It's quite possible that American Psycho is a brilliant movie. It's also quite possible that it's a dreary, obvious chop-'em-up dressed in Alan Flusser suits and Ralph Lauren boxers, drenched in Pour Hommes aftershave, all to disguise it as bracing satire on the greed-is-good '80s. The option audiences choose to accept (most likely the former) will depend on what they think about Mary Harron's interpretation of Bret Easton Ellis' 1991 novel -- the one no publishing house would touch nine years ago, until Vintage Contemporaries picked it up and hurled it into bookstores (the shit hits the fans, indeed). That ruckus took place forever ago. We'd almost forgotten about those scenes in which narrator Patrick Bateman cuts off the lips of still-alive hookers, then gnaws, slowly, on the remains of the dead and the barely living. For starters. After all, we've not yet mentioned batteries, rats and microwaves.... More >>>