**Contains American Psycho spoilers because…well, go read and watch it, it’s awesome, and horrible, and hilarious, and deeply upsetting. Welcome to the Haunted Eyeball.****
We’re moving away from Disney this week (though we’ll definitely be returning to the demonic house of mouse at some point) and we’re taking a humanoid approach to this week’s Monster Monday. Well, he can pass for human, anyway. Mostly. What Patrick Bateman actually is, is something far more terrifying.
Doesn’t seem so bad, does he…
He’s a yuppie. Which, to clarify for those born after 1980, means he’s a stupidly rich, callous motherfucker. Actually, probably easier to just call him a banker and leave it at that. Striding the streets of late 190s New York in Armani, while utilizing a very strict skincare routine, Bateman kills and kills again, he stomps tramp to death along with their poor puppies, he gives drugged out dates chocolate covered urinal cakes as a dessert. He also has extremely convoluted thoughts on the music of Whitney Huston when she was an 1980s diva. That’s the sort of monster we’re dealing with. Shudder. However, if you’re interested, there’s a very interesting study into how rich people get progressively less empathic – though we doubt that that would really explain Bateman, either.
Oh, and he NEVER gets caught.
Now, to be clear, this really isn’t going to be an incredibly in-depth analysis of everyone’s favourite American Psycho (no, not you Dexter). There’s a time and place for that (we love us some analysis) but, not on here and not today, anyway. This Monster Monday about Patrick Bateman is purely to celebrate how he makes us confront our inner sickos. Or if he doesn’t well, good for you.
So let’s talk Bateman.
Frankly, compared to what else is out there, Patrick Bateman is almost comical. Not least because, well, he might just be completely out of his mind, and the whole horrific story is delivered by an unreliable narrator cop-out of the highest order. (The author has denied it’s all in Bateman’s head, though). That and the ten page monologues on what Bateman likes to wear and why Hip to Be Square like, totally sums up important stuff, probably. Yes. He takes himself so seriously, it should be a comedy. (We’d argue it is…a very very very very dark one). See, mostly, Patrick Bateman just likes to hurt people. Women especially. Yick. The jarring flip from Bateman’s discussion of the latest GQ cover and angst about the right business card, right over to incredibly detailed descriptions of torture, murder and things that would make Leatherface shake his head, are all part of the character’s hypnotic appeal. This is one twisted fuck, and he lives on Wall Street.
That’s up against some pretty stiff psychotic competition.
Let’s be clear. The ‘all a dream’ explanation for Bateman would suck. Unless you’re that unfortunate woman he treated to his hose pipe and rat douche which, well…but it would remove the power of the book. It’s basically pure splatterpunk translated through the uppity lens of high literature. What’s the difference between this and a masterpiece like Ketchum’s ‘The Woman’? Apart from, like, awards and publishing ‘accolades’. Still, they’re both brilliant, but you know, labels are bad, mmkay?
This is how a date with Patrick Bateman generally ends, by the way…
However, Bateman definitely falls under ‘M’ for ‘Monster’. But even worse, surely, (unless you are the unfortunate hooker being brutally chainsawed through the crotch by him at the time) are the people who are stopping him from even being caught. His disgustingly rich father has to be protecting him. That’s hinted at. Suggested. Never overt. Conspiracies are comforting. Otherwise, the world would see what a sicko Bateman is, and they would stop him. The world would definitely stop him. Right? Bad guys are caught all the time. Aren’t they? It’s a good thing we’re all rational enough to deal with this and have enough security in the world’s empathy that this sort of thing is laughed off as an anomaly of a sick mind…..*nervous laugh*
Brett Easton Ellis’ sick little mind, to be precise. *gives Brett an unwanted hug*
Only, we all go a little mad sometimes. Bateman is one way to pin it to the screen or the page. Or the musical theatre outing. Nice. Because, when the highest rated, most heavily downloaded show (Game of Thrones) has a man getting SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER his cock brutally chopped off by another guy who looks like a psychotic hobbit (no, really he does, and he also deserves his own Monster Monday when the series actually finishes) plus, all the graphic rape in the show and head’s gleefully exploding END SPOILER END SPOILER END SPOILER then, we can’t get on our high horse about about Bateman anymore. We are desensitised. We deserve Bateman now. He’s been absorbed and chewed up.
This is best epitomised by the newish West End musical of American Psycho, starring Doctor Who as Bateman (a far more appropriate use for creepy babyfaced gurner Matt Smith, in our opinion). Surely, if popular culture is going to grind up and spit out something as blackly vicious as Ameican Psycho, and shove a load of ironic songs in it (I’m also looking at you, Evil Dead) then it’s only a matter of time before we get a Hellraiser musical. Well, we can hope.