"…in bed with her I could hardly contain
myself. I would fuck her quickly the first time so I could get off, then spend
hours eating her, licking, constantly sucking… my tongue would ache, become
swollen from rubbing my mouth, digging my chin into her, my mouth getting so
dry I couldn't even swallow, and I'd lift my head up and actually gasp for
breath…"
"…the sex is only okay and even if he's not so
great in bed, at least he's imaginative. Yet he doesn't turn me on. No real
orgasms. (Well, maybe a couple.) Just because he's so damned insistent.
(Contrary to popular belief, being eaten out for two hours straight is not my
idea of a good time.)"
—Sean on Lauren and Lauren on Sean, from Bret
Easton Ellis' The
Rules Of Attraction
The subtext of 99 percent of movies is "love me,
love me, love me." And why not? It's only natural for filmmakers to want to
ingratiate themselves to the audience, and make some sort of connection with
them. That's entertainment. Based on his two features as a director, Roger
Avary represents the other 1 percent, the movies that are nasty and unpleasant
and couldn't give a shit about respectability. The same year he won an Oscar
for co-writing Pulp Fiction with Quentin Tarantino—making him perhaps
the least likely Oscar-winning screenwriter ever—Avary turned out Killing
Zoe,
which tackled the heist genre with all the bloody brio of Tarantino's Reservoir
Dogs, but
minus the quotation marks. It's raw, unvarnished, and unapologetically
sadistic, with a lead character (Eric Stoltz) who's only heroic relative to the
amoral, drug-addled numbskulls he's forced to run with.
It was perhaps only a matter of time before Avary
hooked up with Bret Easton Ellis, whose pitiless chronicles of youthful excess
in books like Less Than Zero and American Psycho have gotten him branded
as a misogynist, a nihilist, and an all-around literary bad boy. But here's the
thing about Avary and Ellis: Look past the extreme ugliness and indulgence in
their work—and granted, that takes a lot of squinting—and they're
both moralists at the core, denoting the emotional (and sometimes mortal)
damage inflicted by people who have no values. Take Stoltz's thief in Killing
Zoe:
Here's a professional who isn't above sleeping with prostitutes, freebasing
with his buddies, and generally terrorizing the Parisian populace. But Avary
makes it clear that there are lines he will not cross, even if it means putting
hos before bros in the end.
Ellis' second novel, The Rules Of Attraction, was extraordinarily difficult
to bring to film. For one, filming anything of Ellis' automatically loses the
filmmaker a sizable chunk of critical and commercial support; Mary Harron's
2000 adaptation of American Psycho was miraculously good, yet it opened to polarized
reviews and didn't find its sizable cult appreciation until home video. (And
yes, it's a future New Cult Canon candidate.) For many, the characters and
scenes in Ellis' books are just unforgivably grotesque: Why care about the
misdeeds and misadventures of a bunch of crude, privileged materialists hell-bent
on self-destruction? Sure, Ellis has a talent for getting inside their heads,
but if there's nothing redeemable to discover within their primitive thought
processes, why bother? To some degree, Avary was doomed before he even sat down
at the typewriter.
And those are just the problems outside of Avary's
control. The Rules Of Attraction presented a host of other challenges on the
journey from page to screen, most notably a first-person style that volleys
from one person's diary-like perspective to another's. Sometimes, they have
overlapping points of view on the same events—as in the passages quoted above—and
other times, they trail off into the intimate reaches of the characters'
bruised psyches. Whatever the case, it's exactly the sort of fiction that isn't supposed to be made into
movies, because so much of the crucial information is internal. The book
burrows deeply (and often uncomfortably) into the private obsessions and
desires of college kids, and the trick for Avary was to find ways to smoke them
out into the open. Because just showing what happens in The Rules Of
Attraction
would mean presenting a plotless, shapeless mélange of couplings and
uncouplings, and not much of a movie.
Though by no means a complete success, Avary's
take on The Rules Of Attraction is inspired and vibrant where many more wholly
accomplished films are not. Avary's characters never transcend their surface
shallowness—or, more to the point, have their shallowness as precisely
defined as it needs to be—but he does come up with creative and often
wondrously cinematic solutions in the translation. In Ellis' book, Camden
College, a nondescript New England liberal-arts school, is a never-ending
kegger where lost souls gather to get wasted and screw, satisfying some desires
while more meaningful love connections go unrequited. The themes of the parties
change (The End Of The World Party, The Dress To Get Screwed Party, Thirsty
Thursdays, The Pre-Saturday Night Party Party), but they're more or less the
same, except with new sexual pairings taking their turn in the rotation.
Sean (James Van Der Beek), Lauren (Shannyn
Sossamon), and Paul (Ian Somerhalder), the three navel-gazing protagonists, are
like the wrong ends of a magnet, always repelling the people they care about
the most. The prissy, bisexual Paul longs for oblivious chest-thumper Sean, who
in turn pursues the virginal Lauren, who spends much of her time pining for callow
horndog Victor, who's chasing skirts all over Europe. None of them are within
reach of the other, so they're doomed to drift around in a
drug-or-alcohol-fueled stupor, subjecting themselves to endless disappointment
and degradation.