Bret Easton Ellis’ books look like they should be perfect material for the screen. They’re filled with beautiful, amoral young things, designer clothes, pop music, lashings of drugs and casual sex, horrific violence and the sun-drenched landscape of California. His characters inhabit a world already saturated with images drawn from film and television. His fiction helped define the sensibility of the MTV generation, while cribbing liberally from it.
Yet Ellis has proved surprisingly difficult to get right in visual adaptation.
