Starring: Christian Bale, Willem Dafoe, Chloë Sevigny, Reese Witherspoon
In 1991, Bret Easton Ellis released his third novel, American Psycho, to a chorus of poor reviews and public uproar. It was a controversial work making a perverse assessment on the state of its times (the late 80s). Its initial publisher, Simon & Schuster, dropped the book just a month before its slated release date. The National Organization of Women threatened to file obscenity lawsuits against the novel, and boycott bookstores carrying it. Ellis's own life was threatened on several occasions. What is surprising then is that it took nearly ten years for it to become a feature film. Even more surprising, that it would eventually be adapted by two women.
That said, Mary Herron, directing from a script she co-wrote with Guinevere Turner, turns in a memorably tense film. From the very first frames of the opening credits, Harron creates great tension as raspberry sauce decorates a dessert, splattering like blood on the white of the plate. Immediately, the tone is set for what's to come.
Patrick Bateman (Bale) is living the American Dream. Or...he should be. He works a high-paying Wall Street job, lives in a pricey uptown apartment, is engaged to a beautiful fiancée (Witherspoon), and is banging her best friend (Samantha Mathis) on the side. The problem? His life is completely empty and soulless. "I have all the characteristics of a human being," he tells us in voice-over, "but not a single clear, identifiable emotion." His co-workers think him a loser, and tell him so to his face -- so forgettable is he, they don't even know they're talking to him. One such co-worker, Paul Allen (Jared Leto) leads a remarkably similar life to Bateman's. The difference is, Allen lives it better. His apartment is nicer, the cases he handles are bigger, his fake "Vice President" business card is glossier. Not to be outdone, Bateman, a man who strives for perfection and power, lashes out at Allen -- not with words, but with an axe to the face. Allen's "sudden disappearance" draws the attention of a private detective (a scene-stealing Dafoe), while Bateman's thirst for bloody mayhem becomes insatiable.
The film holds secrets which I wouldn't dare spoil, and its ending leaves them very open to interpretation. It sticks with you, its ambiguity begging for mental closure. This is a movie worth seeing, for even if you don't like it, there is much left to be discussed.
FINAL SCORE: 8.7 = A-
It seems ironic that Bale would move from Bateman to Batman -- worlds apart, they are held separate by only one letter. Still, Bateman is such an interesting character. Here is a man whose television blares porn as he goes about his business, and slasher flicks as he exercises; who pontificates on the musical strengths of Phil Collins and Huey Lewis while committing brutal murder. Such is the nature of the film: shock and horror, with a side of black comedy. Bale delivers a remarkable performance, and Harron, a brutally mesmerizing masterpiece. I found myself watching much of the film with wide eyes and a hand on my face. Still, I could never quite look away.
In 1991, Bret Easton Ellis released his third novel, American Psycho, to a chorus of poor reviews and public uproar. It was a controversial work making a perverse assessment on the state of its times (the late 80s). Its initial publisher, Simon & Schuster, dropped the book just a month before its slated release date. The National Organization of Women threatened to file obscenity lawsuits against the novel, and boycott bookstores carrying it. Ellis's own life was threatened on several occasions. What is surprising then is that it took nearly ten years for it to become a feature film. Even more surprising, that it would eventually be adapted by two women.
That said, Mary Herron, directing from a script she co-wrote with Guinevere Turner, turns in a memorably tense film. From the very first frames of the opening credits, Harron creates great tension as raspberry sauce decorates a dessert, splattering like blood on the white of the plate. Immediately, the tone is set for what's to come.
Patrick Bateman (Bale) is living the American Dream. Or...he should be. He works a high-paying Wall Street job, lives in a pricey uptown apartment, is engaged to a beautiful fiancée (Witherspoon), and is banging her best friend (Samantha Mathis) on the side. The problem? His life is completely empty and soulless. "I have all the characteristics of a human being," he tells us in voice-over, "but not a single clear, identifiable emotion." His co-workers think him a loser, and tell him so to his face -- so forgettable is he, they don't even know they're talking to him. One such co-worker, Paul Allen (Jared Leto) leads a remarkably similar life to Bateman's. The difference is, Allen lives it better. His apartment is nicer, the cases he handles are bigger, his fake "Vice President" business card is glossier. Not to be outdone, Bateman, a man who strives for perfection and power, lashes out at Allen -- not with words, but with an axe to the face. Allen's "sudden disappearance" draws the attention of a private detective (a scene-stealing Dafoe), while Bateman's thirst for bloody mayhem becomes insatiable.
The film holds secrets which I wouldn't dare spoil, and its ending leaves them very open to interpretation. It sticks with you, its ambiguity begging for mental closure. This is a movie worth seeing, for even if you don't like it, there is much left to be discussed.
FINAL SCORE: 8.7 = A-
It seems ironic that Bale would move from Bateman to Batman -- worlds apart, they are held separate by only one letter. Still, Bateman is such an interesting character. Here is a man whose television blares porn as he goes about his business, and slasher flicks as he exercises; who pontificates on the musical strengths of Phil Collins and Huey Lewis while committing brutal murder. Such is the nature of the film: shock and horror, with a side of black comedy. Bale delivers a remarkable performance, and Harron, a brutally mesmerizing masterpiece. I found myself watching much of the film with wide eyes and a hand on my face. Still, I could never quite look away.