American Psycho

'American Psycho' seems just like that kind of bad rehash of novel where the rewriters take only the book's superficial elements, those that were originally used contextually to convey something true, and then represent them verbatim in cinemagraphic form, like some sort of Aspergian scribe, and yet with just enough remixing of the elements added to adapt to the alternative medium that it makes me think of the amoral profiteer who abides by some perfect pragmatism. The authors took the same tools and copied them to the new medium, when the apt thing to do, had they understood its artistic quality, would have been a retooling of the message prior to its conveyance.

Perhaps it's just the same old tale, though; throughout history the works of true geniuses have been ill-understood and simply copied and rehashed by their devotees, as opposed to having been significantly understood and expounded upon or adapted.

For example, in the novel, the narrator occasionally breaks form and talks directly to the reader about something completely irrelevant: critiques and analyses of some of his favorite bands. (Entire chapters are devoted to this.) This technique helps to drill in to the reader the utter detachment of a character who believes and behaves as if "the inside doesn't matter"; it's all about external circumstances and his image. In the movie, on the other hand, he randomly goes into (verbatim) spiels about certain bands and their music with a kind of deranged fervor, just prior to, and climaxing in, bludgeoning someone to death. This gives the viewer a completely different impression. For me, the impression was marked mainly by my wondering what the hell would drive somebody to want to start talking excitedly and sophisticatedly on the topic of a certain artist (like Phil Collins) right before killing someone. The impression may have been different for different people, but I have almost no doubt that it didn't make the appropriate impression on anybody.

In another shining example, Bateman is made *so* perturbed by the sight of his coworkers' (arguably) superior business cards that he becomes irascible, then actually goes mad. This happens on multiple occasions, and while it's meant to signify his imbalanced priorities — or, more accurately, the dourness with which he wants first and foremost to fit in —, its characteristic disharmony with the rest of the motif leaves one feeling more as if he's somehow acquired some sort of business-card-specific psychosis, that perhaps he should just go see a psychologist/therapist about.

In another example, in the novel people consistently laugh off or otherwise fail to take seriously his recounting of the horrible things he's done, furthering the impression of his isolation, lack of ability to connect, and perhaps even his confusion over whether he did indeed do any of those things. In the movie, though, this only happens *once* (with his lawyer), which serves only to outline his unheard catharsis, and perhaps also to show, in denouement, that he never really did all those things he thought he did. In the novel this fact is left continually unclear (to help create for the reader the sense of Bateman's acute isolation), while in the movie you're somewhat duped into believing it's real until the very end.

Oh, there was also a point in the movie at which Bateman was seemingly told by an automated teller machine, "feed me a stray cat" (which he then attempted to do). It may have been funny and perhaps even developmental in the novel, but again, in the movie it was simply discordant with everything else, there having been nowhere to place it, as he had not been prone to hallucinations, and we were barely even hinted at that time that his murderous outings were merely fabrications of his mind. Also, Christian Bale himself — mainly his visage — just did not complement well the utter insanity and frustration of his played character, Patrick Bateman. And nor did I ever have any clear picture of what manner of development or real emotions were supposed to have been going on from the time in which he seemed just a little bit vain, to the time in which his behavior was totally batshit insane. Basically, nothing in this movie came together.

Finally, the really ironical thing here is that, while the movie strikes me as a badly done mishmash of tools used contextually in a novel, for the novel, by a master, the novel itself reads distinctly like a *movie script* — so much so that it's hard to convince myself that I'm reading a novel, not a screenplay, which was intended to be read. The obvious solution, it seems to me? Just make a really looong movie (I suppose it would have to be a mini-series) out of it.. ;)

**note: this is an unfinished rewiew, as i haven't actually read the novel yet. i plan to read it soon, though. :)

Enchanted

At first I was afraid this movie would be horribly lackluster. The entire animated beginning was self-aware and effective at creating the most generic summation and rehash of all the Disney fairy tales combined, and with a perceptible yet not even overtly self-teasing accentuation on the ridiculous patness of it all, but it failed to deliver much, if any, abstract humor and generally failed to be endearing or entertaining at all. Now begins the real-life segment. Enter Giselle, whose real-life counterpart looks nothing like any previous animated Disney star (which I thought was going to bring the whole movie down for me — but in the end, I loved her), meeting with full force the harshness and total oddity of NYC, hence opening for plenty of opportunities for humorous misunderstandings, but none were forthcoming: the only semi-funny thing she did, at least at start, was to mistake a poor, incredulous midget for 'Grumpy'. Then we eventually meet Robert Philip, a kind of guy who takes everything so suavely that if Mary Poppins descended upon him hanging from her umbrella, he may or may not blink, and then would proceed to ask her if she could see 8th Street from where she was because he's late for work and 8th St. is often congested at that time of day. He was pretty much the same guy I complained about previously in Hancock, with only a slightly different face.

But unlike Hancock, it's probably necessary or even vital for this movie to have Robert Philip be represented by such a character, because otherwise either his constant amazement and/or bewilderment, or lack of said bewilderment, would probably detract from that beautiful interplay we see between the Disney-real and the really-real. To my delight, this movie was not all just laughs and a romantic story. Of course one might expect that, in such a movie, inevitably there would be some synthesis between the Disneyesque and the realistic that brings one to a higher integration; but the way this facet was engaged in some of the parts seemed truly brilliant to me. It made me wonder if this could have been done any other way: Amy Adams' acting as a sweet, innocent fairy-tale character might have been flawless, and Patrick Dempsey's character was, though principally unfazeable, not otherwise too out of the ordinary as a human being. In some parts, this really brought it together in a way that could almost defy the imagination. I was really happy to see it.

And while Mr. Philip may ooze moderation from every pore (if and when Mr. Philip should choose to sweat), his reaction to the fantastical display by Queen Narissa, near the ending, was definitely satisfying enough. The unbelievable sort of got more and more real through the course of the movie, but never really crossed that line into "Holy Shit! What The Fuck!?" (for our unwitting muggles) until that event, and that's just the kind of thing I love in a movie.

As for the humor, don't get me wrong: overall it was not without its moments. Which reminds me: I also found remarkable the integrity with which the main Disney-made-real characters, Giselle and Prince Edward, stuck to their ideal characters, even when confronted with the chaos of the unknown and the overbearing power of familiarity, re what passes as mundane and tainted life for you, me, and, no doubt, the writers. But, in fact, it wasn't just this integrity: it was also the playing on those subtle differences between the two realities that only the clever mind would think to capitalize on, as opposed to merely subliminally avoiding.

One thing about the ending: while this Disney movie proffers to present a realistic perspective on all previous Disney fantasies — a reality check of sorts —, the ending was basically as idealistic and Disneyesque as you can get. [Begin Spoiler] The two estranged lovers predictably paired up with each other, the evil queen was spectacularly defeated, and everyone lived happily ever after. Literally — it was written in the sky with stars [End Spoiler]. It sort of makes me want to take back all those nice things I said about synthesis and integration, but oh well. I guess you can't blame Disney for being Disney, in "The End."

The only other thing I have to say is that I'm now left with a mild and puzzling crush on Amy Adams (or at least the character she played..), despite my better judgement, which is to not fall in love with an actor Just because she play an endearing character. ...unless it's been several endearing characters. ...or unless they star in a TV show, hence consistently playing an endearing character across many distinct episodes. But otherwise, bah...stupid movies!!