Hip to Be Square – AMERICAN PSYCHO

It’s been a month dedicated to horror directed by women, and I’m closing it out with perhaps the most unexpected, Mary Harron’s pitch perfect adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’ ghastly1980's yuppie satire, AMERICAN PSYCHO (2000).    

The Capsule:

Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) has it all.  Good looks, a successful job, a beautiful girlfriend (Reese Witherspoon), a Manhattan apartment, and an insatiable bloodlust.  Not for business, for actual blood.  Because, when Patrick is not cheating on his girlfriend, taking lunches with people he despises, or struggling to find the perfect business card, his favorite pastime is murder and mutilation.  Underneath his perfectly curated shell, Patrick is hollow, desperate to feel anything.  No matter how much blood he gets under his expensively manicured nails, though, no one seems to notice.  Because in his self-obsessed Wall St. world, life and death means less than getting good dinner reservations. 

It is particularly delicious irony that the story of such a reprehensible misogynist is directed by a woman.  Mary Harron doesn’t downplay any of Bateman’s woman hating tendencies, or the culture that accepts and encourages them.  It starts off casually, like the way he belittles his girlfriend for prattling on about their future wedding when he is trying to listen to the new Robert Palmer album.  The fact that he is cheating on her with one of his colleague’s girlfriends (a very medicated Samantha Mathis) is less from desire than a kind of social obligation.  Mistresses are like clothing accessories to men in his position, you can’t have the tie without the tie clip.  He's also the type of guy who orders for his date at a restaurant and tells his secretary (a very put upon Chloë Sevigny) how to dress.  Other times, she is less subtle, like when Bateman—naked, holding a chainsaw—is chasing after one of his victims, Christie (a very dead Cara Seymour).  I’d say that was the pinnacle of misogynistic imagery. 

Forget Bruce Wayne, Patrick Bateman is Christian Bale’s masterpiece performance.  Dancing between deadpan, narcissistic sincerity and near Nick Cage levels of manic excess, Bale makes Bret Easton Ellis’ misogynist business monster come alive.  It’s hard to say which is worse, Bateman’s murderous inner life, or his intensely bland and conformist outer one.  It turns out that being an amoral sociopath devoid of human emotion is a winning trait on Wall Street. Bateman spends more time and energy modeling himself on what he views to be the pinnacle of success, the 80’s NY yuppie, than he ever does on his actual job.  In fact, you never once see Bateman doing any work at all, because his real occupation is pretending. 

The big joke is that aside from his homicidal urges, Bateman is exactly like everyone else in his social orbit.  None of his friends and associates do anything other than meet for drinks, berate servers, and do drugs in the bathroom.  Patrick fits in perfectly with these corporate backstabbers, despite literally stabbing people in the back.  The key to success, specifically in Bateman’s case, but seemingly across the board, is to be as indistinguishable as possible. 

The brilliant Business Card Duel scene says it all.  Bateman and his friends smugly lay down their business cards, preening about the font, color variant, and stock thickness, only to be crushed by the next person’s imperceptibly superior design.  Except, anyone who is not a soulless douchebag would realize that all the cards look exactly the same, just plain white (or off-white, or bone) cards.  Not even the positions are different.  Everyone is a vice president of the same company, and all equally useless. 

This exaggerated uniformity leads to a big theme in the movie, mistaken identity.  Everyone is so obsessed with themselves that they barely take the time to register who they are talking to.  Paul Allen (Jared Leto), the Alpha Schmuck of Bateman’s circle (his card even has a watermark), consistently thinks Bateman is another executive named Marcus.  Bateman never bothers to correct him because Allen would never bother to remember.  It comes in handy when he lures Allen back to his apartment to off him, leaving a fake trail pointing back to Marcus.  He covers his tracks with far more care than any of his other crimes, because he thinks that—opposed to his sex worker and homeless victims—people will care if an executive disappears. 

He needn’t have bothered.  In any other movie, the appearance of Kimball the P.I. (Willem Dafoe) would mean the noose was tightening around Bateman.  Not here.  Kimball’s calculating smile and suspicious eye gets under Bateman’s skin, but Bateman’s narcissistic colleagues have unintentionally confirmed his flimsy cover story with their faulty memories.  Marcus, Bateman’s intended fall guy, even told Kimball they had dinner together the night of the disappearance.  Alibi by indifference.  Rather than being Bateman’s dogged adversary, Kimball just shrugs and goes on his way.  As the film continues, Bateman is less concerned that he will be caught for his increasingly sloppy murders, and more that no one bothers to notice. 

