Yep, after reviewing the perennial Psycho itself, it's time to talk about another film, that also happens to have a psycho, who's American. Though being a film from the turn of the millennium, about the eighties, it's one that still resonates twenty years on, and as we look back on it here, let's find out why. Spoilers will abound on the off chance you want to check it out on your own terms first!
We have Christian Bale playing the Patrick Bateman who is probably not related to Norman Bates. Say that five times first. Anyhoo, it should be noted that this is based on a novel by Bret Easton Ellis, which I bring up because said novel is so gorily grotesque that this flick, violent as it is, severely toned it down. I'm not even going to bring up examples of the literary brutality therein because I don't want anyone reading this to short-circuit their devices with stomach contents.
So it's with that in mind that American Psycho is still a film that doesn't really give a crap. The titular Bateman is just another vapid eighties yuppie who spends most of his time hanging around fancy restaurants, pontificating without needs to be done without doing it, and getting literally murderous over business cards. Yes, the highlight of the film is the scene where, after rambling at great length about the mastery of Genesis of all things, Bateman takes an axe to a poor schmuck--it's hilarious, it's uncompromising, and you can see Bale had much more fun doing this than he did losing his mind on the set of Terminator Salvation.
The movie sort of peaks at that for me; while I certainly appreciate it, I don't put it on quite as high a pedestal for some as after a while, it drives in how meaningless Bateman's wall street culture is and how he himself is a sorry excuse of a human being with not a whole lot besides. Oh, it certainly still resonates today with the issues of class divide and have-nots--but some of those earlier parts have a visceral quality, akin to Texas Chainsaw Massacre which we actually see in the film, that the latter acts don't quite reach for me.
But despite that, I do like the ending--which, like a lot of my favorite endings, leaves a lot up to the imagination of the viewer. Bateman is confronted with the possibility that all his murderings, his pop-song fixated violence...was ultimately in his head. Or, even if they weren't, still essentially leave him as a nobody. I prefer the former interpretation, as it drives home just how utterly pathetic he is despite his wealth and fancy suits, and squeezes in the rather blunt themes of the movie just that little bit more. Bateman talks about having no catharsis in his final lines--but for the viewer, seeing him reduced to confronting his own hollowness is wonderful catharsis enough.
So yeah. While a smidge uneven, American Psycho is still a film that pulls no punches and left me with...perhaps not gratification, but some satisfaction at least. After this, though, as we continue our look at the grisly, macabre, and monstrous, we're ditching classiness for some real fun schlock...
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