Oh, Manchester, So Much To Answer For

time out of mind: have been working my way through bret easton ellis' american psycho, and last night, I caught most of the film of the book, on cinemax. wow. after the film, the phrase "time out of mind" kept running through my head, along with not dylan's album, but the steely dan song of the same name (from the underrated gaucho), all california gloss and razor-sharp lyrics. I was primarily amazed at how the film adaptation got it, saving the nuance and shadow of easton ellis' novel, preserving its bitter, pickled jaundice for future generations. the novel itself is a work of great satire (or is it?) anyway, lacerating the '80s wall street-era like never before or since; patrick bateman is to reagan-era greed as holden caufield is to existentialist teen angst in the '50s. with the exception of glamorama, I'm now prepared to proclaim bret easton ellis as one of the finest, most acutely observant novelists of the last 20 years. [on the same note: if you can find it, anywhere, grab a copy of the audiobook of less than zero. it's read by kevin bacon, at the time one of the great 20-something actors of his generation, and he reads it as if he truly understands it. a marvelous, mannered performance on par with robert downey, jr.'s as julian, in the film version.]