grandeur. I believe myself to be JoernGould.” His summing up of our commonrnaffliction is succinct and devastating-rnMitchell wrote “Joe Gould’s Secret” inrn1964, seven years after Gould died. Hernwould never publish anything again. Herncontinued to report to his office at thernNew Yorker for 32 years until his death inrn1996, nearly the same length of timernGould had haunted the Village. His colleaguesrnheard him typing behind hisrnclosed door, but nothing emerged. It’s arnstrange conclusion. Tucci doesn’t trj- torndramatize it—how could he? He merelyrnstates it in a closing paragraph against arnblack screen and lets us draw our ownrnconclusions. Was it guilt? Having propelledrnGould to his little perch of famernfrom which he inevitably tumbled, didrnMitchell feel he didn’t have the right tornintrude on other lives? Or did Mitchellrncome to recognize in Gould’s self-aggrandizementrna shocking semblance ofrnhis own neediness?rnThe film does offer some clues, andrnone seems particularly apt. The alwaysimportunaternGould calls at two in thernmorning. Mitchell’s wife answers and,rnturning to him, announces, “It’s your Mr.rnGould.” Mitchell grumbles, “He’s notrnmine.” To which she replies, “Well,rnyou’re his.” James would have appreciatedrnthis multileveled irony.rnThe 69-year-old Flolm is superb asrnGould. In lesser hands, the role couldrnha’e easily devolved into just anotherrnportrait of a lovable rogue. Instead,rnHolm shows the man to have been asrnboorish as he was charming. He makesrnyou understand that, at 60, Gould remainedrna brat, wholly rmwilling to acknowledgernthe rights of others. Tucci hasrnthe more difficult assignment. As the diffident,rnkindly Mitchell, he must restrictrnhimself to reacting to Gould. He does sornwith a subtlety that goes beyond acting.rnHis attentive, ever respectful gendenessrnmakes ‘ou mourn for a decency that hasrnpassed out of our world.rnSpeaking of decency, we come tornAmerican Psycho. Had Joe Gould arrivedrnin Manhattan 65 years later than he did,rnhe v’ould have found none at all, accordingrnto director Mary Harron. Instead, anrninvestment banker would have dispatchedrnthis jobless parasite with a fewrnflourishes of a Henckels carving knife,rncarefully wielded so as not to bloody hisrnArmani overcoat.rnIn the 1980’s, it seems, hordes of HarvardrnBusiness School graduates descendedrnlike Goths upon Gotham, shoving thernweak to the v’all. The}- were pumped onrnsteroids, cocaine, and boundless entidement.rnWhen not pleased with servicesrnrendered, these heardess louts would casuallyrnthreaten harm to their servants,rndoormen, house cleaners, waiters, limousinerndrivers, and, last but perhaps notrnleast, their women. Then one of them,rnPatrick Bateman (Ghristian Bale), takesrnthe next logical step. He rapes, murders,rndisembowels, and dismembers merely tornassure himself he’s top dog.rnHarron clearly intends her adaptationrnof Bret Easton Ellis’s nauseating novel tornbe a leftist-feminist critique of Americanrncapitalism. This is ironic, since, from thernmoment the credits roll, she capitalizesrnon the novel’s scandal value. The filmrnbegins with red droplets falling one byrnone against an entirely white screen.rnAnyone at all acquainted with the novelrnwill assume this is blood from a freshlyrncarved corpse. When the camera pullsrnback, however, we see the droplets arernreally raspberr)- syrup being drizzled ontorna plate to decorate a haute cuisine concoctionrnin a tony restaurant. At nearby tables,rnimpossibly tidy waiters intone thernevening’s specials to bored yuppies.rn”Tonight we’re serving a swordfish meatloafrnwith a marmalade of lime and papaya.”rnThe image of dripping blood,rnhowever, lingers in our minds. Theserngilded youth are not just ordering a meal;rnthey are cannibalizing the lower ordersrnwho are forced to serve their pamperedrnappetites.rnThis is one idea of both the film’s andrnthe novel’s and it’s repeated incessantly.rnThe privileged live at the expense of thernless materiallv fortunate, who are reducedrnto whollv expendable commodities,rnthings to be used and discarded.rnWell, yes. No doubt wealth and thernlack of it can and has corrupted social relations.rnJonathan Swift said as much inrnhis 1729 essay, “A Modest Proposal,” inrnwhich a lordly reformer counsels cannibalismrnto alleviate the Irish problem. ButrnEllis obviously felt his readers neededrnsomething stronger tiian Swift. He hasrnBateman turn his fashionable apartmentrninto a private brothel and amateur abattoir:rnpornographic sex followed b’ torturernmurders, both described vith an obsessivernattention to anatomical detail. Thisrnis more than a cynical bid to stir controversyrnand boost sales. Ellis clearly relishesrnBateman’s use of knives, nail guns,rnpower saws, and drills on young women.rnEllis has been hailed as his generation’srnspokesman. Perhaps he is. His visionrnis the grim, ineluctable terminus of arnsteady diet of our popular culture with itsrnendless pornographic merchandising.rnAppetites fed to excess always end up inrnself-lacerating disgust.rnThe only thing to be said for Harron’srnfilm is that it leaves out almost all of thernnovel’s graphic carnage, making do withrnsuggestion instead. As for the sex, it’s renderedrnbriefly but expliciflx^ enough to revealrnwhy Harron was drawn to the novel.rnThese scenes display sex as a joyless exercisernof male power over women. So werndon’t miss the point, she has Batemanrnflex his biceps in his mirrored walls as twornprostitutes serve his needs. Who sa)’srnfeminists aren’t subfle?rnBelatedly, we discoer Bateman’s murdersrnmay be no more than hallucinations.rnThis is, I suppose, another attemptrnto make sure we get the point. Really,rnfolks, this ain’t no horror story; it’s a sureenoughrnsophisticated allegorv’ of capitalistrndecadence. I wonder. Would Ellisrnand Harron be as villing to use theirrnmetaphorical carnage in a narrativernabout the former Soviet Union, wherernmaking the communist omelet requiredrnbreaking some 22 million eggs?rnThe piece de resistance comes in the finalrnscene. Bateman and his banker buddiesrnare drinking in a cocktail lounge asrnan overhead television runs a tape ofrnRonald Reagan addressing the Iran-Gontrarnissue. The young men jeer and snickerrnat his image.rnThat’s right. Ronald Reagan did it.rnHis hypocrisy deprived an entire generationrnof rich boys and girls of their innaternmoral idealism. He made them materialisticrnpredators. It wasn’t their absenteernparents, their soulless education, their exposurernto a steadily coarsening culture. Itrnwasn’t the constant counsel to serve yourselfrnfirst and enjoy as much no-fault sex asrnearly and as often and as promiscuouslyrnas possible. It wasn’t the insistent assurancernthat inconvenient babies could bernaborted with little or no consequence.rnNo, it was those nasty conservatives whorntransformed these hapless innocents intornmonsters of greed and hedonism.rnI confess I was puzzled. Curiouslyrnenough, Bateman’s ungentlemanly behaviorrnand sordid fantasies reminded mernof another, much younger resident of fliernWliite House.rnGeorge McCartney teaches EngUsh atrnSt. John’s University.rn48/CHRONICLESrnrnrn