Bateman understands one-sided yuppie banter so well that he tosses out casual confessions during cocktails, assured that no one is really listening.  When he announces, “I’m into murders and executions,” everyone at the club half hears it as “mergers and acquisitions.”   His girlfriend never notices him scribbling bloody corpses on the restaurant tablecloth as they have dinner.  The question “did you know I’m utterly insane?” bounces off Paul Allen’s head as if Bateman had asked him about his favorite kind of cat.  Only real people, the ones outside of the glossy, upwardly mobile lifestyle, ever pick up on what he really is.  Even the most human person in the movie, his secretary, Jean, is blinded by an extremely misguided crush, until discovering his doodle filled day planner opens her eyes.

Oh, by the way, if Patrick Bateman starts talking about pop music, get the fuck out.  His worst acts of violence are usually proceeded by a dissertation about the most soulless, commercial drivel imaginable.  He lectures a couple of prostitutes on the virtues of Phil Collins before brutalizing them (thankfully off-screen).  An ode to Whitney Houston’s The Greatest Love of All inspires even more vicious treatment of his houseguests.  Then there is his passionate, almost frenzied defense of Huey Lewis and the News as he prepares to slaughter Paul Allen.  Apparently, their early work was a little too New Wave for his taste, but they really came into their own on Sports.  Allen is more interested on why the floor in front of his seat is covered with taped down newspaper.  Bateman does have a point, as Hip to Be Square turns out to be the perfect musical accompaniment to chopping up your business rival with an ax. 

I’ve heard a few different interpretations of the ending [Spoilers].  After Bateman’s madness culminates with a random shooting binge that claims an old woman, several cops, and security guard who thinks he’s “Mr. Smith”, he leaves a detailed confession/cry for help on his lawyer’s answering machine.  The next day, the citywide manhunt that he expected never materializes.  When he returns to Allen’s condo, which he has been using as an abattoir, he finds the hanging bodies removed, the blood-soaked walls freshly painted, and a real estate agent acting like this is just another property.  His lawyer thinks the confession was joke, because he just had lunch with Paul Allen in London a few days ago.  So, was it all just an invention of a fractured imagination?

Hell no, it wasn’t his imagination.  Not only does the film’s tone point to Bateman’s murders being real, it backs up how he unintentionally gets away with them.  Would a real estate agent in this world really let a horrific crime scene stand in the way of selling a luxury Manhattan condo with a high-rise view of Central Park?  She would haul the bodies out over her shoulder if she had to.  And Kimball already demonstrated what unreliable witnesses self-centered social climbers make.  Bateman’s lawyer only thought he had lunch with Paul Allen, because all of these impeccably groomed bastards look, sound, and act alike.  He doesn’t even recognize his own client when he’s talking to him face to face.

In Ellis’ twisted satire, this is Bateman’s ultimate punishment.  He will never be caught.  He will never be stopped.  He will never be noticed.  His most extreme acts are now just as hollow and meaningless as every other part of his existence.  Nothing changes.  He is in yuppy hell.  Not exactly the most satisfying comeuppance for an unrepentant serial killer, but absolutely the most appropriate in this case.

Mary Harron does a brilliant job translating Ellis’s notoriously uncinematic and troublesome prose while keeping, and perhaps accentuating the jet-black satire.  She doesn’t attempt to judge or moralize Bateman’s actions, because that is obvious to any sane person watching.  Her depiction of Jean is more sympathetic and less complicit than Ellis’ version, but she keeps Bateman clearly in the driver’s seat, and doesn’t flinch from making it an unpleasant and uncomfortably hilarious ride.  Even more impressively, she gave Phil Collin’s Sussudio a justifiable reason to exist.  That is true directing magic.

