With the help of director/co-writer Mary Harron (I Shot Andy Warhol), moviegoers can now decide for themselves which side of the ward American Psycho (Lions Gate Films) belongs. The picture stars a chillingly convincing Christian Bale as the title character and is filled with all the grizzly goings on you could want in a serial-killer thriller. Yet, it doesn't come within an axe swing of the atrocities contained in Ellis's original text. This will doubtless be relief to the squeamish, and disappointment to those hoping for a George Romero-styled Night of the Living Yuppies.

"American Psycho is not a 'message' movie. We're not preaching. But I hope the film does reveal something about our society," Harron said recently. Indeed, the cinematic America Psycho is played more for black comedy and social commentary than horror or suspense. This is not to say that there isn't slaughter galore. The audience spent a fair amount of time on the edge of its seat. But the end result is as confusing and unsatisfying as Bateman's quest for self-control. A movie based on a book should make you want to read the book. After having spent the full 100 minutes with director Ms. Harron's take of Mr. Bateman's excessive exploits, however, I can't recommend that anyone do either, at least at first-run prices.

Despite American Psycho’s high-caliber cast, museum-quality art direction and slavish attention to debauched detail, the story and its creepy characters are so generally repulsive that it's barely worth the price of attention. Still, Christian Bale was a fine choice as Bateman. His chiseled chin, pampered, yet pumped-up physique and cadaver-cool composure effortlessly embody the superficial perfection that is Patrick Bateman and his era's skin-deep ideals.

The supporting cast, including Jared Leto as Paul Allen, a business rival of Bateman's who literally looses his head, and Reese Witherspoon as Bateman's fiancée Evelyn Williams, are suitably slimy in their portrayal of 1980s power players whose biggest challenge in life is seeing who can get the best dinner reservations at the city's most exclusive restaurants. In one amusing moment, recalling Woody Allen's Manhattan or Annie Hall, an associate of Bateman's mutters in a Dewars-and-coke (not the cola) induced stupor "I'm not really hungry, but I'd feel better if we had reservations." The repulsive rivalries among the sinister CEOs to see who has the most impressive business card, designer tie or Central Park view is apparently the top and only priority on their agendas. It really makes one wonder, Who are these guys? How did they get their jobs and more importantly: How can I get one? On second thought, never mind, I hear the competition is murder.

Outstanding work was also put in by American Psycho’s set and art designers whose wardrobe and props recall the greed decade's fashions and fetishes in immaculate detail. Costume designer Isis Mussenden consulted with the house of Nino Cerruti on elegant yet conservative suits that defined the styles of the times. Original walkmans, huge "antique" cell phones and a soundtrack featuring such cutting edge artists as Phil Collins, Huey Lewis, and the ever-cathartic Katrina & the Waves further add to the movie's "period piece" feel. The juxtaposition of such shiny happy music with Bateman's meat-clever fever, layers an extra touch of evil to the proceedings. There is, after all, no ditty more diabolical than "Sussudio."

Such admirable effort all around should add up to an extreme cinematic experience, on par with Natural Born Killers, Silence of the Lambs or cult favorite Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer. But, American Psycho’s characters are so unsympathetic and its actions so unbelievable that you don't care if Bateman kills 'em all and then does himself in by jumping off of his own overstuffed wallet. Furthermore, the all important suspension bridge of disbelief that allows a person to get lost in such a macabre maze collapses about three-quarters through the film leaving you lost, not knowing or caring where Bateman's reality begins or ends.

Finally, all that counts is finding the fastest way out of the theater and back to the future of American life where greed, corruption and violence are all safely part of our psychotic past. Hey, wait, maybe there is a message here after all. Harron, you lied to me you sick bitch! I'll get you! I won't sleep 'til I see your head in my microwave! I'll garnish my Tanquery martini with your eyeballs! Oops, sorry about that. I guess there's a little bit of Bret Easton Ellis in everyone. Now that's what I call psycho.