American Psycho

"There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But 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 even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I simply am not there." It had been a while since I wanted to rewatch American Psycho. Maybe it’s the season, or maybe it’s because I’m preparing to dress up as Patrick Bateman for Halloween — but something about revisiting that world of perfect suits felt oddly fitting. Watching it again, I was reminded that American Psycho isn’t just a film about a killer, but about everything that kills within us. During this rewatch, I realized how deeply misunderstood this movie remains. Too often, people reduce it to its surface: the gore, the narcissism, the empty confidence. But beneath all that lies a satire about conformity in a world that worships appearances. The film —and Ellis’s novel before it— shows a society so obsessed with status that the individual dissolves into an echo. Patrick Bateman is not a monster born out of insanity; he’s a product of his environment, a man whose entire sense of self has been sculpted by the world he inhabits. The Wall Street lifestyle, the obsession with business cards, the identical haircuts...it all becomes this run to success. In that sense, Bateman’s violent breakdowns are rebellion, a reaction to a culture that has drained what was left authentic of him. Not everyone is made for this kind of life, and, honestly, no one truly is. Beneath the hypocritical smiles, the film shows the absolute void that consumerism leaves behind. That’s why it frustrates me how often American Psycho is misused by certain online male communities. Men who idolize Bateman’s aesthetics while missing the point entirely. They quote his monologues thinking he represents power or dominance (and calling him "sigma"— god do I cringe when seeing those ridiculous instragam posts...), when in truth, he embodies emptiness. Their idolization ironically proves the movie’s message: that when society teaches men to value image over empathy, what’s left is nothing but a performative shell. Rewatching it now with more awareness of our society, the observation is present: it’s all still here, maybe even worse than in the ‘80s. The film endures because it’s not really about Bateman. It’s about us. About the fear that, beneath all our curated identities, maybe there’s nothing real left. I wished to end this review saying Patrick Bateman is as invested showing off his music tastes as me when the topic of movies is brought up.