There is a reason people still quote Patrick Bateman’s skincare routine two decades after the film came out. The character is funny and terrifying in the same breath, which is a hard mix to pull off. Mary Harron’s 2000 adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s novel treats Bateman, played with almost gymnastic precision by Christian Bale, as a man who has turned his whole life into a show.
The twist is that the show is for people who barely notice him. That is where the horror lives. He can sculpt his body, learn the tasting notes of every fashionable restaurant in 1980s Manhattan, and master the tone of a powerful young banker, yet he remains interchangeable with every other slick Wall Street guy in a pinstripe suit.
Why Patrick Bateman Feels so Familiar
The story is set in the late 1980s, a time that prized money, effortlessness and perfect surfaces. Bateman is rich, young, well dressed and permanently anxious. He wants reservations at Dorsia, he wants the right business card, he wants everyone to know that his apartment has the right furniture.
The men around him want the same things, which means none of them can tell each other apart. The mix ups in the film are not throwaway gags. They are proof that, in this world, individuality does not matter as much as wearing the correct uniform. That is why Bateman’s anger over Paul Allen’s slightly better card feels volcanic. It is not about the card. It is about being invisible.
Violence and the Maybe-Fantasy Problem
One of the most debated parts of American Psycho is whether Bateman really kills anyone. The film plants evidence on both sides. He confesses to his lawyer, who laughs it off. He goes back to Paul Allen’s (Jared Leto) apartment and finds it spotless and on the market. People tell him they have seen Allen alive. At the same time the movie shows us full scenes of murder, pursuit and panic. Viewers are forced to sit between two uncomfortable ideas.
Either he actually committed vile acts and the world looked away because a rich white banker could not possibly be a monster. Or he imagined the acts and his mind produced horrors to match the pressure he felt to be impressive. Both versions make the culture look bad. Both versions keep the focus on performance, because in each case the important thing is not the killing, it is the way reality rearranges itself to protect the image of success.
Satire that People Keep Misunderstanding
It is fascinating that the film was always meant as a satire of men like Bateman, yet parts of online culture now admire him, sometimes unironically, for his discipline and style. Harron herself has been puzzled by this revival, especially among finance types who resemble his friend group.
She made a film that laughed at status obsession, at the homoerotic competitiveness of the office, at the way money can erase morality. Some viewers saw the business card scene and thought it was aspirational. That gap between intention and reception is more proof that American Psycho was onto something. If a character this empty can be read as a role model, then the culture is even more surface driven than the movie suggested.
Why it Still Hits
Stories about monsters age well when the monster looks like an ordinary person. Bateman is not a supernatural figure in a mask. He is a man who wants to be admired, who copies celebrities, who measures himself against peers, who looks for meaning in brands.
That is why the story keeps getting revived, from comics to plans for new screen versions, and why the casting of new actors sparks interest. The character is a mirror for every era that thinks style can fix the soul. As long as people keep chasing a curated life, Patrick Bateman will feel current.
American Psycho ends with that cold realization that confession has done nothing. Bateman cannot escape the loop of dinners, trend reports and numb acquaintances. He thought he was performing for an audience that would either applaud or arrest him. Instead the audience barely looked up. That is the horror of being seen in this world. You can show people your worst self and they can shrug because the show never mattered to them in the first place.
Rachel Sikkema is a New Zealand-based writer and creative entrepreneur who explores the intersection of film, culture, and modern relationships. Through her articles, she examines how stories shape the way we connect, love and see ourselves. When she’s not writing about film and television, she’s watching Dexter and The White Lotus for the third time.