4.5 stars

Hollywood reeks of shit, and the stench just keeps getting worse: Glamorama is Bret Easton Ellis holding a mirror to the face of 90s high society.

Victor Ward, the book's main character, is an empty shell, and there's not a single profound thought in this (supposedly) very pretty head of his. He is the victim of a time and society where his abs matter more than his mind. His perspective, and consequently the narration, is superficial, hollow, and detached from reality. This, however, is Glamorama's charm and makes this book's narration very powerful. Ellis once again demonstrates his literary genius by weaving in a production crew and script, blurring the lines between this novel's reality and the makings of a film.

Victor wants to be a star, so he mimics the behavior he observes in those he admires. Stars, however, reveal only what they choose to show. You can watch Shalom Harlow walk the runway for as long as you like, but you'll never truly know her inner self. You can admire her from afar (as she is truly admirable), but the glimpses you get will always fall short of the reality. Victor misjudged this when he first aspired to be part of this glamorous world: he saw the seemingly detached models, actors, and musicians floating above reality and believed their polished exteriors were all there was to them. Consequently, he becomes exactly what he sees, as it's the only path to success he has ever known.

This admiration proves to be misguided, because throughout this book he learns, harshly, what lies behind the facade. Because not all that glitters is gold, sometimes it's a huge pile of shit and all the sparks floating around are actually flies. Still, Victor Ward is relentless in his need for validation, preoccupied with petty problems, and he attaches meaning to all the wrong aspects of life. His relationships are so surface-level, his loved ones probably wouldn't even realize if an impostor took Victor's place;
Ultimately, this leads to Victor becoming the target of people far more powerful than himself, plunging him into a series of increasingly disturbing events that expose a sprawling criminal network with every closer look. This dream factory churns out nightmares, particularly for those entangled in its machinations.

Glamorama is a captivating read, as every chapter is brimming with scandal, drama, and the opulence of the 90s elite. Frequent readers of Ellis will know to expect his trademark excess of name-dropping, sex, and violence; Glamorama is no exception. His eye for detail makes his novels so perfectly unique, and they become truly authentic records of their era.

One of the best novels of the 90s for me. Easy.

OK, at first I really wasn't sure about this, and it felt a little too brash and full of people that I generally took a dislike too; and was probably supposed to, and where Manhattan is presented as the greatest place on the planet, basically putting the middle finger up to the rest of the world, with its flawless skinned, Xanax dependent, loud and supercilious, label-obsessed, lying and cheating, glossy magazine characters. But of course that's the point. And if that's the point, then Bret Easton Ellis does a bloody good job of it. But then this is his forte, so it was never going to be wrong
was it. And the amount of real celeb names that get mentioned here - HUGE!

At least it was the 1990s, when a younger me generally liked celebs more. Not like now.

It took a good 100 pages or so to feel my way into the story - of a male model whose life basically spirals out of control in ways you simply couldn't imagine - but, the more I read: especially when the narrative travelled to Europe: London, Paris, Italy at the end, and took a more chilling and uncomfortable route, the more I got sucked into Victor Ward's paranoid and menacing world, and was, in the end, left gasping, gripped, feeling sick, stunned, bemused, wildly entertained, and surprisingly: for a Bret Easton Ellis novel, quite moved in places. And all throughout the narrative I was constantly thinking just what is real and what is not. What is the truth, and what is a lie.

Why are there cameras here? Hmm. . .

Whoa, who's this creepy dude?

And then later on -

Holy shit! - really?

Speechless.

And that was the beauty of it, always being kept on my toes with no time to relax, and things really did take a turn at about the half way point - and oh my god! - I wasn't prepared for what would follow. Second half of the novel felt a little like DeLillo's satire, only we go to a much darker and depraved place.

Wow. Just wow. Not many books leave me in a state like this one did.

Some scenes are just impossible to forget now.

For me, better than American Psycho - less repetitive and harder to put down.

Ellis’s fame rests primarily upon American Psycho, a stunning and ingenious novel that blurs reality and hallucination while chronicling the obsessions of vanity and materialism like few works of fiction can do. However, his masterpiece is Glamorama, a mindblowing epic satire that exposes the decadence of celebrity in American culture.

