AMERICAN PSYCHO, yuppie upchucker Bret Easton Ellis’s controversial 1991 bestseller, considered unfilmable (a fully faithful take would’ve been unwatchable to anyone but a homicidal deviant) was surprisingly turned into a sleek, queasily engaging motion picture in 2000. The narcissistic novel is a 399-page death march, the stylishly evinced movie an endurable 101 minutes, well directed by Mary Harron. She co-wrote the script with Guinevere Turner, who also aces a die-on role as a ‘deserving’ victim.

New York City, the 1980’s. Wall Street shark investment banker ‘Patrick Bateman’ (Christian Bale, 25) leads a self-pampered life focused largely on trying to be more egotistically elitist than his ‘friends’ in a similarly despicable social and business circle. His hidden private side is as a sadistic serial murderer, a ‘posh’ degenerate. When his pastime depravity brings attention from a cagey detective, Bateman’s carefully crafted façade of uber-cool control begins to crack.

Easton’s exploitation exploration alternately basted readers with boredom and revolted them with detailed sadism, the latter so abhorrent publishers should have issued it with crime scene tape and a jug of disinfectant. Whereas the book defines ‘wallow’, in the film wisely most of the violence and gore is suggested rather than shown; the director, her co-scenarist and their charismatic leading man placing wicked emphasis on a scathing critique of societal shallowness emblematic of the Reagan era’s fakeout. Nothing says “I’m just better than you” like an exquisitely embossed business card, and being ‘sincere’ when you flash one.

Thirteen years after his youthful intro in Empire Of The Sun, Bale came fully into his intense own as a leading man with this risky assignment; he’s magnetically repellent and deep black funny (the phone confession is a classic). His method immersion into Bateman’s atavistic aura saw the first of his numerous startling physical transformations, craft dedication further proven in The Machinist, The Fighter, Rescue Dawn and Vice.  Tiffany-class support comes from  perfect casting of his insufferably arrogant colleagues (Justin Theroux, Josh Lucas, Jared Leto and Bill Sage), with crucial elements of vital humanity etched by Chloë Sevigny as Bateman’s demure secretary and Cara Seymour as a prostitute pickup who tellingly lets her desperation trump her wariness. Those reptilian alarm bells we’re given are there for a reason other than cave bears.

Mostly reviled at the time (ill vibes from the book not helping), the $7,000,000 gamble only reached 112th place in the States/Canada market, cleaving $15,070,000. When other nations owned up to their morbid curiosity (and another chance to hate vacuous Americans) the tally rose to $34,267,000. Time passed, the rep has been revisited, revalued and restored.

With Willem Dafoe (typically off-center excellent as the detective), Reese Witherspoon (Bateman’s dippy fiancée), Samantha Mathis (a zoned-out plaything), Matt Ross (another ‘Master of the Universe’ cur), Krista Sutton (call girl who shouldn’t have called) and Reg E. Cathey (homeless and helpless). Running times are, depending on the source, 97, 101, 102 or 104 minutes; enough mental hopscotch to send a mild-mannered reviewer to a shrink.