it's just one of those films unlike any other .. the year, 1987, manhattan island, new york, there walks a demon in a yuppie's skin, replete with 'valentino couture' suits, to blend in on wall street, 'jean paul gaultier' overnight bags for hiding bodies and 'oliver peoples' glasses so the detective mistakes you for the next guy .. Patrick Bateman speaks as if he's reading the cool 'quote' of the day in every sentence, choosing from a billboard of quotes in his head, everything out of his mouth is some current phrase and colloquialism of only the coolest, hippest regard .. it's this farce within which the 'american psycho' can communicate with 'real' people .. his performance is almost self-aware in a way, not quite breaking the fourth wall, but i feel in on the joke .. it's when Bale starts speaking about music while listening to it, that some of the most memorable parts of the movie derive, the balance between music, narration, and death, perfectly balanced .. Bateman gives a second-by-second review of the song or album, with lush, spot on descriptions rambling about production values and artistic idiosyncrasies .. Bateman's always under cover, speaking of fashion and manners and other people's itinerary's like he's a goddamn library of all things 80s, and you know what? it works. it works so well that this is one of the most haunting portraits of america and her people because by watching this film, you gaze upon the american dream, and wonder of the cost, because maybe this really isn't as metaphorical as it seems, because something feels quite immediate about the reflection of an america not too far off ..