American Psycho

Director Mary Harron (I Shot Andy Warhol) seems to press all the right buttons for this film based on Easton Ellis's fabulous but genuinely horrifying book.

Briton Christian Bale is perfectly cast as Patrick Bateman, the titular anti-hero, a 1980s Wall Street yuppie whose self-obsession rings painfully true. He's exquistely dressed and buffed to perfection, his appearance representing his values. Well, superficially. When he dons an apron and selects a large kitchen knife his inner identity comes to the fore.

Where the novel was exquisitely sick, the film version necessarily skips over Bateman's more creative ways of dispatching his victims, and his fantasies. Arguably, this glosses over Ellis' finer points. Harron, who also co-scripted with Guinevere Turner, instead incorporates a fine element of slapstick in lieu of Ellis' more literal stomanch-churning descriptions (so no face-drilling; instead we're treated to the sight of Bale chasing a victim with a chainsaw). Plus, there's the running joke of Bateman admitting to his proclivities in conversation - but as everyone is equally self obsessed, they don't listen and no one hears ("I'm into murders and executions" he declares of his professional concerns).

A glimpse of the book's more elaborate satire also shines, though. Bateman's lecture on the superiority of Genesis with Phil Collins as opposed to Peter Gabriel is enough to make anyone scream in absolute terror.