Christian Bale in American Psycho (2000), image courtesy of Universal Studios
8. American Psycho (2000)
Patrick Bateman is unmistakably a product of his time, a muscular, Armani-wearing Wall Street investment banker who listens to pop music, dines at Zagat-approved restaurants, and obsesses over business cards. But American Psycho, Brett Easton Ellis’s controversial 1991 novel, follows a long-standing tradition that includes Dorothy Hughes’s In a Lonely Place, Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me, and Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley. Like those noir classics, it forces readers to occupy the mind of a homicidal sociopath who appears “normal”, a horrific mockery of masculine ideals and American avarice.
For her film adaptation, Mary Harron tones down many of the book’s excesses: the painstaking sex scenes; the graphic violence; the rambling, stream-of-consciousness narration. It results in a less immersive experience, but a sharper, more focused critique. Voiceover and hallucinatory sequences offer a glimpse into Bateman’s twisted subconscious, but we don’t identify with him, distanced by the sleek milieu and Christian Bale’s purposely stilted acting. Even while getting a kick out of black comedy and nihilistic mayhem, the movie acknowledges the ugliness at the core of its satire, the empty depravity of male privilege. One thing is guaranteed: you’ll never think about Huey Lewis and the News the same way again.
Similar movies: Hard Candy (2005), Nightcrawler (2014)