C Chaka

London Falling: REIGN OF FIRE

The big news this week is the Brexit, the UK voting to leave the European Union.  No one knows exactly what that will mean for Great Britain, but everyone is freaking out.  Some are afraid it will mean financial ruin, others say the entire EU will start to collapse as more nations decide to leave.  It’s all doom and gloom speculation, but I think everyone can agree on the most likely outcome: England will be destroyed by dragons.  You only have to look as far as the 2002 eerily prescient drama REIGN OF FIRE to see the writing (and scorch marks) on the wall.  

The Capsule:

Young Quinn (not Christian Bale) is visiting his mum working at an Underground tunnel expansion site when the driller opens up an ancient cave full of hibernating dragons.  The dragons waste no time in destroying England and spreading throughout the world.  Twenty years later, Quinn (now Christian Bale) is leading a group of survivors holed up in a crumbling castle.  They scrounge for food, entertain the kids by reenacting the works of George Lucas, and keep their heads down.  Their meager existence is interrupted by the appearance of an American military team lead by Van Zan (a bald, bearded, badass Matthew McConaughey).  He and his crew of dragon slayers are hunting the only male dragon left in existence.  If they can cap him, the species comes to an end and humanity is saved.  Against Quinn’s advice, the Americans, plus a few of Quinn’s people, head toward the man-dragon’s nest in London.  Things do not go well for anyone who is not fireproof.  To save the rest of Quinn’s group, he and Van Zan must team up and stage a suicide mission straight into the mouth of the beast.  Not a metaphor, by the way.

As far as apocalypse stories go, this is a novel one.  Dragons are almost always confined to fantasy settings, or at least magical ones, so seeing dragons battling helicopters is a nice twist.  The movie does have a bit of a medieval feel to it, though.  Quinn’s bastion of civilization is an old castle, and without modern conveniences like electricity, running water, and not being melted by dragon fire, the survivors live a pretty primitive lifestyle.  Leading this crew is a rough job for Quinn.  It’s hard to make sure everyone has enough to eat when every passing dragon sees the guy working in the garden as a grilled chicken salad.  He tries to keep everyone in line, healthy, and working together.  Luckily, he has a strong right hand man in Creedy, who I completely forgot was played by Gerald Butler, a few years before his break-out role in 300.  

Butler wasn’t the only face I recognized on my latest re-watch.  In the scene where Quinn and Creedy are reenacting the “I am your father” scene from EMPIRE STRIKES BACK, in costume and with props like it was Shakespeare, the camera pans over the audience of spellbound kids.

Holy shit, it’s Lil’ Joffrey!  At first I thought I was just reading into it, but later he gets this regal shot…

IMDB confirms that, yes, it’s a tiny Jack Gleeson, 9 years away from his role as the terrible boy-king in Game of Thrones.  This kid cannot get enough dragons.  Whatever you do, Quinn, make sure that little fucker does not become the leader of your group.  He does not make good decisions.

Fellow GOT cast member Alexander Siddig is also in this as the radio operator/early warning falconer Ajay.  It's like a reunion.  Retroactively.

Quinn’s style of leadership is through reason, not force.  He opts to avoid conflict with the scaly uglies at all cost.  Even the kids’ prayers are customized to reflect this.  It boils down to watch the skies and hide at the first sign of trouble.  This philosophy is put to the test with the arrival of Matthew McConaughey’s American militia.  It’s a ridiculously stereotypical match-up between British and US, right down to the names.  Denton Van Zan vs. Quinn Abercrombie.  It might as well have been Joe Eagle and Reginald Arthur Tallyho.  The Americans are rough and ready; looking for trouble.  Van Zan comes rolling into the castle on a tank, straddling a huge machine gun.  It is not a subtle image.  He immediately riles up the camp, impressing everyone with his tales of killing dragons rather than hiding from them.  He and his (Swedish) US Cavalry helicopter pilot, Alex (Izabella Scorupco), have this crazy tactic of skydiving at flying dragons and netting them in the air.  He claims it works, though the one time we get to see it in action he looses three men and nearly gets everyone else killed.  Maybe it was an off day.  Interestingly, even though he has all these advanced weapons, he takes out the dragon with a harpoon gun.  He even carries around a giant axe.  The high tech toys just get in the way.  I’m surprised he didn’t try to wrestle the dragon. 

