The centre of the world: 1990s Manhattan. Victor Ward, a model with perfect abs and all the right friends, is seen and photographed everywhere, even in places he hasn’t been and with people he doesn’t know. On the eve of opening the trendiest nightclub in New York history, he’s living with one beautiful model and having an affair with another. Now it’s time to move to the next stage. But the future he gets is not the one he had in mind.
‘A master stylist with hideously interesting new-fangled manners and the heart of an old-fashioned moralist’ Observer
‘Gets under the skin of our celebrity culture in a way that is both illuminating and frightening’ Daily Telegraph
‘Does for the cold, minimal ’90s what American Psycho did for the Wall Street greed of the ’80s. You name it, he manages to get it all in’ Vogue
‘Brilliant . . . He is fast becoming a writer of real American genius’ GQ
Review From Publishers Weekly
The evil twin of fellow brat-packer Jay McInerney’s Model Behavior, Ellis’s (The Informers) bad trip through glitterary New York has everything his fans (and critics) have come to expect: graphic sex, designer drugs, rock ‘n’ roll allusions, splatterpunk violence and characters as deep as 8″x10″ glossies. Protagonist Victor Ward, a “model-slash-loser,” is opening his own trendy Manhattan club while cheating on his supermodel girlfriend and back-stabbing his partner. After some adventures in clubland, the plot takes a turn for the paranoid. Victor is recruited by a mysterious figure, F. Fred Palakon, to track down a former girlfriend gone missing in London. There he becomes unwillingly drawn into a terrorist group?run, like so much else in the novel, by a supermodel?that bombs fashionable hangouts, hotels and jetliners. Throughout, Ellis clutters his hallmark proper-noun realism with excessive name-dropping and strung-out plotting. The satirist in Ellis seems to want to indict celebrity-obsessed, materialistic and superficial contemporary culture. With this novel he, perhaps unwittingly but certainly ironically, provides Exhibit A. 100,000 first printing.
Review From Amazon
Glamorama is a satirical mass-murder opus more ambitious than Bret Easton Ellis’s 1990 American Psycho. It starts as a spritz-of-consciousness romp about kid-club entrepreneur Victor Ward, “the It boy of the moment,” an actor-model up for Flatliners II. Ellis has perfect pitch for glam-speak, and he gives nightlife the fizz, pace, and shimmer it lacks in drab reality. Anyone could cite the right celeb names and tunes, but like a rock-polishing machine, his prose gives literary sheen to fame-chasing air-kissers. He’s coldly funny: when Victor’s girl tries to argue him out of a breakup, she angrily snorts six bumps of coke, stops, mutters, “Wrong vial,” snorts four corrective doses from whatever she has in her other fist, then objects to a rival at the party wearing the same dress she’s wearing.
You had to be there; Ellis makes you feel you are. But such satire is a very smart bomb targeting a very large barn. Models’ status anxiety doesn’t merit Ellis’s Tom Wolfe-esque expertise. Glamorama gets better when Victor gets drafted into a mysterious group of model-terrorists who bomb 747s and the Ritz in Paris, wearing Kevlar-lined Armani suits. Oh, they still behave like shallow snobs, pronouncing “cool” as if it had 12 o’s. But now when somebody swills Cristal, it’s apt to be poisoned, to horrific effect, which Ellis expertly, affectlessly describes. His enfant-terrible debut, Less Than Zero, aped Joan Didion. Now Ellis has grown into a lesser Don DeLillo–and that’s high praise. –Tim Appelo