So on Monday, I have the day off work and I wake up at Scott’s house and secretly hoping that he doesn’t get up, I sneak out of the bedroom and into the living room so I can watch my own choice of TV and not the crappy TV that Scott makes us watch.
And my own choice of TV includes such amazing programmes as The Simpsons, Family Guy, American Dad, America’s Next Top Model, Frasier, Girls of the Playboy Mansion (aka The Girls Next Door if you’re in America) Malcolm in the Middle, generally anything ridiculous and/or mindless. And Scott’s choice of TV includes such atrocious programmes as How London Was Built, What the Tudors Did for Us, anything on the Discovery Channel, anything on the History Channel, anything factual and dull.
Then unfortunately Scott gets up so I get dressed and go home, but not before stopping at M&S to pick up another chocolate cheesecake, which I finish eating in front of my TV despite the fact that it’s making me sick, very sick, but very happy.
Later in the evening, I’m unfortunate enough that the movie adaptation of Less Than Zero comes on one of the movie channels on my Greek satellite TV.
I’ve started watching this movie several times before and I’ve never made it past the first 10 minutes, I just find it too painful. This is not what the book looks like in my head, and what goes on in my head is the most important thing there is. Tonight, however, I’m feeling particularly self-destructive and I keep watching.
The main character, Clay (the literary character I most associate with) is played by this guy called Andrew McCarthey, who’s glass-eyed and vacant, no because he’s dead inside (like the best of us), but because nothing has actually gone wrong in his life.
Within the first five minutes “Clay” has arrived in California and got into a taxi to get home, and the twat of an actor who plays him is looking around wide-eyed, expectant and, dare I say it, grinning. There, I’ve said it, he’s grinning.
The fact that he’s wide-eyed though annoys me the most. I, personally, have never opened my eyes fully for anything, and neither has Clay in the book (as I imagine him). In fact, if I were ever tempted to open up my eyes wide, I would take some Valium and lie down.
Then, other characters appear (Blair, Julian) and they are played by actors so unfitting, I can’t bear to watch anymore. There, I’ve made it to 18 minutes and I feel kinda dirty.
I’m quite convinced that Bret Easton Ellis must be appalled by the movie adaptations of his books. Mind you, if anyone wants to turn my story into a movie, they can give me the cash and then they can go on and cast whoever they want to play me, Scott, Donnell, et al: Danny De Vito, the old lady from Titanic, Whoopi Goldberg, I just won’t give a fuck.