A review by alexandr1ne
American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis
I'm abstaining from a star rating on this one. Not something I do often - or ever, before now - but in this case I just don't think a number is capable of encapsulating the many, many thoughts I have about American Psycho.
Pages 1 to approximately 120 were insufferably boring. I rejoiced when we started getting some action, purely for the reprieve it provided from Patrick Batemen's internal monologue. P120 to about 250 struck a nice balance between mind-numbing (which I mean in a positive way; occupying Patrick Bateman's head is intentionally exhausting) and pages 250 onward were gruelling in a way I can't fault anyone for finding too much (unlike author Bret Easton Ellis, who remarked that while he "wasn't a misogynist when [he] wrote the book[...] the unearned feminist hysteria briefly turned [him] into one"). Obviously, this decline in the final third is meant to reflect Patrick Bateman's own decline, but that didn't make it any less nauseating.
Which is precisely why I'm refraining from quantifying my feelings on this novel with a rating. So much of what it attempts and achieves as a satire is incredibly clever, but personally, I assign stars based on enjoyment, because I read for enjoyment, for pleasure, and I can't honestly say (for myself personally) that there was any to be had here. Reading this book felt like falling through an NSFL internet gore rabbit hole, except it's 1991 and everyone keeps talking about Donald Trump.
I can absolutely appreciate what American Psycho does. I can. As a black comedy, as satire, as social commentary, I can, and do, see its merit. Bateman (and by extension, I suppose, Ellis's) encyclopedic knowledge of designer brands, clothing and cologne, the difference between this and that restaurant, the merits of each establishment for a lunch date versus a dinner date versus a business meeting, the substitution of one colleague's name for another in an endless carousel of tanned white businessmen, each vying for this or that account, and, ultimately, the insistence - through the sheer amount of real estate that each of these subjects holds in his tanned, moussed, bespectacled head - that this inane, shallow drivel matters.
But I can't pretend that I enjoyed it, or that I think it's a worthwhile book. As far as the 'moral' - Bret Easton Ellis himself identifies as a moralist, whatever that means - I was right there with him, hating the all-American businessman that Patrick Bateman represents, disbelieving in the American dream that his existence so thoroughly torpedoes, laughing and cringing at the sheer absurdity of it all.
At a certain point, though (if you were to ask me, past p250) the narrative ceased to be productive, and proceeded instead to bludgeon me over the head with a cleverness that had worn out its welcome a long time ago, and a revelry in violence the likes of which I have truly never experienced before, and which, past its value as juxtaposition and shock, began actively detracting from the experience.
Pages 1 to approximately 120 were insufferably boring. I rejoiced when we started getting some action, purely for the reprieve it provided from Patrick Batemen's internal monologue. P120 to about 250 struck a nice balance between mind-numbing (which I mean in a positive way; occupying Patrick Bateman's head is intentionally exhausting) and pages 250 onward were gruelling in a way I can't fault anyone for finding too much (unlike author Bret Easton Ellis, who remarked that while he "wasn't a misogynist when [he] wrote the book[...] the unearned feminist hysteria briefly turned [him] into one"). Obviously, this decline in the final third is meant to reflect Patrick Bateman's own decline, but that didn't make it any less nauseating.
Which is precisely why I'm refraining from quantifying my feelings on this novel with a rating. So much of what it attempts and achieves as a satire is incredibly clever, but personally, I assign stars based on enjoyment, because I read for enjoyment, for pleasure, and I can't honestly say (for myself personally) that there was any to be had here. Reading this book felt like falling through an NSFL internet gore rabbit hole, except it's 1991 and everyone keeps talking about Donald Trump.
I can absolutely appreciate what American Psycho does. I can. As a black comedy, as satire, as social commentary, I can, and do, see its merit. Bateman (and by extension, I suppose, Ellis's) encyclopedic knowledge of designer brands, clothing and cologne, the difference between this and that restaurant, the merits of each establishment for a lunch date versus a dinner date versus a business meeting, the substitution of one colleague's name for another in an endless carousel of tanned white businessmen, each vying for this or that account, and, ultimately, the insistence - through the sheer amount of real estate that each of these subjects holds in his tanned, moussed, bespectacled head - that this inane, shallow drivel matters.
But I can't pretend that I enjoyed it, or that I think it's a worthwhile book. As far as the 'moral' - Bret Easton Ellis himself identifies as a moralist, whatever that means - I was right there with him, hating the all-American businessman that Patrick Bateman represents, disbelieving in the American dream that his existence so thoroughly torpedoes, laughing and cringing at the sheer absurdity of it all.
At a certain point, though (if you were to ask me, past p250) the narrative ceased to be productive, and proceeded instead to bludgeon me over the head with a cleverness that had worn out its welcome a long time ago, and a revelry in violence the likes of which I have truly never experienced before, and which, past its value as juxtaposition and shock, began actively detracting from the experience.