The narrator Victor Ward has gained entry into the world of stardom as a top male model. He dates one of the hottest women in the fashion industry, yet he’s cheating on her with another knockout sensation. While he’s helping to open the trendiest nightclub in Manhattan in the 1990s, his obsession with his rising celebrity causes his life to spiral, due in part to his dependence on Xanax, cocaine, and liquor.

The novel excels into a thriller when Victor takes up an assignment and heads off to London and Paris in search of a female model who has disappeared. He soon becomes embroiled with dangerous acquaintances and lustful affairs that pull him into a network of terrorist conspiracies where his mind straddles a flimsy boundary between reality and fantasy.

Menacing with paranoia, wild with suspense, twisted with dark and wry humor, graphic with male and female sexcapades, and brutal with spectacles of violence, Glamorama moves from exhilarating and hilarious to sorrowful and terrifying in the blink of an eye. It is unlike anything you can ever imagine reading. It is unforgettable in the clever, intelligent, and astonishing ways that can make a book great.

Glamorama transfixed me and left me baffled while also making me laugh at its absurdity. Nothing quite compares to the relentless force of antipathy Ellis aims at dismantling the façade of celebrity. It is a novel that may exhaust you with its unceasing depravity, yet it has touching moments, and you’re left craving more of its thrilling amalgam of amusement and mayhem.

Pure evil. I knew by the end I wasn't going to understand shit, even though I thought I followed the story well enough.

We’ll slide down the surface of things

Qué barbaridad.

Esta inmensidad tiene 3 partes bien diferenciadas:

1 - su primer tramo es una sátira del mundo de las celebridades y lo que les sirve de sustento estatutario, los medios. Es más: una sátira sublime, además de divertidísima. Los días del protagonista no se rigen por el tiempo (de hecho que se mire la muñeca sin tener un reloj que le dé la hora no es sólo una simple coña a lo Zoolander, que menudo plagio y qué ganas de que trascienda el acuerdo extrajudicial por el que Easton Ellis guarda silencio al respecto sin haber ido a mayores la demanda), sino por actos sociales, ya sean inauguraciones de garitos o cenas de presentación de colecciones. La noción de tiempo en pasado y futuro sólo existe para algún comentario hiriente sobre algo pasado de moda, y siendo asi que Victor Ward vive en un eterno presente sólo articulado por la validación ajena (la gente para él son meros espejos ensanchadores de ego) los actos del pasado y las consecuencias a futuro le son cuestiones del todo ajena. Hay un momento cumbre en el que llama "bro" a su padre que parece insinuar que es retrasado mental o un eterno adolescente, pero Victor ni es falto ni un Peter Pan. Ni siquiera es un sociópata: simplemente encaja por sus circunstancias (es guapo nivel modelo y su familia gente de panoja) en un tipo de persona que no necesita saber más allá de la primera persona del singular y ahí se queda. Cuando hace daño no hay una intención o plan por detrás, simplemente ocurre por tener una cosmovisión ocupada de pleno por el YO.

2 - la cosa se pone oscura. Pero oscura a la Dennis Potter, a nivel paranoia metafísica. Hay equipos de rodaje que siguen a Victor y le dan el cue, y la gente con la que interacciona aprenden un guión. Cuando aparece el segundo equipo de rodaje y la trama de espionaje ya la cosa trasciende los momentos más extremos de paranoia pirandelliana de Potter para recabar en terrenos más próximos a Philip K Dick o Baudrillard: se altera la realidad trucando las imágenes y con ello la simulación en la que de primeras parecía consensuado el ser todos los implicados partícipes de ella. De hecho, se enarbola una teoría muy interesante: que la vida en la sociedad de la imagen es una sucesión de set pieces.

3 -Victor por fin retoma el control sobre su identidad, si no de pleno al menos el suficiente para decidir dejar de usar seudónimo. Con ello y con todo lo que le ocurre en la trama de terrorismo surge en él la noción de que los actos tienen consecuencias, así como la extensión del ámbito de sus preocupaciones a personas que no son él. Todo, obviamente, no así mascadito ni explicado tan mal como yo lo estoy haciendo, sino dejándose entrever en algún diálogo de los muchos (y geniales) que nutren toda la trama de terrorismo de alta costura.

Y el confeti.

