The Cutprice Guignol

So, with Christine finally behind me, I wanted to turn my attention to another horror novel. Something seminal, in all senses of the word. Something big and brash and bold that’s had an impact on both me and the genre that little else has, even decades after its release. Something contentious and weird and challenging and brilliant and maybe a little bit too much all at the same time.

Which brings me, of course, to Brett Easton Ellis’ American Psycho.

I read this book for the first time when I was seventeen, and, to this day, I don’t think I’ve had a reading experience quite like it. I was just getting in to horror in a big way when I first picked it up, and that title was just too good to leave on the shelf. I vividly remember sitting in a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, waiting for my ride to arrive, opening it for the first time – and devouring it in nigh-on one sitting, my jaw literally hanging open as I burned through the chapters. I’d been reading horror, sure, but that was just the spooky stuff – the scary stuff, not the downright fucking horrid stuff. I had truly never come across anything quite like American Psycho before, the level of violence, the social satire wrapped up in this slasher-y bunting, the strange, bleak sense of humour that runs through the whole thing. It was my first dalliance with literary extreme horror, and, no matter how much grotesque nastiness I’ve read since, nothing hits quite like you’re first time, right?

I’m not the only one who felt that way about the book. Easton Ellis published American Psycho in 1991, and it was instantly the source of much controversy – from an aborted initial publication that eventually led to shrink-wrapped over-eighteen-only sales in New Zealand to landing in the top one hundred most banned books in the USA, the novel has been a constant source of fascination and consternation alike in the three and a half decades since it came out. And, in the midst of all of that, it has remained, somehow, one of the most culturally relevant pieces of 90s culture to survive even into the 2020s (in no small part to the excellent film adaptation by Mary Harron). Patrick Bateman, its leading man, has had a resurgence as a kind of yuppie-era icon through memes and social media, and the extreme violence of the book has come under new scrutiny from readers, earning criticism for its depiction of violence against women in particular.

All of this to say: American Psycho is one of the biggest horror novels ever released. And I really, really want to take another look at it – it’s been the better part of fifteen years since I read it for the first time, and my opinion on literature has evolved during that period enough that I’m curious to see how I enjoy it, and just how it stands up. Full disclosure: I am not a fan of Easton Ellis’ work outside of this book, and, inf act, I find most of the rest of his back catalogue borderline insufferable (see also: The Shards). I’m going to try and put that aside as I jump into this particular story, but hey, if you can handle someone shoving a rat up a vagina, you can handle me complaining a bit, right?

And, with that, let’s jump in to American Psycho – which opens with a few quotes, I think most notably this one, from Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground:

“Both the author of these Notes and the Notes themselves are, of course, fictional. Nevertheless, such persons as the composer of these Notes not only exist in our society, but indeed must exist, considering the circumstances under which our society has generally been formed.”

If there’s a mission statement for American Psycho, it’s this – deliberately provocative, given what’s to come, but a pointed gesture in the direction of the fact that Ellis sees some part of this story and the characters in it as reflective of real life. American Psycho might be taking things to extremes, but the seed of it, to some degree, thrives in the culture that Ellis wrote this book within.

We start out on April Fools, and with this banger of a run-on sentence:

“ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE is scrawled in blood red lettering on the side of the Chemical Bank near the corner of Eleventh and First and is in print large enough to be seen from the backseat of the cab as it lurches forward in the traffic leaving Wall Street and just as Timothy Price notices the words a bus pulls up, the advertisement for Les Misérables on its side blocking his view, but Price who is with Pierce & Pierce and twenty-six doesn’t seem to care because he tells the driver he will give him five dollars to turn up the radio, “Be My Baby” on WYNN, and the driver, black, not American, does so.”

I’m not blowing anyone’s mind when I say that the opening of a book is the ultimate tone-setter, but the tone Ellis sets up straight off the bat is brilliantly articulated here. The lack of grammar in the huge run-on sentence give it an edge of the frantic, like a single detail missed will be territory ceded; the name-dropping of brands, bands, and employers touches gives that superficial name-check vibe that the book and film would become so famous for. And, of course, what leads us in is a famous declaration of dread and doom to come, written in blood-red, to saturate everything that comes afterwards.

Patrick is in the car with Price, who has plenty to say about his status:

“I’m resourceful,” Price is saying. “I’m creative, I’m young, unscrupulous, highly motivated, highly skilled. In essence what
I’m saying is that society cannot aʃord to lose me. I’m an asset.”

Not only is this how I’ve opened every successful first date I’ve ever had, but it’s an introduction to the kind of world Bateman lives in – what it values, what it seeks in the people who succeed in it, and the cold, calculated arrogance that permeates so much of the rest of the book. Price is on a rant about the state of the world in general and New York in particular – “more Nazis, gridlock,
gridlock, baby-sellers, black-market babies, AIDS babies, baby junkies, building collapses on baby, maniac baby, gridlock, bridge
collapses” – while Bateman takes in the world outside the window. Interestingly, he uses the phrase panning to in his internal monologue a couple of times, the language of movie-making that further separates him from the reality around him, like pigeons scrapping over food and homeless people begging for money or resources.

Bateman and Price step out of the cab to attend a party where Price’s girlfriend Meredith and Bateman’s, Evelyn, will be in attendance. Now, one of the criticisms I’ve seen thrown at this book most consistently is its misogyny – which, without a doubt, the book contains – right from the off, Price is critical and dismissive of his girlfriend, who has, according to him, “all the personality of a goddamn game-show host”, and Bate’s internal monologue reduces a woman emerging from a building beside them to “high heels, great ass”. When Bateman eventually makes it to his girlfriend, who is arranging sushi in the shape of his initials in her apartment’s kitchen, he surveys her with the same analytical coldness that he did the buildings on the street he just passed –

“Evelyn stands by a blond wood counter wearing a Krizia cream silk blouse, a Krizia rust tweed skirt and the same pair of silk satin d’Orsay pumps Courtney has on. Her long blond hair is pinned back into a rather severe-looking bun and she acknowledges me without looking up from the oval Wilton stainless-steel platter on which she has artfully arranged the sushi.”

