In honor of Christian Bale's recorded, on-set meltdown, I hereby resubmit the recap I did of American Psycho a couple of years ago (April, May 2006). This is part one. Depending on the response I get, I may also repost the remaining seven parts (good lord I had more free time those days). First, my two cents about the recorded hissy fit -- hey, Christian, it's only a freakin' Terminator sequel!! And now, on to part one...
First of all, a couple of observations about the novel:
"Bateman, you are some kind of morose bastard," Preston says. "You should stop reading all those Ted Bundy biographies." Preston stands up and checks his Rolex. "Listen men, I'm off. Will see you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel," Van Patten says, nudging me.
Bateman. Batman. Bate-man, Bat-man. Interesting in hindsight, no? And I'm surely not the first person to notice that.
There are also chapters of a similar nature titled "Whitney Houston" and "Huey Lewis and the News." As Bateman's sanity continues on its slippery, downward slope, he clings increasingly to meaningless minutiae and trivia
The last chapter, "At Harry's," ends with: THIS IS NOT AN EXIT
I find this a bit ironic (the fact such a misogynistic novel and story was adapted for the screen by two women). It's like Lifetime Television showing The Silence of the Lambs.
"Stoli, on the rocks!!" (shouting)
"These aren't good anymore! It's a cash bar!!" (also shouting)
...I say staring at her, quite clearly but muffled by "Pump Up the Volume" and the crowd, "You are a fucking ugly bitch I want to stab to death and play around with your blood," but I'm smiling. (page 59)
And again, I see irony in women being in complete creative control of a movie where the main character is a viscous misogynist.
(Narration): "I live in the American Garments Building
on West 81st Street
on the 11th floor.
My name if Patrick Bateman. I'm 27 years old.
I believe in taking care of myself with a balanced diet and a vigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a ittle puffy, I'll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a 1,000 now.
After I remove the ice pack, I use a deep pore cleanser lotion.
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of an abstraction. There is no real me, only an entity, something illusory.
And though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can sense our lifestyles are fairly comparable...
...I simply am not there."
I'm walking on sunshine (whoa oh)
I'm walking on sunshine (whoa oh)
And don't it feel good, hey, all right now, and don't it feel good, hey, yeah!
(Narration): "I'm trying to listen to the new Robert Palmer tape, but Evelyn, my supposed fiance, keeps buzzing in my ear."
(Narration): "I'm on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Pastels since I'm positive we won't get seated but the table is good, and relief that is almost tidal in scope washes over me in an awesome wave." (page 39)
(Narration): "...as I set the platter down I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the surface of the table. My skin seems darker because of the candlelight and I notice how good the haircut I got at Gio's last Wednesday looks." (page 12)
"We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in movies, in popular music, everywhere. Most importantly we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people." (page 16)
Classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The next morning...
The husband holds the two sheets he's taken out of the bag in front of him, both splattered with dried blood, and stares at them dumbly.
"Bleach-ee?" I ask her. "Are you trying to say bleach-ee?" I shake my head, disbelieving. "Bleach-ee? Oh my god."
"Two things," I say, talking over her. "One. You can't bleach a Soprani. Out of the question. Two"--and then louder, still over her--"two, I can only get these sheets in Santa Fe. These are very expensive sheets and I really need them clean..."
"If-you-don't-shut-your-fucking-mouth-I-will-kill-you-are-you-understanding-me?" (page 82)
The boy next door plans his evening while enjoying the latest in a series of video rentals, usually the vilest, most degrading hard-core porn available to man.
What, only two hours?
In episode two, Patrick gets really angry over an associate's fancy business card.