American Psycho

It's not easy being Patrick Bateman. Strive as he might to do the right thing, it's not clear anyone's taking any notice. And when they do he feels sullied, because they're all filthy oiks anyway. 'I like to dissect girls. Did you know I'm utterly insane?' he offers a bartender, but she doesn't even blink. And there are already enough unblinking Manhattanites filling his brushed steel fridge. Writer/director Harron (I Shot Andy Warhol) has sensibly excised the gratuitous gore at the sick heart of Bret Easton Ellis's yuppie slasher novel, leaving a provocative socio-psychological satire balanced tantalisingly on the cusp of chilly horror and outrageous comedy. Bateman may be the (barely) human face of a particularly '80s brand of narcissism and materialist vacuity, but he's also a spoilt dork without cause or taste. And while the production relies on '80s period trappings for much of its humour, Bateman's hollow obsession with body and status are hardly bygone phenomena. The film makes wonderfully unsettling entertainment; crucially - and gloriously - Bale nails Bateman with a sublimely dead-eyed and deadpan performance.