American Psycho (2000)

What could otherwise have been a terrible movie is made into a terrific one by director Mary Herron. A slasher film that examines misogyny as opposed to indulging in it, the women here are never sex-objects but rather appear as ordinary human-beings with actual fears and desires. The real sex-object of the film is the killer, Christian Bale, (Bruce Wayne himself) and the camera follows him around his apartment like a hungry wolf while he waxes poetic about his morning routine and facial products before confessing that he is an empty figment. This indictment of the rich white American male as serial killer is as vicious as can be and it may be hard for any white American male (me) to not feel squeamish about this searing assessment of the culture. The movie has only become more cutting with age; it is as subtle and intelligent as it is grotesque and bloody, a high point in the horror genre in the long decline of cinema. The impervious cool of Chloë Sevigny is indexed here when she breaks the forth wall and looks us in the eyes with an obliterating gaze. Trump is name dropped twice as a figure of raw fascination amongst the finance-bros proving this film’s oracular judgment. A retelling of Crime and Punishment—less the punishment.