Imagine a world populated by men who can parse the designers of each other's clothing down to the pocket squares, but, outside of their immediate circle, are unable to recognize each other's faces; who know the up-market brands and statistics thereof of stereo equipment, tv's, cars, and any other imaginable luxury items; men whose description of personal experience — their restaraunt adventures, their overseas vacations — are described in canned language taken from guidebooks; men who compare their business cards as though comparing the beauty of their very souls, and whose defeat in such comparisons are felt deep there within. It is a world where Les Miserable is ubiquitous, and within which debates over the cast recordings are held with the highest sincerity. This is the world of American Psycho, a story that exists mostly in a New York that is markedly divided between the haves — the high salary businessmen and their shallow, almost interchangeable girlfriends — and the have-nots, consisting mostly of beggars in the streets. (Only infrequently is there shown something of the inbetween).
And it is a hilarious world. Ellis sets up his unwitting clowns with care and precision, and takes them down as though weilding a stilletto, which such sudden and unexpected sentences as: "There's a black-tie party at the Puck Building tonight for a new brand of computerized professional rowing machine . . . .", or such wonderful moments of unveiling such as the laugh-out-loud "What's 'broiled,' Luis." That world is a world of brilliantly written comedy. But it is not the only world in American Psycho.