The dragons are impressive and threatening and all, but the real show stopper is the inevitable throw down between two super intense mega-actors like Bale and McConaughey.  Quinn valiantly tries to hold on to reason while dealing with the grim, arrogant, occasionally megalomaniacal Van Zan.  He finally snaps when Van Zan conscripts some of the camp members to join his hunt for the male dragon.  The physical fight is quick and brutal, but it’s the screaming and posturing that makes it so entertaining.  Bale and McConaughey are like rival baboons on angel dust.  Their shouting quickly devolves beyond intelligible words.  I was expecting McConaughey’s skull to pop right out of his skin in furious rage.  Those guys were just shy of human nuclear detonation.  If a dragon had come up at that point, it would have quietly backed away while avoiding eye contact, suddenly remembering it had some shit to do across town.  

That scene aside, the dragons do make formidable adversaries.  They are surprisingly well designed, especially for 2002, when CGI could still be a bit wonky.  They don’t have the detail of a fancy Game of Thrones dragon, but I was never distracted or pulled out of the moment by their appearance.  They have a (very) loosely scientific anatomy, fitting with their non-magic origins.  There are visible ducts in their mouths for spitting the flammable liquid that becomes their fire breath.  I couldn’t tell what ignites it, since young Quinn got a face full of the stuff without becoming a bonfire, but I liked the way it would flare up as it dripped from a dragon’s mouth onto the floor.  It’s plausible that enough of these things could wipe out most life on Earth, especially since the military powers seem to have haphazardly and ineffectively attacked them with nukes.  Quinn’s narration implies that it was really the dragons that caused all the great extinction events in the world’s history.  After they roasted the dinosaurs, they hunkered down in caves and waited for the Earth to replenish itself.

The science does get a bit dodgy, aside from the fact that they are, you know, dragons.  The movie claims that they eat ash, even though we only ever see them chowing down on people or each other.   They are apparently immortal, because the one young Quinn bumped into in the cave was fully grown.  They aren’t immune to fire, since they can be burnt or blown up, but they don’t have a problem emitting a few thousand degrees of flame from their mouths.  The most ridiculous bit is their reproductive cycle.  Van Zan claims that, like fish, the female dragons lay tons of eggs and the male flies over and fertilizes them (thankfully not shown).   According to Van Zan, there is only one male dragon (he must have gotten a hold of their census records).  If this is true, it is a serious evolutionary design flaw for a seemingly immortal species.  One accident and boom, there goes your species.  On the other hand, it makes that one guy very popular.  Well as it happens, ladies, I am the last man-dragon on Earth.  

Like all the best movies, it kind of apes the ending of JAWS.  [SPOILERtown] After losing Van Zan’s army and a good chunk of Quinn’s castle folk to the man-dragon, Quinn, Van Zan, and Alex head back to London for one last, desperate crack at the beast in the ruins of London.  Luckily for them, the starving stud has eaten all the other dragons.  Now that I think about it, it was probably getting ready to hibernate again for a few million years.  If the dragon slayer crew had just waited a few days and avoided London, everything would have been fine.  Of course, waiting for it to go to sleep isn’t exactly a satisfying ending, so I’m happy they went with the final showdown.  Like Hooper, Alex is used as bait and makes a white knuckle escape.  Van Zan gets an awesome, Quint-style death.  When he misses his shot with an explosive crossbow bolt, he takes out his axe and leaps off the building, in defiance, at the dragon.  In slow motion, of course.  The dragon swallows him in one bite.  Quinn gets a nice “Smile, you son of a bitch” moment.  It’s slightly understated, but I liked it.

Director Rob Bowman is mainly known for TV work (a familiar refrain on movies I write about), including quite a lot of X-Files.  It seems to be his preferred medium, since he only did one theatrical feature before this (THE X-FILES: THE MOVIE) and one after (ELECTRA).  That’s a solid two out of three record.  He brings just the right tone to this one.  It’s an absurd concept that everyone plays straight.  Bale and McConaughey are good enough actors to be intense without becoming campy.  There is just enough character humor (especially from Gerald Butler) to keep it from getting too grim.  And while they did not specifically use the word “Brexit” in the film, this movie is a pretty clear indicator of the way things are now going.  Nice one, England.  Now if you will excuse me, I need to grab an asbestos suit and a giant axe and get ready for the dracopocalypse. 

C Chaka