American Psycho

American Psycho ★★★★

“You know what Ed Gein said about women?”
“Ed Gein? The maitre ‘d at Canal Bar?”

Bonkers. A real humdinger of a satire that fires flaming turd-tipped arrows at each of its targets—consumerism, masculinity, yuppie bullshit—with nothing but complete contempt for them. It’s like the darkest of Steely Dan songs—loaded with irony and populated almost entirely by vacuous, designer brand name-dropping bags of wind whose existence we can only be mortified by. And, for what it’s worth, there isn’t a single character death that isn’t in one way or another utterly memorable.

Christian Bale, as far as I’m concerned, gives one of the medium’s greatest performances, diving headfirst without hesitation into the role of Patrick Bateman—or, the idea of Patrick Bateman, as Bateman himself so aptly puts it. It’s the most hilarious portrayal of a totally non-hilarious character; aside from his plastic facial expressions and line deliveries, the way that Bale shifts from mannered man of wealth to deranged psychopath is effortless, turning the kind of unabashed goofiness reminiscent of Jim Carrey’s shtick into something truly unnerving. The movie might've worked without him, but how well I'm not so sure.