Review of American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

A disquieting tale of a pretty, twenty-something psychopath working in Wall Street during the eighties’ yuppie age – the inner thoughts of the main character, Patrick Bateman are at distressingly at odds with his outward appearance, being smart, handsome and intelligent.

Pyschopath in Suburbia

All his friends hold similar soulless values: the places to dine, what stereos to buy, what cuisine to eat, how to wear a tie; an entire scene describes Bateman and his ‘friends’ debating over what mineral water to drink. In fact, a recurrent theme of mistaken identity would hint a collective strive for worldly perfection. Everyone is ‘fit’, wears stylish suits and is seen in the right places. Everyone ends up looking and acting the same, almost like drones.

But this soulless materialistic world provides stark contrast to the dark comedy of this novel: after slaying a Japanese cook, Bateman finds a bloodied fortune cookie in his pocket. His ditzy girlfriend, Evelyn questions him about this, and Bateman claims its sweet-and-sour sauce. She is touched by the fortune cookie and tastes it. A work colleague, Carruthers, mistakes Bateman’s contempt for passion and ‘out’s his crush on Bateman. His wasted infatuation climaxes in an awkward scene in Barney’s where Carruthers is on the floor, clasping Bateman’s ankle like an overgrown toddler as Bateman tries to move away.

Anonymity on Wall Street

All this occurs in the midst of stomach-churning slayings of bums, prostitutes and work colleagues that no one notices has gone missing. This might be due to mistaken identity, as people even confuse Bateman for someone else. The second part of the book grows progressively darker, where Bateman’s impulses grow stronger and the need to up the stakes would seem a requisite to provide that killing ‘thrill.’ Some of the scenes make uncomfortable reading, involving the dismantling of eyeballs, throats and private parts. I found myself wishing something would break this spell.

Bateman’s girlfriend remains blissfully unaware of Bateman’s secret world. He acts out his part in their courtship, assuming ‘normal’ behavior for a sustained period whilst they holiday at Hamilton’s. He then unceremoniously dumps her. And she demands, ‘but what about our history?’ But we already know that Bateman holds no value to history, for this is synonymous with nostalgia.

Greed and Happiness

Bateman’s inner narrative grows ever more frantic, his world becoming a stream of meaningless functions and events. Sentences are long, a bulky litany of what his world has become. This is perhaps not helped by Bateman’s coke addiction. In effect, Bateman has become the symbol of the void that lies at the centre of seeing contentment and greed as the same. Some could argue this is what defines the psychopath.

He nonchalantly claims that his secretary, Jean, is in love with him, as are several other women in his life (sadly, it would appear that this is the case). Women find his cloying charms difficult to resist, when he only sees them as objects, using tags such as ‘hardbodies.’ His inner narrative is crammed with how he looks and what he’s got. I find myself almost shouting in my head, ‘don’t spend another second in with this man.’ But as the other characters are preoccupied with their ambitions, don’t consciously notice the emotional bankruptcy of Bateman. 

The Yuppie Culture of the Eighties

The first part of the novel shows us Bateman’s OCD attitude to his clothes, his physical appearance and his possessions. He is well-versed in suits, lingerie, hardware and a relentless beauty regime. His apartment is the quintessential clinical bachelor pad from hell. In-depth descriptions of Bateman’s possessions leave a metallic taste in the mouth. A sunset, a walk in the countryside or childhood nostalgia holds no value or meaning for him. In fact, we know very little about his past as the past doesn’t enter his head. Bateman lives in the now and possessions such as his gazelle-skin wallet and his platinum credit card are his religion. When one of his vacuous friends outdoes him in this area, Bateman is truly piqued and fantasizes about smashing his face in.

Three chapters are dedicated to Bateman’s music tastes, namely, Genesis, Whitney Houston and Huey Lewis and the News. His reviews are thorough, mechanical and pitifully funny. I feel he is trying to convince us of his depth of musical appreciation but they read more like evaluations. He tells us the years the albums were released, the record company responsible and who did what. Like his relentless beauty regime, there is an OCD element to his musical appraisals.