And because of that, this is the perfect place to end the Bret Easton Ellis portion of my Literary Brat Pack project. Thank God.
The sad thing is, the book starts out promisingly, but ends up being the usual mélange of Ellis garbage.
He starts out writing in beautifully constructed, perfectly lettered and capitalized, sentences, which makes this a bit more readable than other works. It is a sequel to "Less Than Zero," and, having read that earlier work recently, I suggest those interested read it first, to connect the dots thrown out in this book.
Though in the end, who cares?????????????????
Ellis has actually lowered his pretensions slightly. Whereas in "The Rules Of Attraction," he fancied himself Joyce or Proust, here he ratchets himself down to Henry James. Not that Henry James is not one of our great writers, but his prose style is a bit more mainstream than what Ellis established himself with, initially.
Oh, and with this last of Ellis, I don't have to listen about how "The Fountainhead" or "One Hundred Years Of Solitude" are such great works of literature, rather than stylistic representations of their specific times. Though I grant that both are better written and will endure longer than any of Ellis' work. I doubt if he has ever read them. Well, I have,
So, what goes on? The usual mélange about sex and drugging, only in Hollywood, because all these obnoxious L.A. characters have somehow managed to filter themselves into the film industry. Clay, Blair, and Trent are still around but I was more fascinated by Rain Turner,
Rip Millar, the astute drug dealer, and Kelly Montrose. The only familiar character of any interest is Julian. The monotony of sex and drugging, the obviousness of the title as a metaphor for the place where business meetings really take place, and deals are made with sex, would make "Valley Of The Dolls" seem like high art. Jacqueline Susann, were she alive today, would reject this crap outright.
But, then, three quarters of the way through, Ellis ceases the name and place dropping (Bret, darling, all of us Easterners know about the Chateau Marmont; get over it!), and, like a driver having taken a wrong turn on Mulholland Drive, the novel spirals into a murder mystery cum snuff film finale, where Clay is some kind of sadistic monster--or is he?--and he winds up with Blair, who is not what she was thought to be. A witch, maybe? A mastermind? Hint! Hint!
The sadism of the prolonged snuff sequence involving Rain Turner in a motel bedroom with Mexican flunkies from some drug cartel almost made me gag, and I had to put the book down. So too, with Ellis' torture sequence, depicting Clay with two pubescent youths, one male, the other female. I guess Ellis thought a bang-up "American Psycho" finish was needed, because the novel was going nowhere, before then. I did not particularly like where or how it ended up, but at least it went somewhere.
Which is damning with faint praise, when it comes to Bret Easton Ellis. He sort of gets the writing right, just at the near end of his career--may this book be his last!--then resorts to old and tired tricks. Is Clay Ellis' fantasy projection of himself???????????? Because if so, man, I don't want to go there.
To think the High Priestess of this group, Donna Tartt, endorsed this book. Well, maybe, having known Bret, she sees sides of him I don't. The New York Times did not endorse this book. Finally, Ellis is seen through and exposed for the phony he is.
And that takes care of the Ellis portion of my project. Except I have something final to say to Bret Easton Ellis.
Just three little words. The last one is "yourself." I am sure my readers can guess the other two.
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