BOOK REVIEW: Imperial Bedrooms by Bret Easton Ellis

IMPERIAL BEDROOMS by Bret Easton Ellis
(Published 2010, 169 pages)

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It's official: Bret Easton Ellis is one of the most overrated American fiction authors out there. His latest effort, Imperial Bedrooms is a huge disappointment on every level. A sequel to his iconic novel, Less Than Zero, Imperial Bedrooms revisits the original characters, namely Clay, 25 years after the original.

Basically, he spends the first 1/3 of the book criticizing the film adaptation of Less Than Zero (starring Andrew McCarthy, Jami Gertz, RDJ), because it sanitized the scandalous source material for popular consumption. I can buy that--the book was edgy and controversial but the Brat Pack flick was a heavily censored coming-of-age film. After his diatribe against the film adaptation, the author focuses on Clay's debaucherous lifestyle as a screenwriter with a mysterious stalker.


The author assumes that everyone has already read Less Than Zero, as practically none of the characters are given a decent backstory, goals, and motivation (especially Blair). The whole stalker/murder mystery element--which basically takes up the entire book--is laughable and just makes the entire story seem ludicrous.

What I dislike most about Imperial Bedrooms is the use of gratuitous sex scenes and tales of drug usage; I am definitely not a prude, and I must say that these graphic scenes contributed absolutely nothing to the story. It's sad that Ellis had to stoop this low to capture the reader's attention--it's true, I was snoring for the rest of the book. The scenes come out of nowhere with no apparent motivation. For instance, blah blah blah, another TXT from my stalker, blah blah blah Julian's lying about Blair AGAIN blah blah blah I'm fisting two teenage prostitutes in the desert. WTF!

This would all be OK if the author actually offered a world view or some sort of commentary about these behaviors; I was hoping that he would take a moment to ponder WHY all these things (ie. orgies, drug abuse, plastic surgery) are taking place and what does it all say about our society. That would be much more interesting than a bunch of simplistic sentences merely describing the naughty behavior taking place on any given day. And I literally do mean SENTENCES. If he's going to discuss these subjects in a somewhat realistic manner, he might as well go into juicy detail.

It's ironic that a novel that begins as a diatribe against the mainstream Hollywood machine ends with the most ridiculously predictable conclusion possible. The murder mystery (that only really had one OBVIOUS suspect) is solved and there's room left open for a sequel. As always, Ellis' writing is very cinematic and unfortunately, this simplistic screenplay-esque style robs "Imperial Bedrooms" of any depth it potentially had.

If you want to read a complex murder mystery that includes salacious details about the New York and L.A. nightlife, then I recommend Jackie Collins' latest bestseller, Poor Little Bitch Girl. It includes masterful storytelling on her part.

BOOK REVIEW: Billion-Dollar Kiss by Jeffrey Stepakoff

BILLION DOLLAR KISS

THE KISS THAT SAVED DAWSON'S CREEK AND
OTHER ADVENTURES IN TV WRITING
by Jeffrey Stepakoff
(Published 2007, 336 pages)

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Honestly, I spent the first 2/3 of this book YAWNING, because it reads like more of a Television History textbook than a TV writer's memoir. But I would just attribute that to bad marketing--looking at the cover, my expectations were a little off. The early chapters of the book, while full of facts & figures, deserve thorough reading because they explain important aspects of the Television industry such as industry hierarchies, average salaries, Nielsen ratings, ad revenues, etc.


The last 1/3 of the book was surprisingly breezy and full of fun insider accounts from the set of Dawson's Creek. Finally, the novel began to live up to its title, Billion Dollar Kiss, referring to the game-changing kiss between Pacey & Joey (Josh Jackson & Katie Holmes). That said, I think it takes a lot of guts for someone to claim responsibility for the WORST seasons (aka everything after Season 2) of the laughably bad WB melodrama. The book works because Stepakoff is well aware that he was aboard a rapidly sinking ship, and he admits that the success of the show was due entirely to the WB's whitewashed advertising campaign as opposed to the actual writing.

Up until I reached the first-person tales of working on Dawson's Creek, this book review was stuck at 2 stars, but the extensive accounts of TV industry politics were well worth the price of admission.

BOOK REVIEW: You'll Never Blue Ball In This Town Again by Heather McDonald

YOU'LL NEVER BLUE BALL IN THIS TOWN AGAIN

ONE WOMAN'S PAINFULLY FUNNY* QUEST TO GIVE IT UP
(* FUNNY FOR HER, PAINFUL FOR OTHERS!)
by Heather McDonald
(Published 2010, 256 pages)

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What an appropriate title for Heather "LongBoobs" McDonald's new book! I sped through several chapters on Heather's past (sexless) relationships, eager to see exactly how she lost her virginity at age 27, and when the moment of truth finally comes, the entire ordeal is described in ONE MEASLY SENTENCE!

As we all know, Heather ultimately got her happy ending with a loving husband and children, but that part of her life is described in give-or-take 15 pages. As the title promises, I literally felt "blue-balled" once I reached the story's end. Although Heather often talks about her dry humping expertise, the book lacks a thorough discussion of sex and what it really meant to finally give up her V-card.


