Bret Easton Ellis’s novel, American Psycho, is the kind of book one does not want to finish. Parts are so pornographic and so gruesome (usually in the same paragraph), that the book needs to be put down at times so the reader can reassess reality and why they are even reading the book in the first place. Ellis’s world is a twisted one, and though there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s not for everyone.
The book vs. movie debate has always been an interesting one; most books should never be turned into movies. (See, but don’t see: Lolita, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Great Gatsby, James and the Giant Peach, Watchmen, etc.) But the film adaptation of American Psycho shines. The cast is perfect; Bale is Patrick Bateman.
In many ways, the film is the novel Ellis tried to write. It takes the themes and elements that Ellis struggles with and combines them into a focused and concise statement. It adds a sense of realism to the story that Ellis never could. In the book, the disturbing parts are simply too unbelievable; they come off as gratuitous, unreal.
The movie never goes too far. It leaves the scarier, psychological aspects of Bateman’s character to the viewer’s imagination. Though there is a certain amount of gore and over-the-top sex sequences, these are purposefully shot and push the plot forward, developing Bateman as a character and depicting the pitfalls of the 80’s yuppie generation.
Ellis, though a solid writer, does not seem to be in complete control of his craft; he’s like a juggler trying to juggle too many balls. But the best dialogue and scenes in the film are straight from his pages and he captures the monotony and vapidity of Bateman’s life and times like no other writer. Without his book, there could never have been such a killer movie.
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