And this, I think, is a more cogent example of the way Bateman views women than simple misogyny. Like everything else in his life, women are a status symbol – his desire for them goes little further than what the represent to him, even the “great ass” of the woman he saw outside not actually stirring any sexual desire but rather a tick-box of the kind of woman he wants to be seen possessing. Later in the chapter, when Evelyn vanishes with another male guest for twenty minutes and returns looking flushed, Bateman doesn’t even register an emotional reaction to it. He is a misogynistic character, don’t get me wrong, and the sexualized violence he commits against women is proof of that – but, crucially, I don’t find Ellis’ writing misogynistic, rather critical of this cold, calculated, and materialistic approach to desire and connection that Bateman takes to the women in his life.

Patrick introduces himself to other guests at the party, an artist and his girlfriend –

““Hi. Pat Bateman,” I say, offering my hand, noticing my reflection in a mirror hung on the wall—and smiling at how good
I look.”

The only real emotional reaction we see Bateman having to anyone’s presence is his own – even when he expresses some kind of outward desire, his internal monologue remains cold, but he can’t resist admiring himself. Later, as the conversation turns to politics, he gives a grand monologue about the state of the world and the pressing social and political issues, ending with this –

“We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in movies, in popular music, everywhere. Most importantly we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people.”

Which, you know, is pretty much an anti-mission statement for the rest of the book. Anyway, the artists and other guests soon depart for various engagements, leaving Price, Evelyn, and Bateman at her apartment for a bit of gossip about their friend group, who they’re dating, who they’re in love with, and who ordered a cappucino instead of a carpaccio. I love Ellis’ dialogue in these scenes, the absurdity of these emphatic back-and-forths that are so impossibly vapid but also reveal so much about the characters at hand. And one character in particular, as a matter of fact, cuts through with a quite shocking bit of honesty:

““Patrick is not a cynic, Timothy. He’s the boy next door, aren’t you honey?”
“No I’m not,” I whisper to myself. “I’m a fucking evil psychopath.””

Throwing this in to the middle of the scene is a deliberate stumbling block, one that’s completely ignored by the other characters but a warning of what’s to come for us. Price and Evelyn turn to taking chunks out of each other with the sharp edges of their respective insecurities –

““That’s like saying you’re a poet.” Timothy is drunk and I’m beginning to wonder when he will vacate the premises.
“Well,” Evelyn begins, “I’ve been known to—”
“You’re a fucking word processor!” Tim blurts out. He walks over to Evelyn and bows next to her, checking out his reflection
in the mirror.
“Have you been gaining weight, Tim?” Evelyn asks thoughtfully. She studies Tim’s head in the mirror and says, “Your
face looks … rounder.”
Timothy, in retaliation, smells Evelyn’s neck and says, “What is that fascinating … odor?”
“Obsession.” Evelyn smiles flirtatiously, gently pushing Timothy away. “It’s Obsession. Patrick, get your friend away from
me.”
“No, no, wait,” Timothy says, sniɽng loudly. “It’s not Obsession. It’s … it’s …” and then, with a face twisted in mock
horror, “It’s … oh my god, it’s Q.T. Instatan!”
Evelyn pauses and considers her options. She inspects Price’s head one more time. “Are you losing your hair?”
“Evelyn,” Tim says. “Don’t change the subject but …” And then, genuinely worried, “Now that you mention it … too much
gel?” Concerned, he runs a hand over it.”

This scene is such a great example of the weapons these people wield against each other – their looks, their status, their access to brand names – and it serves as flirtation between Price and Evelyn, as things escalate while Patrick watches.

“I lie on the bed watching the two of them. Timothy is in her lap trying to push his head under the Ralph Lauren robe. Evelyn’s
head is thrown back with pleasure and she is trying to push him away, but playfully, and hitting him only lightly on his back with
her Jan Hové brush. I am fairly sure that Timothy and Evelyn are having an affair.”

Again, he’s seemingly completely unbothered by the infidelity taking place right in front of him – once Price finally leaves, he tries to initiate sex while she watches television:

“I pull my Armani shirt up and place her hand on my torso, wanting her to feel how rock-hard, how halved my stomach
is, and I flex the muscles, grateful it’s light in the room so she can see how bronzed and defined my abdomen has become.”

I know we’re all thinking of the exact same scene from the movie reading this passage. It’s just a perfect encapsulation of the self-directed sexuality that Patrick embodies, that obsession with perfecting his form that’s more meant to prove his worth, power, and status than it is meant to arouse or excite his partner.

However, his attempts to seduce Evelyn go virtually unnoticed, and he returns home where he masturbates to finish up this chapter. And, of course, he climaxes to the thought of “a near-naked model in a halter top I saw today in a Calvin Klein
advertisement” – a perfect encapsulation of the intersection between sex and materialism that’s defined the opening of the book so far.

And that brings us to the end of the first part of this series! I’m really looking forward to diving into this book with you, and I’d love to hear your opinions on it – have you read it? What do you think of the criticisms levied against Ellis and the novel? Where does it stand in the pantheon of extreme horror? Let me know in the comments below! If you’d like to read more, you can check out my other book deep-dives on Carrie, Christine, and Fifty Shades of Grey, or take a gander at my own stories here.

(header image via Flickering Myth)