By Matthew Savelloni
THE RULES OF SELF-INDULGENCE, OR, THE LITERARY CURE FOR INSOMNIA
I’ll admit, I am probably not the target audience for Bret Easton Ellis. I am far removed from the world of idle-rich, over-privileged yuppie larvae that populate his books and I have never, ever, tied a sweater around my shoulders. Therefore, I can summon little interest in the plight of his characters. THE RULES OF ATTRACTION is probably the best book I’ve read by Ellis, edging out the pretentious LESS THAN ZERO and the unreadable garbage of AMERICAN PSYCHO. In gastric terms, that’s like saying you enjoyed the haggis over the liver and onions.
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Camden College is a playground for the empty-headed and self-possessed. The novel opens and ends in mid-stream-of-conscious, connected by a spew of post-adolescent egomania that pretty much encompasses the flimsy breadth of the story. The “plot” as it were is as follows: Lauren wants to fuck Victor. Sean wants to fuck Lauren. Paul wants to fuck Sean. Surrounding this staggering exercise in creativity is a circus of drugs, dispassionate fucking, alcohol, more drugs and enough navel-gazing to make you wish these pathetic “Beautiful People” really existed so you could look them up and beat the fucking snot out of them.
I’m purposely writing like a longshoreman with a two-day hangover because that is what Ellis obviously believes is impressive or “cool” composition. Ultimately, his satire boils down to holding a mirror up to the franchised class, reflecting their indulgent lifestyle with as much shock value as possible and asking us, the audience, to study their predicament. Unfortunately, I think the honest reaction from any audience outside of the aristocracy and pseudo-intellectuals is “We don’t care.” In this day and age, detached youths and their liberal use of “fuck”, cocaine and promiscuous sex are not shocking, not bodacious and seriously inconsequential. These actions do not shock, mystify or demand your attention. They are not worthy of worship or disdain. They are simply white noise. Perhaps back in the Reagan-era, this type of satire meant something but today, we know there are larger, more vital themes at risk in the big bad world.
Ellis, however, is a keen writer. He has a distinct ear for dialogue. There is no doubt he knows these young adults. The novel smacks of authenticity but it’s that very familiarity that tuckers the reader out. I do not believe Ellis is glamorizing these people. And he does not completely excuse their behavior as a result of the growing cynicism and ambivalence in modern society. It’s almost a cautionary tale about the degradation of each succeeding young generation. Every major writer since Fitzgerald and Kerouac has tried to encapsulate their respective generation but the fatal flaw in such an endeavor is that every person, despite their similarities, is unique. Sure, there are trends, fads and tendencies, but each means something different from Boston to Junction City to Portland. Therefore, the universality of the commentary is inherently weak and incomplete.
Reading THE RULES OF ATTRACTION is still like listening to a friend whine about an old girlfriend or attending a concert by one of these coffee-house singers strumming an acoustic guitar to a tepid, mid-tempo folk tune poeticizing an idyllic love that eludes them. The best art is that which distances, distracts, intensifies or concurs with an individual’s links to the human experience. Art like THE RULES OF ATTRACTION and those Bob Dylan wannabes annoyingly claim that their subjective situations are more significant than everybody else’s situation.
In response to that, we can paraphrase Bret Easton Ellis: “Fuck you, too.”
“Eat the Rich, Eat the Rich, Don’t You Know, Life Is A Bitch!” – Krokus
The inhabitants of THE RULES OF ATTRACTION never took to heart phrases like “Life is not a bowl of cherries,” “Like sucks,” or “Life isn’t fair.” Nobody from the working classes ever punched these preppies in the nose. They never watched that old Saturday Night Live skit about The Whiners. Their parents didn’t kick them in the ass. They haven’t struggled to pay the rent or make the car payment. They always get what they want and in failing to have to work to achieve something, they do not value it. In other words, they have never suffered. If I were to write the commencement speech for Camden College, it would last 10 simple words: “If you think like sucks now, wait ‘til you graduate.”
Unfortunately, the novel that embodies this detestable crew is just as aimless. Fearing that I would sound too much like a philistine, I skimmed through the book again, trying to harvest some more insight into the plot, characterization or subtext of THE RULES OF ATTRACTION. But those fields are barren. I wish I could comment additionally on the story but as far as I could tell, there is none. Well-written exploitation is still just that, exploitation. The fatuousness of the novel is on par, if not exceeding, the triviality of its players, which perhaps is Ellis’ point. If so, there is still no motivation for any reader to endure such a trip, for how needful, engaging or significant is an excursion through a void? Ellis leads us on a glib tour but with half-hearted luster. The best name for this novel would have been THE RULES OF DISTRACTION. As you read it, just about anything will call your attention away from the wearisome words on the page: an interesting shadow on the ceiling, the curious shape of your toes, a cuticle. It’s like reading a travel brochure on a destination you will never visit out of sheer disinterest: the words grace your eyes and are just as quickly forgotten.
