“Imperial Bedrooms” has to be the ultimate Bret Easton Ellis novel. No, there is no satire present because a plot-driven noir and uber-violent spectacles imitating “American Psycho” and “Glamorama” are more important. Yes, everyone’s still rich and you’re going to hate all of them. No, he doesn’t make any nuanced list or make Huey Lewis and the News references.

Ellis made it a running theme of his interviews regarding the publication to basically disown “Less Than Zero” and deprecate himself by saying how uninteresting he is in comparison to this image readers have of him. Screw that. He loves it, and “Imperial Bedrooms” is a response to that. Interpretations that this novel isn’t as much a sequel as a career retrospective are absolutely correct. As someone who’s read through his chronology (for the most part) the latest installment is pure Meta. The humor here is absent in text only.

I came to this conclusion after watching the film adaptation of “The Informers”, his short story collection. Watching this is like being a resident of Mogadishu- it really sucks. It’s humorless and vapid. It is the work of someone who only concentrated on the glossy, glamorous elements of Ellis’s 1980s Los Angeles. These people have, in effect, become his target audience. They love celebrity, status and the novel value the 80s holds without irony- mostly on par with Ellis. Mostly. They’ve grown up appreciating the things Ellis spent his life scrutinizing. And now they have a new read as cool, as sleek as anything he’s ever written.

I didn’t like this novel at first. Now I love it. Congratulations, Bret. You’ve succeeded in mocking your audience.