Psychotic staples of upper class toys and society; a crimson crack in the elite and richness of man, burns atop a dark raw humor. 1987 high-society-techno-trance-and-brute ethics. Christian Bale orders a drink and verbally scowls the bartender, although she doesn’t hear. Phil Collins, Huey Lewis, Robert Palmer, and the middle-aged white male vocalist. Smiles, self obsession and false obedience. The obscure and erratic mind of Patrick Bateman is a complex case, very much with the deliberately ambiguous American Psycho.
For the majority of its running time, the film is a peak into the life of a strange serial killer, and although it doesn’t concern a main plot of any sort, it simply connects with Christian Bale’s performance. Really, if he wasn’t this fucking great in the picture then American Psycho simply wouldn’t be a good film. There’s literally an onslaught of terrifically well said quotes and the film’s dark humor seems to mock the excessive violence and misogyny seen a lot in horror flicks.
Not until its third act does the film pick up a certain momentum pertaining to a development in the story-line, but, this expansion is rather abandoned and left inconclusive. Somewhat frustrating, American Psycho is nevertheless a subtly great and humorous horror. Really, this could have been a perfect Cronenberg picture.