There are often striking differences between a book and its movie adaptation. Readers and movie-goers alike need to be keen on the fact that while you may be intending to experience the same effect from an adapted story, what you receive is more often than not a completely different message.

Let me start by saying “American Psycho” is one of my favorite movies of all time. I almost have an emotional attachment to it despite its morbidity. I could write up a whole other post entirely based upon what’s good about this movie. Don’t worry, I won’t.



Because I loved the movie so much, and even ended up watching it three or four times, I decided to buy the book. So I walked into Indigo, fully prepared to read a more detailed account of Patrick Bateman’s murders; the raunchy details the general public simply couldn't handle.

After three days of devouring, I finished the book a different person. I didn’t want to leave the house. I didn’t think that any human being was capable of even thinking of such crimes. I puked at least twice. My mom desperately wanted to know what it was that had effected me so obviously in this book. I wouldn’t even let her touch it.

Eventually, I recovered. After all, it is just a story. And I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy it. The fact that it had put me in such a state was baffling and beautiful all at the same time.But the bottom line is, you should never start reading a book expecting the same feel from its movie counter-part. It’s dangerous. Especially if said movie is about a serial killer.