In general I am always suspicious of books on which the name of the author appears in font twenty times the size of the title. This usually signals that the serial-novelist’s bid for a literary franchise of excessive plot and little substance can be found inside. This is not the case with Bret Easton Ellis’ “Imperial Bedrooms.”

As it turns out, the plot is one of this novel’s more anemic aspects. In this sequel to the scandalous 1985 novel “Less Than Zero,” Clay, an established screenwriter, returns to LA after a number of years in New York. He begins to reconnect with his old crowd of friends, though the years have wrought some serious schisms between them. He falls for a beautiful yet remarkably generic young actress who entangles him in a sinister plot, the scope of which seems to include nearly everyone he knows.

Mr. Ellis proves a witty and astute chronicler. His style is harsh and unflinchingly frank, but his shockingly direct prose is tempered by a certain lightness, which turns even the most distasteful of encounters into a thing of poetry.

He employs a keen human insight to play on his readers’ appetite for darkness. Subsequently, he appeals to our base human fascination with pain and perversion, drawing us along with his protagonist into the kind of maze of dark desire we would expect from the author of 1991’s blood-soaked “American Psycho.”

This first person narrative relies on Clay as a guide through the corrupt and pandering world of the LA movie industry. Through him we see the falseness and predictability of all those around him. However, as the story continues we are slowly allowed to discover what Clay himself is capable of. The reader is left unsettled and uncertain of who, if anyone, can be trusted in this story.

Clay is certainly the only compelling character in the novel; the others are little more than shadows. The young woman, Rain, is too ordinary to hold any real interest.

The interest lies in why Clay is so obsessed with her, and in the things he feels compelled to do to her and for her. As a screenwriter he is in a position to help Rain secure a part in a movie, and his unique form of sexual blackmail provides the first clues to his truly disturbing proclivities.

Clay’s relationship with the mysterious and shadowy Rain weaves him into a John Grisham-esque conspiracy from which it seems he may not emerge alive. His drug dealer, Rip Millar, warns him to stay away from her, and he finds himself being followed by strange cars and receiving sinister messages. It all remains quite darkly glamorous in a sex-drugs-and-Hollywood kind of way.

However, the suspense-thriller aspect is not terribly well constructed and really only exists to shed light on Clay’s character. Why does he stay? The reader is much more interested in solving the mystery of Clay than in solving the mystery of who is behind it all.
The last scenes unleash Clay in all his sociopathic glory (again, think “American Psycho”). He relates the horrifying events with chilling apathy. The sharp reality of the ending provides a contrast to the rather flimsy construction of earlier events.

Mr. Ellis makes it clear that we have arrived at the heart of the matter. This is the person we have followed from the beginning; this is the character we have trusted.

At only 169 pages this is not a novel you have to live with for very long, and perhaps that is for the best. Though exciting, to remain for too long inside Mr. Ellis’ head might be unwise or even unsafe. He is a psychologically frightening, if impressive, storyteller and where he leads, the reader follows at his own risk.