Glamorama

What a slog. Who would imagine international terrorism, rampant hard drug use, and a seven-page bisexual fuckfest could be so bland? The first third of the book is about our insipid lead, Victor Ward, organizing the opening of a club. Nothing else.

When the explosions finally kick in, so do Victor's incessant screaming, crying, panicking, pleading, and whimpering, along with his total confusion about every single event that occurs. Since he's our narrator, that deep haze of befuddlement is especially taxing. Ellis tries to use Victor's stupidity and limited vocabulary to comic effect a few times, but it always falls flat.

The novel attempts to satirize the superficiality and consumerism of celebrity culture the same way American Psycho did for Wall Street culture's latent sociopathy. It uses the same recurrent insertion of decade-specific brand names throughout every page, along with constant celebrity name-dropping. Glamorama retains the gruesomeness, drugs, and graphic sex of American Psycho, but none of the inventiveness, humor, or fascinating characterization.