American Psycho (2000)

Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) is a beautiful thing. The young Wall Street executive has everything—education, status, looks, intelligence—but a soul. By day, he competes among other young cocks on the Street for the best reservations. By night, Bateman fulfills his murderous desires brought on by the day. Bateman’s hints at his pathological desires are dismissed by his friends furthering his rage. Bateman’s prey must endure soliloquies on Phil Collins and Huey Lewis.

American Psycho is a flawed masterpiece. Christian Bale is fascinating as the superficial psychopath who is equal parts harbinger of depravity and executive jerk-off. This film frustrates me. What fails to elevate his character is a lack of originality. It’s a first person cliché.

A supporting cast including Willem Dafoe, Reese Witherspoon, Chloe Sevigny and Jared Leto (sorry, just had to throw that one in) does nothing to enhance the banality of it all.

The production is slick—highly styled, set in Manhattan circa 1980-ish. Bale looks great. His tailoring is impressive. The dialogue has moments of highly-quotable genius. But ultimately the film is too hit-and-miss to be effective.

As I see it, American Psycho is pretentious nonsense. Hints to the sadistic (check the closet) are there, but the film fails to deliver on anything other than Bale—and he’s more interesting elsewhere.