Lacking substance, THE RULES OF ATTRACTION might have redeemed itself through sheer entertainment value but alas, despite some wicked one-liners and scattered soap opera histrionics, any hope for base pleasures is quickly dashed as the reader slogs through page after page of first person blithering. The reader is constantly reminded that these characters are slight in every aspect of their existence. The prose reads like some half-remembered bender from a pie-eyed professor with one too many whiskey sours in his bloodstream; sniveling self-pity as worn out as the patches on his tweed sport coat. Ellis’ focus wavers during the transparent course of his “story.” He writes with conviction; this obviously was, or is, Bret Easton Ellis’ world. How do I know? Because his name is Bret Easton Ellis. Each of those names on their own conjures images of country clubs, family trees whose seeds were sown on the Mayflower and affluent Connecticut suburbs. Strung together, they might as well be the name of a road that desperately wants to connect West and East Egg but has been closed indefinitely because of fathomless potholes.
THE RULES OF A MOVIE – CAST YOUNG, CAST HIP, HOPE THOSE UNDER 17 CAN SNEAK IN
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I’m not sure what to think about the upcoming THE RULES OF ATTRACTION film. Roger Avary is an Oscar-winner for having co-scripted PULP FICTION with Quentin Tarantino. He is also the man responsible for KILLING ZOE, MR. STITCH and the forthcoming PHANTASM’S END (number 5 in the series for those counting). Even if you’ve never seen any of those films (very likely), his PULP FICTION pedigree keeps the jury at bay at least for another film. Possibly, Avary has never been given the chance to spread his wings like he did during his collaboration with Tarantino. I don’t want to speculate. I’m simply reserving judgment until THE RULES OF ATTRACTION premieres. RULES…is Avary’s baby. He directed it and adapted it from the insipid novel. And if anybody can polish up this turd and create a delirious romp out of such an insignificant exercise, the man partially responsible for the magisterial PULP FICTION is the one for the job.
Avary has cast RULES…young and randy. The list of actors reads like a Teen Beat wet dream: James Van Der Beek (DAWSON’S CREEK), Shannyn Sossamon (A KNIGHT’S TALE), Ian Somerhalder (LIFE AS A HOUSE), Jessica Biel (7th HEAVEN), Kip Pardue (REMEMBER THE TITANS), Kate Bosworth (BLUE CRUSH), Thomas Ian Nicholas (AMERICAN PIE), and Clare Kramer (BRING IT ON). The average age is somewhere around zygote. Faces like Eric Stoltz, Fred Savage and Swoosie Kurtz (three stolid reminders of the 80’s milieu this project conjures) seem like relics from another age. Faye Dunaway could be everyone’s grandmother. In other words, there is no one onscreen to compel anybody over the age of 18 to see this film. At the same time, even the greatest of the great start somewhere and I applaud Avary and his cast for the courage to embrace the R rating in a time when everything, and I do mean everything, has to be PG-13 at its worst. The MPAA warns against “strong sexual content, drug use, language and violent images.” The questions remain, however, will this just be an exercise in shock value or will Avary conduct a more vigorous examination, celebration and/or condemnation of the hedonistic lifestyle? In other words, will Avary make a stand Ellis seemed incapable or uninterested in making?
I must admit, I’ve never seen frame one of anything Van Der Beek has done. For that matter, I haven’t seen 99% of the film and television work of the entire cast. At least in Van Der Beek’s case, RULES…is an opportunity he can’t pass up. If he’s looking to not only make the leap to features but to also shatter that guy-next-door rap inherited from a teenybopper soap, Avary has given him the best chance he might ever get to accomplish both.
I honestly don’t know what to predict about THE RULES OF ATTRACTION film. I hated the book utterly and there is not one face here with which I am even vaguely acquainted. Then again, sometimes when your expectations are rock bottom, that’s when you get the biggest surprise. I suffered through the 80’s. I have no intention of reliving that blighted era. This type of DEAD POETS/SCHOOL TIES drama should have been mothballed around the time we sent good old Ronnie to the rest home. Here’s hoping Avary and friends can make me forget I ever wasted a second of my life reading THE RULES OF ATTRACTION.
“When love is in excess it brings a man nor honor nor any worthiness.” –Euripides, THE MEDEA
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