A review of the book "American Psycho" by Bret Easton Ellis (New York, Vintage, 1991). Review by Harvey Karten, film_critic@compuserve.com.
An article on the rich and super-rich in the business section of a recent New York Times shows that the number of rich people in the U.S. has grown dramatically since the 1980s, when the Reagan administration sanctified the accumulation of wealth. In 1983, for example, only 46,500 households had a net worth of $10 million or more. The figure now is 350,000. Rex Golding is one of the individuals cited by journalist Laura M. Hoolson in the March 3 edition of the newspaper. Though he controls assets of over $10 million, he gripes, "My 6-year-old is starting to say things like, 'their house if bigger.'" There is simply no end to the compulsion of large numbers of Americans to make money.
Is this a bad thing? Probably. Think of one of the most prominent slogans of the 1980s, "Die, yuppie scum!" Why the antagonism of so many to young urban professionals? Envy cannot be ruled out. Nor are the sloganeers distressed about those among the rich who have an attitude of modesty. The target of the expression is groups of our residents who make their money exchanging paper rather than contributing concrete goods (as engineers, construction workers, and factories do) and who are so self-involved and absorbed in spending their ill-gotten loot on luxury goods that they are spiritually dead.
With his third novel "American Psycho"--now adapted for an April 14 opening as a Lions Gate movie starring Christian Bale--Bret Easton Ellis focuses on a 26-year-old serial killer, Patrick Bateman, an investment banker whose yuppie friends are so self-absorbed, so wrapped up in their accumulation of designer clothing and dinners in high-priced, trendy restaurants, that they ignore Bateman's confessions of his multiple crimes against women and the homeless. The novel describes Bateman's acts of torment and torture so graphically that the book was roundly denounced by feminists and moralists as vacant pornography designed exclusively to titillate the lowest elements of a book-reading society. At the same time, the novel has been praised by other feminists and moralists as a work designed to inform its readers of a dangerous spiritual emptiness in our overly materialistic country.
The author is no stranger to commentary of this sort. One of his previous novels, "The Rules of Attraction," is about the sexual posturings and agonies of three college students during the 1980s, while his "Less than Zero," situated in the eighties as well, highlights a bunch of kids in an affluent, liberal arts college who at a tender age have indulged in too many drugs, too much sex, have had too much money, and who wind up disaffected nihilists devoid of feeling. Ellis cannot be accused of making broad, general statements about the spiritual emptiness of segments of young, rich people. In "American Psycho," his most realized work, he delves into the lifestyles of Pat Bateman and his circle in excruciating detail, dropping more names of designer clothing in just 399 pages than film critic Armond White drops names of movies in three years of reviewing.
"American Psycho" is narrated by the homicidal maniac of its title, Pat Bateman, in a such a flat tone that you wonder whether he is nothing more than a documentary filmmaker. Treating one of his gruesome murders with about the same level of emotion that he discusses a restaurant reservation or the kinds of clothing worn by people with whom he comes in contact, Bateman drones on in this manner:
"I run into Bradley Simpson from P&P outside F.A.O Schwartz and he's wearing a glen-plaid worsted wool suit with notched lapels by Perry Ellis, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Gitman Brothers, a silk tie by Savoy, a chronograph with a crocodile skin band by Breil, a cotton raincoat by Paul Smith and a fur felt hat by Paul Stuart." Ellis drops literally hundreds of names like these, assuring the reader that he knows the society whereof he speaks. His writing is so entertaining in describing yuppie concerns that we are almost sorry when he begins to describe the homicidal inclinations of his central character--as late as page 131. Eventually he decorates his room with the skin and bones and brains and hair of his innumerable female victims, some from his circle of acquaintances, others bimbos whom he has brought over by calling escort services. Here is Pat Bateman's description of his feeling toward the homeless:
"I pull out a long, thin knife with a serrated edge and, being very careful not to kill him, push maybe half an inch of the blade into his right eye, flicking the handle up, instantly popping the retina....with my thumb and forefinger hold the other eye open and bring the knife up and push the tip of it into the socket, first breaking its protective film so the socket fills with blood, then slitting the eyeball open sideways, and he finally starts screaming once I slit his nose in two...
In moments like these, you won't be faulted for wondering whether Ellis uses the theme of American spiritual vacuity ingenuously to give his novel a profound, spiritual meaning-- whether he really is the pornographer that so many people accuse him of being, interested only in arousing the baser emotions of the readers. Let's for the record give him the benefit of the doubt and accept the book for what it is: a harsh indictment of a society that is so wrapped up in spending, on keeping up with the Joneses and spurring the envy of its neighbors, that it has lost its spiritual center. Those among us who are not rich or famous or trendy can argue that nothing in this book applies to them. Really? Components of the underclass who mug people not to buy food for their families but to afford the trendiest athletic footwear cannot escape blame. If you are just about getting by comfortably, can you say with certainty that you and your circle of family and friends genuinely feel for those outside (or even inside) your circle--that you sympathize with the homeless, care for the desperate, and live your life to make the world a better place than it was before you arrived? Perhaps you can, perhaps not. But that's a subject for another novel. Ellis--are you listening? (C) Harvey Karten, film_critic@compuserve.com
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