BATEMAN (V.0.)
My name is Patrick Bateman. I am
twenty-six years old. I live in the American Garden
Buildings on West Eighty-First Street, on the eleventh
floor Tom Cruise lives in the penthouse.
Bateman walks into his bathroom, urinates while trying to
see his reflection in a poster for Les Miserables above his
toilet.
BATEMAN
(V.0.) I believe in taking care of myself, in a
balanced diet, in a rigorous exercise routine. In the
morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice
pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand
now.
Bateman ties a plastic ice pack around his face.
Bateman does his morning stretching exercises in the living
room wearing the ice pack.
CUT TO:
A mirror-lined bathroom. Bateman is luxuriating in the
shower steam, scrubbing his body, admiring his muscles.
BATEMAN (V.O.)
After I remove the icepack, I use a deep
pore-cleanser lotion. In the shower, I use a
water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body
scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub.
Bateman stands in front of a massive marble sink applying a
gel facial masque.
BATEMAN (V.O.)
Then I apply an herb mint facial masque which
I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my
routine.
Bateman opens the door of a mirrored cabinet, which is
stocked with immaculate rows of skin care products. He
begins selecting bottles jars and brushes, laying them in
readiness on the marble counter.
BATEMAN (V.O.)
I always use an after-shave lotion with little
or no alcohol because alcohol dries your face out and makes
you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye
balm, followed by a final moisturizing "protective" lotion...
Bateman stares into the mirror. The masque has dried,
giving his face a strange distorted look as if it has been
wrapped in plastic. He begins slowly peeling the gel masque
off his face.
BATEMAN (V.O.)
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some
kind of abstraction, hut there is no real me, only an
entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold
gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping you
and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably
comparable: I simply am not there.
INT. BATEMAN BEDROOM - MORNING
Another huge white room, equally minimal: a futon, rumpled
white sheets, a bedside lamp with a halogen bulb, and a large
expensive painting (Eric Fischl or David Salle) chosen by
Bateman's interior decorator.
Dressed in silk boxer shorts, Bateman stands in front of a
huge walk-in closet, filled with rows of expensive shirts,
shoes and designer suits, organized according to color and
tone.
BATEMAN (V.O.)
It is hard for me to make sense on any given
level. My self is fabricated, an aberration. My personality
is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is
persistent.
Fully dressed in Armani, Bateman stands in front of a
full-length mirror in the middle of his vast bedroom,
adjusting his cuff-links.
BATEMAN (V.0.)
My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared
a long time ago, if they ever did exist.
He gives a last look at the mirror and likes what he sees.
He gives his reflection a smile.
