Glamorama

I have just finished reading Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis (BEE). all nearly 500 pgs. I have to call it a glorious failure; emphasis on glorious. One thing: it is highly sexy at times. It starts off as a satire on the world of clubs, fashion and film, inhabited by model-/actors, popstars etc., their lives fueled by drugs, drink, designer wear and, of course, sex. Our hero, Victor, a model/ actor/ club organiser in NYC, cannot string together one coherent sentence or express any sign of love in his communication with his girlfriend, supermodel Chloe, to save their relationship, meanwhile following his prick to a few other women. Unreality starts setting in when V is confronted with sightings of him at various places he has not been at. When the ground in NYC has become to hot to stand on, he accepts a commission to go to Europe and bring back a woman, who happens to be an old flame of his, though he is almost too thick to remember. Via London, where he meets her, he finds himself in Paris with her and a group of male and female models, who turn out to be model/ terrorists and bring about a number of high profile bombings, whilst making (sexually oriented) snuff movies on the side. Now the story is a thriller. All this brought (as if) in the context of a film that is being made, by a pair of film crews. What is real/ what is film? The end game is where Victor is entirely lost between double-crossing alies/ foes, or is it triple-crossing? His old flame whispers, whilst mortally wounded 'I am not (her supposed name.)' He finds himself stuck, as even his family in the US claim they have sighted him at breakfast that morning. All that: glorious. The 'failure' resides in the question: what is the point BEE is trying to make? It may have been lost in the amply detailed richness of the story.