Radio Days

Woody Allen on the Radio Days set
Radio Days is the Academy Award-nominated 1987 film directed by Woody Allen. In it, Allen looks back on American family life during the Golden Age of Radio, and it finds the writer/director at his most nostalgic, with a script which shifts between the lightly comedic and the touchingly sad. The narrator (Allen) tells how radio influenced his childhood in the days before TV, during the late 1930s to New Year's Eve 1944. On a trivial note, it is the only Allen film featuring both Diane Keaton and Mia Farrow.

American Psycho, part 2

As a promotion for the movie, you could sign up to receive e-mails "from" Patrick Bateman, supposedly to his therapist. The e-mails follow Bateman's life since the events of the film. In the e-mails, he discusses such developments as his marriage to (and impending divorce settlement with) his former secretary, Jean, his complete adoration of his son, Patrick Jr., and his efforts to triumph over his business rivals. The e-mails also mention or detail interactions with other characters from the novel, including Timothy Price (Bryce in the film version), Evelyn Williams, Luis Carruthers, and Marcus Halberstam. Shudder. I would probably set a filter on any email coming from Patrick Bateman.

Note how the male actors all look vaguely similar. Mistaken identity occurs repeatedly and is important to the plot.

Bateman is extremely jealous of Pierce & Pierce co-worker, Paul Allen (Paul Owen in the novel), who is in charge of "the Fisher account". Allen, on the other hand, thinks Bateman is another P & P associate named Marcus Halberstram. Patrick plays along, and pretends to be Halberstram. Bateman has some reason to hate Allen. He's an a-hole, and look who portrays him:

"Hello Halberstram!"


"Nice tie. How the hell are you?"


(Narration): Allen has mistaken me


for this dickhead named Marcus Halberstram. It seems logical because Marcus also works at P & P, and in fact does the same exact thing I do. He also has a penchant for Valentio suits and Oliver Peoples glasses.


Marcus and I even go to the same barber, although I have a slightly better haircut.


Allen offers his new card.




I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my new business card.


I pull it out of my gazelleskin wallet (Barney's, $850)


and slap it on the table, waiting for a reaction.


"Whoa," McDermott says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. "Very nice. Take a look." He hands it to Van Petten.


"It is very cool, Bateman," Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, "but that's nothing...." He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. "Look at this."


A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, "Eggshell with Romalian type..." He turns to me. "What do you think?"


"But wait," Price says. "You ain't seen nothin' yet...." He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, "Mine."

"Nice, very nice," I have to admit. "But wait. Let's see Allen's."


Price pulls it out and though he's acting nonchalant, I don't see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.


"Nice, huh?" Price's tone suggests he realizes I'm jealous.

"Yeah," I say offhandedly, giving Price the card like I don't give a shit, but I'm finding it hard to swallow. (pages 44 and 45)


"Is there something wrong, Patrick? You're sweating."


I find myself walking through the antique district below Fourteenth Street. My watch has stopped so I'm not sure what time it is, but probably ten-thirty or so...The moon, pale and low, hangs just above the tip of the Chrysler Building. Somewhere from over in the West Village the siren from an ambulance screams, the wind picks it up, it echoes then fades.


Steam rises from below the streets, billowing up in tendrils, evaporating. Bags of frozen garbage line the curbs.

The homeless, who symbolically pervade the streets and alleyways of New York City in the novel, are a constant target of cruelty by Patrick and his privileged cronies. Patrick takes it a few steps further.

The bum, a black man, lies in the doorway of an abandoned antique store on Twelth Street on top of an open grate, surrounded by bags of garbage and a shopping cart from Gristede's loaded with what I suppose are personal belonging... (page 128)


"Why don't you get a job?" I ask, the bill still held in my hand but not within the bum's reach. "If you're so hungry, why don't you get a job?"


He breathes in, shivering, between sobs admits, "I lost my job..."

"Why? I ask, genuinely interested. "Were you drinking? Is that why you lost it? Insider trading? Just joking. No, really--were you drinking on the job?"

He hugs himself, between sobs, chokes, "I was fired. I was laid off." His dog, the thing called Gizmo, starts whimpering.


"Get a goddamn job, Al," I say earnestly. "You've got a negative attitude. That's what's stopping you. You've got to get your act together."


"You reek," I tell him. "You reek of...shit." I'm still petting the dog, its eyes wide and wet and grateful. "Do you know that? Goddamnit, Al--look at me and stop crying like some kind of faggot," I shout. My rage builds, subsides, and I close my eyes, bringing my hand up to squeeze the bridge of my nose, then I sigh. "Al...I'm sorry. It's just that...I don't know. I don't have anything in common with you."


"Do you know what a fucking loser you are?" He starts nodding helplessly and I pull out a long, thin knife with a serrated edge and... (pages 128-130)


"What beautiful skin you have Mr. Bateman. So fine. So smooth."


(Narration): I have all the characteristics of a human being--flesh, blood, skin, hair, but not a single, clear identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.


Something horrible is happening inside of me, and I don't know why. My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy.


I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.

NEXT:

What's the cause for celebration?


Who's in the bag?

"American Psycho Reinterpreted"

American Psycho, part 1

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:

On page 39, the following bit of dialogue occurs:

"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.

The author of the novel, Bret Easton Ellis (a talented writer with an eye for amazing detail, I really enjoyed Less Than Zero), no doubt wrote American Psycho after seeing Less Than Zero made into a film. I'd bet he assumed American Psycho would also be depicted on screen. This could explain why Tom Cruise appears on pages 71 and 72 due to the fact, in the novel, he lives in the penthouse of Patrick's building. In the movie, Patrick claims he lives, "in the American Gardens building on West 81st." Tom Cruise once lived there. The makers of the film originally envisioned Tom playing the role of Patrick. Bateman and Cruise share an elevator ride, and they have a brief conversation during which Cruise has to repeatedly correct Bateman about the title of his film Cocktail (Patrick continues to call "Bartender"). It's an interesting blurring of reality. I wonder if Ellis envisioned at least a cameo by Cruise, playing himself, in the scene.

The chapter titled "Genesis," in which Ellis, as Bateman, details the artistic and creative growth of the progressive rock band Genesis from the time of Peter Gabriel's exit up to its 1986 album Invisible Touch is really cool. That's all that the chapter is. Just a lecture on Genesis. Nothing having to do with the plot occurs.



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

By the end of the book, you actually feel a little bit sorry for Patrick Bateman. There is even the possibility that a lot of the truly detestable acts he commits occur only in his own mind.

Chapter one, "April Fool's," begins with the following, all in caps: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE

The last chapter, "At Harry's," ends with: THIS IS NOT AN EXIT


American Psycho




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."


(soundtrack):
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.