Es que lo pienso y de los 90 no hay ningún otro libro que haya aguantado tan bien el paso del tiempo. Menuda obra maestra.

EDITO para añadir que llevo pensando varios días de qué me sonaba lo de las piezas dentales atrapadas en una estructura (pared, en este caso) y ya por fin caigo: eso también salía en El Quimérico Inquilino, de Roland Topor. Que, dicho sea de paso, tiene una atmósfera de paranoia muy del palo. Es que realmente Glamorama bien pudiera ser una actualización de esa novela.

TUTTO SAREBBE PIATTO E LUMINOSO E POP SE NON FOSSE COSÌ PRESTO


Fotografia di Steven Meisel

Manhattan è un grande set.
Ci sono troupe cinematografiche e televisive sparse nei vari isolati, si girano film, serie, pubblicità, comparse che gironzolano nell’attesa, luci piazzate, carrelli preparati, dolly montati, roulotte del trucco e camion per i costumi…
Si legge e vive in costante attesa della parola magica: Stop! (Cut!). Ma nessuno dice mai se è quello il ciak buono o tocca farne un'altro.
New York è un unico grande set formato da un mosaico di set diversi.

Un grande set è anche la nave da crociera, e Londra, così come Parigi…
Impossibile non concludere che il mondo intero sia un film che viene girato in tempo reale.
Piano piano, i personaggi diventano attori. E anche noi lettori. La vita è una recita a soggetto?



Helena Christensen lascia Michael Hutchence? Prince esce con Veronica Webb? Dio, che casino il mondo.

Ellis mi ha abituato a elenchi di abiti firmati, stilisti, profumi, creme, (non per niente qui, Victor, il protagonista io-narrante, legge articoli su un nuovo mascara), alcolici, locali, film, canzoni e cantanti, rock band e testi, mi ha abituato al name-dropping (Joan Didion è una dilettante in confronto): ma mai come questa volta, Glamorama supera tutti gli altri.
Elenchi che si snocciolano ripetendo la congiunzione “e” come un metronomo, intervallati a dialoghi dove esplodono il “ciao bello” e “ehi bella”, “hombre”, tipo “Bella, sei grande, ti prego – sei grandissima”, tipo come si parla tra amici, tipo nei locali, tipo per strada, ma solo strade chic, tipo Upper East Side per intenderci.
È un mondo che è bello se sei bello. Dove le risposte si cercano nei cartelli pubblicitari, e molti credono di trovarcele. Dove il miglior amico di Victor è uno specchio. Un mondo tipo:
Come se in questo mondo il cervello fosse più importante degli addominali. Ehi, chi ci crede alzi la mano.



È un mondo che si è lasciato alle spalle – anche se leggendo si fa fatica a crederlo – l’edonismo degli anni Ottanta. Che non è ancora approdato al tutti perennemente connessi e viva i social. Siamo negli anni Novanta, l’esibizionismo impera nel regno di Victor, ma ci sono ombre, minacce di ombre. Lo Xanax le tiene a bada, mischiando il tutto con dosi massicce di vodka, tequila et similia, allucinogeni, oppiacei, farmacie ambulanti, droghe a libera scelta.



Il cinema, si diceva. Anche in questo caso, mai come questa volta: eppure, nonostante un numero notevole di adattamenti cinematografici da sue opere, questa è rimasta inutilizzata, nessuno s’è arrischiato.
Vari personaggi, a cominciare da Victor, sembrano avere doppi, sosia, controfigure: li si scopre qui e là allo stesso tempo. Sarà per questo che Victor nega ostinatamente e ripetutamente di essere stato nei posti dove la gente dice di averlo visto? I personaggi sono in parte autonomi rispetto al film (o forse dovrei dire ai film? O magari è il caso di parlare di film-nel-film?) in ripresa, in parte invece sono dentro, vincolati, partecipanti. È come se fosse una doppia fiction: una letteraria - quella raccontata - l’altra cinematografica – quella recitata. Come dire, verità e finzione a braccetto, autenticità e messa-in-scena si sposano.



