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by Jason Adams
I don't think there's any good faith argument to be made that Mary Harron's American Psycho, which turns 20 today, is not Christian Bale's movie. His serial killing investment banker Patrick Bateman, now an icon for the ages for better or for worse, is in very nearly every scene -- Harron cuts away from his perspective only twice (both pointed moments I'll dig into below). We are, terrifyingly, trapped inside this most beautiful madman for every dissection and Whitney Houston diatribe -- it's much like Bret Easton Ellis' book that way.
But Harron, bless her, found ways to make the experience survivable, hell even somehow giddy and a deranged sort of fun, whereas Ellis' book is an undertaking swathed in ugliness and despair I've had no desire to revisit since my one and only traumatic read-through a good 25 years back. Harron navigated a supernaturally exquisite balance between her satire and horror, a vital "looking in from the outside" set of eyes that escaped the burden of Ellis' prose. And I think the key to it, besides Bale's brilliantly sweaty bananas work of course, is the vibrant gallery of women that Harron surrounded Bateman with...
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