So it goes without saying that when I cracked open Ellis’ much-anticipated follow-up to his cutting-edge debut this chilly summer, I was on pins and needles. The only guarantee was that this new narrative would follow the exploits of Clay, Julian, Blaire and Rip some 25 years later in their middle-age. Self-consciously ignoring the 1987 film’s version of events (which had little to do with the novel) “Imperial Bedrooms” once again begins with Clay returning to L.A. from the east coast during the Christmas holiday – now as a successful screenwriter. The reason for his reluctant trip is to help cast his latest screenplay, and it is here that he meets Rain Turner, a young, desperate actress (is there any other kind?) who catches his eye despite her lack of talent. It’s because of Clay’s additional producer credit that Rain throws herself at him, and in keeping with his insinuated past, Clay is more than happy to use and be used. The venal yin-yang of Hollywood is thrown off balance when Clay “makes the mistake of starting to care” for the girl. It should come as no surprise that Clay’s version of “caring” basically translates to force-feeding her tequila and Xanax while screwing her 24/7 as she’s crying.

Ellis may be many things, but a hopeless romantic he is not.

Because Clay gets attached (ie, obsessed) with the young actress, he accidentally makes himself the target of a paranoid conspiracy of sorts that involves an escort service and a string of murders that may or may not be connected. Cars begin following him day and night, and mysterious text messages prod him into a constant “fear” that he can’t shake no matter how much vodka he sucks down. From the Griffith Observatory to the Santa Monica Pier, Clay is pursued by forces he’s not sure he wants to comprehend… and quite frankly, neither did I.

Here’s a paraphrased example of dialogue between any two characters in the book on just about any page:

CHARACTER 1: What’s going on?

CHARACTER 2: You don’t want to know.

CHARACTER 1: Yes I do.

CHARACTER 2: Why?

CHARACTER 1: Because.

CHARACTER 2: But you already know.

CHARACTER 1: I do?

CHARACTER 2: What do you think?

CHARACTER 1: Whatever.

If Ellis wasn’t taking himself so seriously, this might all come across with an ounce of subversive levity, but this is supposed to be his version of a Chandler mystery / thriller. Blah. After reaching new heights with “Lunar Park”, Ellis seems to go out of his way to devolve back to 1985 and the result is Less Than Stellar. The author’s L.A. is still a cruel mecca “where there’s so much bitterness, anything is possible” and yet nothing really interesting ever happens. As per usual with most of his novels, there’s a rash of disappearing characters, cryptic threats, violent snuff films, grotesque sexual abuse and a total lack of any positive emotion within the narrator (yawn). Can Hollywood be a manipulative and despairing place? Certainly. But in Ellis’ world, this sentiment becomes an impenetrable barrier: no one is ever happy and nothing good can ever happen. The story all too efficiently goes nowhere fast at a lean 169 pages. As Julian says at one point, “This isn’t a script. It’s not going to add up. Not everything’s going to come together in the third act.”

Unfortunately for the reader, Julian’s statement proves prophetic. Ominous foreshadowing of a secret cult and a sadistic drug cartel are only ever flirted with, but never paid off. Ellis assumes that leaving mysteries unsolved is a mark of craftsmanship, but the novel’s lack of satisfying resolution is more anemic than provocative. After all, what good are things like “mood” and “atmosphere” if they don’t shade-in a cohesive story? I’m not saying there should have been a Happy Ending, you’re a fool if you go into an Ellis novel expecting one, but a modicum of logic would have sufficed – even if the narrator is constantly whacked on drugs and alcohol.

The single most clever device the author has brought to the table this time around? Texting has replaced cocaine. Addiction has turned technological and is no less destructive in Ellis’ world. Not too shabby. But when a narrative’s climax revolves around feeding a young prostitute laxative-laced cupcakes and then fist-raping her, there’s a part of me that empathizes with the prostitute for having dropped $25 on this pointless book. So Ellis ends up turning Clay into Patrick Bateman… so what? As the narrator says at one point about the actress he’s abusing, “Afterward she says she feels disconnected from reality. I tell her it doesn’t matter”.

Well, quite frankly, neither does “Imperial Bedrooms”.