AMERICAN PSYCHO:

15 YEARS LATER

 

By

ADAM GROVES

 

  

      If you were a reader back in 1991, as I was, then you surely recall, as I do, the furor that accompanied the publication of AMERICAN PSYCHO.  A profoundly graphic, harrowing account of affluence and psychosis, it was bounced by its original publisher Simon & Schuster after outraged feminist groups leaked many of the book’s most gruesome passages.  This was despite the prestige of its author Bret Easton Ellis, who became a literary darling after publishing the eighties mainstay LESS THAN ZERO. 

 

AMERICAN PSYCHO, Ellis’s third novel, ended up debuting as a Vintage trade paperback, to an astonishing amount of controversy.  The only comparable example I know of in the publishing world was the appearance of THE SATANIC VERSES a couple years earlier, which incited a media frenzy after the life of its author Salman Rushdie was threatened by Muslim extremists.  In that instance critics rushed to Rushdie’s defense, while their reaction to AMERICAN PSYCHO was diametrically opposite (as exemplified by a venomous review entitled “Snuff This Book!”). 

 

The novel also inspired a number of withering critiques from established horror writers, who in the words of author Poppy Z. Brite (one of the book’s few defenders) viewed Ellis’ foray into upscale splatter as “upstart yuppie scum invading ‘their’ territory”.  The genre scribes Ramsey Campbell and James Kisner both savaged AMERICAN PSYCHO in print--predictably, much of their criticism centered on Ellis’s reported $300,000 advance, with Kisner pointedly asking “does that mean you have to pander to mankind’s basest feelings to make any real money in this business?”  Stephen King added his voice to the fray, publicly dubbing Rex Miller’s SLOB “twice the book”. 

 

     Fifteen years later the furor has obviously died down.  Recent editions of AMERICAN PSYCHO contain critical blurbs from the likes of Gore Vidal and Katherine Dunn (whereas back in ’91 it was difficult finding anyone willing to say anything remotely positive about it) and a watered-down film version was released in 2000 to critical raves.  Even the horror community appears to have made peace with it, judging by the book’s inclusion in the 2005 anthology HORROR: ANOTHER 100 BEST BOOKS. 

 

     The irony is that AMERICAN PSYCHO remains every bit as relevant and shocking now, if not more so, than it was back in 1991.  I read it when it first hit the scene, as a teenager, and my reaction was much the same upon rereading it as a grown up.  Despite the plethora of “topical” references--to things like Spuds Mackenzie, LES MISERABLES, Huey Lewis and the News, VHS videos and Evian water--Ellis’s main targets are racism, hypocrisy, casual violence and rampant materialism, all very much with us in 2006.  Perhaps this is why the book remains readily available today, even as Ellis’s five or six other novels have largely vanished from the public eye, if not from print altogether. 

 

     AMERICAN PSYCHO, for those who don’t know, is the first person account of Patrick Bateman, a twenty-six-year-old yuppie living in Manhattan during the late 1980s, a world Ellis, a longtime NYC resident, knows inside and out.  Employment-wise Bateman, in his creator’s own words, makes “enormous amounts of money for doing basically nothing.”  As a narrator Bateman is a bit--okay, very--exasperating; he tends to drone on and on about his grooming habits, choice of attire, favored restaurants and what his equally materialistic companions are wearing.  He’s quite fastidious in the latter aspect: nearly every character in the book is introduced via an exhaustive appraisal of who designed their every item of clothing and footwear, followed by equally exhaustive descriptions of the boring conversations they have, making for long stretches of, essentially, nothing.

 

     Such, however, is the author’s aim--this is, as Ellis has frankly admitted, “a very annoying book.”  That tendency carries over into minutely described passages of sex and mutilation, in which Bateman, in much the same way he describes his daytime lifestyle, regales his penchant for cold-blooded murder.  His favored victims are bums (usually of the African-American persuasion) and women he’s just screwed (or had bang other women while he watched), whom he dispatches via knife, nail gun, chainsaw and a rat that, in the book’s most notorious passage, Bateman releases into a victim’s vagina.  Even though they don’t occur until over a hundred pages in, the nasty bits are some of the most intense I’ve encountered in any book, rivaling those of down-and-dirty authors like Sean Hutson and Edward Lee.  That’s in addition to sex scenes that wouldn’t feel out of place in the most fervid pornography. 

 

In spite of such excesses, though, or perhaps because of them, Ellis never loses his satiric edge.  After many of the more graphic passages Bateman offers pithy essays on his favorite pop artists, which if you read closely contain a number of revealing insights into the character’s psyche--particularly telling is his dissertation on Huey Lewis and the News, in which Bateman touts “the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends.”

 

     The joke, of course, is that Bateman, being the emotionless serial killer he is, fits in perfectly with America’s elite, whose ingrained racism and callousness are traits shared by most mass murderers.  The book’s critics have argued, not without some justification, that Ellis belabors the point with his insanely drawn-out descriptions and bloated 399 page length.  Again, though, it was Ellis’s stated intention to rub our noses in Bateman’s excesses. 

 

     The film version by director Mary Harron (David Cronenberg and Oliver Stone were both at various times slated to direct) is overtly satirical and one-dimensional, toning down the sex and violence considerably.  This was apparently enough for squeamish critics, who were far nicer to the movie than they were the book.  In my view, however, Harron’s approach tarnishes the power of the novel, which is a far more insightful, multi-faceted work than it’s generally given credit for.  I myself, having read AMERICAN PSYCHO twice, find it alternately obnoxious, repellant, boring, offensive...and undeniably provocative.  In spite of its annoyances, it’s a compelling account whose insights have not dimmed with age.

 

     Consider: in modern America the divide between the haves and have-nots has widened substantially, while nearly every decision our current rulers make seems designed to benefit the wealthy and powerful.  Patrick Bateman would definitely be proud.  He’d also be pleased, I’m sure, to see that Donald Trump, who’s referenced throughout AMERICAN PSYCHO, not only remains in the news but is now a network TV star. 

 

     In one particularly revealing passage of AMERICAN PSYCHO, Bateman, in an introspective mood, observes “there wasn’t a clear, identifiable emotion within me, except for greed and, possibly, total disgust.  I had all the characteristics of a human being--flesh, blood, skin, hair--but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that the normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure.”  Patrick Bateman may be a creature of the eighties, but I believe he’d thrive in today’s landscape--indeed, he’d probably be elected president. 

 

 

 

-- 8/6/06