By far, my biggest complaint is that the book rambles on so much that it feels like a stream of consciousness writing. I say that because each chapter starts with one story but somehow will lead to ten different tangential stories from Heather's life. With the interminable amount of spatial and temporal jumps, I could never keep any of the stories or character names straight. Almost every chapter was so convoluted that I never understood the significance of the chapter titles. Very haphazard. By the end of the eighth flashback, I would ask myself, "What the hell were we talking about again?"

In spite of its flaws, You'll Never Blue Ball In This Town Again delivers some funny moments--McDonald is a comedy writer/stand-up comedienne, after all--but it's not nearly as laugh-out-loud funny as Chelsea Handler's memoirs.

Last Friday Night

Original Air Date: 02.20.2010
Theme Song: "Shots" - LMFAO feat. Lil' Jon

I receive a phone call this afternoon. It's Jiselle (my sister) and she's asking me to come downtown tonight to celebrate her 28th birthday. ...ME? I'm as surprised as anyone because my sister and I have never been that close. She and my brother are both five years my senior, they grew up with the same people, and unlike me, both have reputations for being "reckless." In my family, I've always been the squeaky-clean youngest child who everyone left the hell alone. So of course, I realize I'm the last person on her call list... above Mom, maybe. Sensing her desperation, I agree to accompany her.

8 hours later, EXHAUSTED, I'm outside the FedEx building, serving food to the 2nd shift guys. My sister pulls up and honks the horn. I grab my backpack, hop in the car, and we're off. We arrive at the Sheraton and put down our stuff. Jiselle tells me to hurry, so we can take advantage of the Early Bird drink specials. Sadly, Baltimore is pretty dead after 1:30AM, so you've gotta make the most of it. This leaves me with barely enough time to scrub the stench of blue collar work off my skin and change into something that showcases this hot body.

While strutting our stuff downtown, Jiselle is recognized by a massive group of girls. After a brief conversation on the sidewalk, they invite my sister to join their posse, so we stand in line with them outside MIST, a local nightclub. I can't believe there's a bouncer outside the door, like it's effin' Studio 54. Well, it ain't. After waiting in line for a few minutes, he lets ALL the girls into the club, no questions asked, but stops me and simply says, "Can't come in with those shoes." WHAT?!

You've got to be kidding me. I'm always shocked when any club in BALTIMORE excludes potential patrons based on looks. In Los Angeles, people get rejected once and return even more determined the next night, because there's a chance they might rub elbows with some record execs or dryhump an Olsen twin. But around here, none of that's gonna happen--there's no A-LIST BALTIMORE! So until you mop up the pool of piss outside your club's entrance, y'all need to lighten the fuck up.

It's only been a half-hour and I'm already homesick for Mount Vernon, also known as the gay ghetto. Where it's No Shirt, No Shoes, and I still get service. ;-) And frankly, I feel bad that Jiselle's stuck with me for the night and just had to say Goodbye to her pals. I'm raining on her parade and I seriously need to make up for it FAST! So, we just walk down the block to the Powerplant Live club complex and hit Mosaic, the Top 40/Techno dance club... aka the closest thing to a gay bar in this neck of the woods.

 

We make a beeline for some empty barstools and just let the men come to us. I immediately chug two vodka tonics (my sane limit) so I'll loosen up and feel comfortable dancing around my sister. Within minutes, some dorky guy in a fratboy blazer buys us both a round of shots. After taking one, I tell Jiselle that I should stop so I stay clear-headed. Her response: PUSSY! So I do what any man would do: toss back three more. Worst. Idea. Ever.

After our third round, Jiselle hops off the bar stool, turns to me and says, "DON'T LOSE ME." WHAAAT?! I've never had this responsibilty before. So, as my sister grinds with this sleazeball, I'm about 5 feet away dancing with some hot Asians, keeping her in the corner of my eye. She tells me she's going to the bathroom, so I walk with her and wait outside the door. 20 minutes later, I start getting worried so I knock on the door, "Jiselle?" No response. I walk inside and call out, "Sis?" Some random girl walks out of the stall and glares at me like I'm a psychopath.

OK, she isn't in here. I walk out and guess who I see dead-center on the dancefloor... frickin' HOUDINI! I breathe a sigh of relief that she's safe and I join her. She must've walked right past me and I didn't even notice. That's when it hits me: I'M FUCKED UP!

* BLINK *

I'm lying on my back atop a mattress. I'm soaking wet from head-to-toe. My pants and shoes are still on. My contact lenses are hanging off my eyeballs. Breathing heavily, my mind reels with all the possibilities of what's happened: Oh my God, that bastard slipped me a Roofie and dragged me down to his basement dungeon. Instinctively, I check for rape. Jiselle walks by with a suitcase and I'm at ease. "You're up? Good. Luckily, you got all the alcohol out of your system last night." OMG, I'm so sorry I ruined your birthday. "Nah, it's OK. Usually, I'm the drunk one; it was good to learn how to take care of someone else for a change." ...Great.

We spend the rest of the morning in awkward silence. As a writer, I'm naturally curious because it would make an epic story... but a bigger part of me REALLY can't handle the truth. Right after Jiselle comments, "That guy was nice enough to carry you up here," I'm done prying. I'm clueless about the events of last night and you know what? I'd like to keep it that way.  

Note to self: 

Add 'MOSAIC' to the list of clubs where JiMBO is no longer welcome.