ROLLIN' AND TUMBLIN'.

So I watched this documentary on Bret Easton Ellis, This is Not an Exit. and featured in the film were exerts both read as voice overs and re-enacted with a less than intriguing cast of unknowns (save Rachel Weisz as Lauren Hynde). On the whole the film itself was less than intriguing and I didn't even finish it. Sorry Bret, but it sucked, and I don't think you were really yourself when you did it. And were you really driving a Jeep Grand Cherokee? Anyway, I digress...

The gentleman that portrayed Patrick Bateman in these boring horrific read-throughs goes by the name of Dechen Thurman. That's right. Uma's brother. None other. Anyway, check out that link, or rather Google Image him to get the full effect of what I'm talking about (apparently he's also an avid yogi, second from the bottom). Now that you've got an idea, compare that to the delicious and marvelously talented Christian Bale who fulfilled the role perfectly in the 2000 film adaptation. Different, right? Incomparable, even. But then Lars said something (it's that damn masters ... bastard.) and it got me thinking - what if Patrick's appearance and machismo are just in his head like the murders? What if everything that he goes through is just part of one big tumor affecting his total outlook on life? The murders, which I guess is also unclear - but so is the whole gorram book - didn't actually happen, he just imagined them, so why isn't it possible that our envisioning of Bateman as he describes himself: amazingly good looking, incredibly fit, "a hardbody", and basically a very buff Christian Bale, could also in itself be an illusion? A hoax? A TOTAL MINDFUCK?

But then I told all of this to Chris and we decided that the murders, as only occurring in Bateman's very disturbed mind, is unclear. We don't know that he wasn't just able to cover it all up since no one really knows anyone anymore. Especially in very hip and expensive Manhattan circa 1989.

My whole point in this is that you think you know something. Not that American Psycho is easily tackled and humped into submission, rather as you're humping it kind of just stares blankly at you and kindly asks if you're finished. You think you have the Mouse Trap all hung together by it's rubber band, then someone lets the dog in and it tramples the fucking game board and you lose half the pieces. Moral of the story, don't play Mouse Trap on the floor. In other words, my attempt to further understand the nuances of Bret Easton Ellis has lead to my clinging for dear life to any shred of reality that I can comprehend in either the novel or the film. Then I read this and I have even less of an idea of what the hell is going on in either of them. The only thing I know for sure is that I still want to have sex with Christian Bale, and I think I need a drink.

For good measure, here's something that usually keeps my mind off of the fuckedupness of the flick, Christian's face.