the credits started to roll after “American Psycho.” Had we just seen a biting satire of 1980s excess? Most assuredly. But did it have any deeper meaning? I’d have to see it again. Or did it, in the closing words of narrator and anti-protagonist Patrick Bateman, mean “absolutely nothing”? And if so, is that a social comment in itself? Director Mary Harron never quite lets us close enough to tell, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an entertaining (if not sometimes frustrating) ride.
There’s one thing for sure: “American Psycho” may be the most mis-marketed movie of the year so far. In what I’m sure was a great disappointment to the 12-year-old boys in my showing (yes, the movie’s rated R), this is not a “slasher” movie, although it has moments that wittily reference that particular genre. Bloodshed happens offscreen or under bedsheets; it’s the constant threat of violence that keeps us on the edge of our seats.
Based on Bret Easton Ellis’ infamous novel of the same name, “American Psycho” stars the quite-brilliant Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman, a status-obsessed Wall Street yuppie who spends his days making lunch reservations and his nights making mincemeat out of homeless people, models and colleagues. Thank God director Harron persevered in casting Bale. As we all know by now, Leonardo DiCaprio was once in line for the role to the tune of a $20 million salary (which would have been deliciously ironic, given the theme). Sinking ships aside, DiCaprio is a fine actor, but he would have been a disaster in this part.
In a rare feat of acting prowess, Bale perfectly embodies a character who tells us that “there is no me” and who claims that he only feels two emotions, “greed and disgust.” Patrick Bateman is such a nonentity, in fact, that people constantly mistake him for someone else, referring to him to his face as a “spineless lightweight.” But Bateman is obsessed maintaining the external appearance of the shell that houses that inner emptiness, as we discover in the brilliant opening sequence where he takes us through his morning grooming ritual. Threats to that shell send him into homicidal fury.
But who’s worse, Bateman or his equally status-obsessed friends, who are so vacuous they make Bateman look like a moral giant? Harron and her co-screenwriter, Guinevere Turner (who also has a role as one of Bateman’s victims) have absolutely nailed Bateman’s milieu, from the ultra-precious food they eat to the hairstyles and clothes to the fixation with being seen in the “right” place. “I’m not even hungry,” says one of Bateman’s friends. “I just want to have reservations somewhere.”
Speaking once again to the film’s mis-marketing, the audience with whom I saw it clearly wasn’t expecting a satire; Dawn and I were almost the only ones laughing throughout, even though I must admit it was at times uncomfortable laughter. (The thought that we might be the only ones in the theater to remember the 1980s sent me directly to the healing hands of my personal assistant, Troy Everhard, Ph.D., CPA, CMT.)
At first, I thought “American Psycho” faltered when it seemed to lose its nerve. Perhaps not trusting us to accept a man who completely lacks a soul (heck, I’ve dated at least one, so I had no problem), Harron has Bateman—and the audience—begin to question his sanity and even the veracity of the events we’ve seen. After accepting a protagonist who can hold forth on the significance of Huey Lewis & the News while committing bloody mayhem, do we really believe it when Bateman seems to acquire a conscience and wants to confess? Does it work satirically to have a psychopath with a “character arc,” as they say in the biz?
And then I thought about it some more, as I occasionally do. Yes, Bateman cracks, but the more outrageous he becomes, the more the society around him ignores him, plunging him into his own circle of Hell. And that’s a statement in itself. I don’t want to give away one of the best scenes, but this is a world in which someone might literally whitewash bloodstains in order to make money. If this doesn’t sound familiar, you haven’t priced the Bay Area real estate market lately.
When Ellis’ novel was first published, I’d made the mistake of reading an excerpt in The New Yorker magazine, and I wished I hadn’t. The graphic violence overshadowed its satiric intent and seemed to simply be the work of a very sick mind. I got into a debate with a friend over this. This friend, one of the most goodhearted people I know, still claimed that he could probably imagine some horrendous things—until I showed him the excerpt. “That’s pretty sick,” he admitted.
Harron smartly strips the film version of “American Psycho” of the book’s ultra-graphic imagery and still makes her point. I still haven’t read the book, but I plan to see the movie again when the shopping urge next hits. “American Psycho” is a cautionary tale about the risk in building your entire persona on exterior possessions, whether they are as tangible as the latest Jaguar model or as ephemeral as a stock option. Your soul starves, and it takes more and more drastic action to quiet its hunger pains.