Ellis passa con aplomb e naturalezza, senza scomporsi, dalla descrizione minuziosa e macabra di torture e omicidi a quella di festini e party. Ovunque, in tutti gli ambienti, inclusi quelli esterni, fa molto freddo, il fiato si condensa: eppure l’aria condizionata va a palla.
E se si dovesse trovare una spiegazione alla storia di Victor, al suo percorso narrativo, quale sarebbe la risposta se non che è priva di senso – insensata – così come lo è il mondo che Ellis racconta, finto artificiale freddo, e senza senso.

"Reading Bret Easton Ellis' Glamorama is like being dragged down a vicious river. From the moment you've fallen in, the churning, tossing and tumbling confuses you so much that you don't even know where you are, and trying to escape is no longer a conceivable thought."

I wrote this late at night after I'd first started reading this book. It's a little dramatic, sure, but the book certainly had this kind of effect on me. The countless names of celebrities, trendy night clubs and places to have lunch threw me into a state of utter confusion, but I rarely thought of putting the book down.
This isn't my first Ellis endeavour. I've also read American Psycho and The Rules of Attraction. Is Glamorama the best? Certainly. Did it have the strongest effect on me? No doubt. Is it my favourite of the three? That, I don't know. Even though it's much better written, more exciting and sucked me in completely, I can't say whether I prefer this to American Psycho. I'm not sure why.
Possibly my reluctance to name this my favourite is because of how difficult it is to grasp what's going on. It is essentially a plot driven book, but with long breaks in between of strange abstract events that set it far apart from others into the Ellis realm. Glamorama's plot may not be so difficult were it not for the Protagonist Victor Ward. He's vapid, arrogant, careless and painfully ignorant. Sorry for the slur of adjectives, but I just can't leave one out. Victor is not a likable character. You'd hate him if you met him, so being stuck inside his head for 400+ pages shouldn't seem like an enjoyable read. This seems to be where Ellis succeeds. Awful characters that in the end, you can't help but at least sympathise and empathise with. I'm not sure how he does it, but Glamorama is a perfect example of this.
I read on another review that this book leaves nothing unexplained. Without spoiling anything, you should know that this isn't true. The ending left me very damn perplexed. But maybe I'm just an idiot.
I'll close by pointing out something every book lover is aware of: There are some books that grip you for a day or a week and are more or less forgotten after a few days. There are a lot of books like this, but there are some that remind us of why exactly it is that we read. Some books capture a life, a generation and let you live it for the duration of the book. While you read it, the book seems to take part in your daily life. You might quote the main character, wonder what they would do in your situation at times, or feel that the setting of your own life resembles that special book very clearly.
Stephen King's IT did this for me, and so did Glamorama. There are others, but why would you care to read my list of favourites? The point is, Bret Easton Ellis clearly worked exceptionally hard on this novel and it shows. Unfortunately, if you're not familiar with Ellis' work it may not have such an effect on you. You'd probably be forever asking, "What's the story, baby?"

A ratos es agotadora, excesiva pero tambien divertida y atrayente, un librazo de altos vuelos.

Meno di zero. Se si dovesse dare d'impulso un voto a questo libro, sarebbe questo il massimo attribuibile. Sebbene ci venga detto che il suddetto sia stato pensato, scritto, rieditato, tenuto in un cassetto a ribollire per lunghi anni di ripensamenti, il sospetto di una scrittura di maniera, fatta apposta per accontentare gli "ellisiani" e' troppo forte. Nessuna originalita' narrativa, nessun tentativo di superamento del del proprio passato stilistico. Solo la consueta, grande tecnica nei dialoghi, questo e' innegabile. Ma e' troppo poco, soprattutto perche la trama, esile trama, e' totalmente inverosimile e l'inverosimiglianza e' un peccato capitale per un libro del genere. Persino l'ultra violenza di Patrick Bateman di "American psyco" era piu' credibile di questi viziosi, ricchi modelli dinamitardi. Molto piu' interessante sarebbe stato percorrere fino in fondo il tema allucinante e inquietante dell'esistenza "in doppio", del Doppelgänger che forse ognuno di noi si tira dietro. Un Ellis piu' ispirato ne avrebbe fatto una chicca invece di lasciarlo solo intendere, tristemente abbozzato.

https://mikatchu.substack.com/p/well-...

This book needs to be cancelled fifty times in a row. It's just that good. Read it and you can be problematic, too!