Fanboys Anonymous

I don't usually read sci-fi books with any hope of discovering a great piece of literature. Even though I flirt with the genre, I've had many letdowns (with a few exceptions) in terms of fluidity, linguistic interest, and literary credibility. Ender's Game was no exception, but the story was so bizarre that maybe it was a good thing I was reading at a high school level.

I happened upon this novel at a bookstore 1 year after the movie was released. Apart from starring Harrison Ford, who is lucky enough to share his birthday with me, the movie didn't catch enough of my interest to watch it. The book, however, was mentioned to me a few times as one of the best in the category, so that in itself was enough to get me going. I warn you of a few possible spoilers as you read on.

This may sound pretentious, but I really felt the sting of obsolescence in the behavioral traits of most of the antagonistic characters. The bullying and some of the language in the beginning seemed very retro and remained so throughout the book. I really felt as though I were reading a text from the '70s and imagined a world of CRT screens and L.A.S.E.R. guns—although fortunately that did not turn out to be the case. The novel made a good comeback once some technology (quite advanced for 1985 when it was first published) found its way into the story and made it all easier to relate to—setting aside the painfully dusty term "Buggers" to describe the alien enemy force (called "Formics" in the movie).

It's no easy task to transcend the filters of time—to write a classic that shall be enjoyed for generations—but Ender's Game did it. There are references to items such as your everyday tablet (referred to only as "desk"), an intranet system with e-mail and chat, touchscreen technology, and even a highly developed video game AI that puts our generation of PS4s and X-Box Ones to shame. Since my copy is the final revision from 1991, there could have been some updates by the author since the first run.

This is all very secondary, of course. The story's protagonist is Ender Wiggin, a child prodigy in a not-too-distant future where the world finds itself in a dystopian society, suffering waves of attacks from the insect-like aliens, who function as a hive. Children are trained to be the best, the smartest, the quickest, and the bravest in this society, and Ender, an unlikely candidate, is chosen based on his behavior dealing with bullying at school.

A lot of psychology is involved in the introspection of each character, such as Ender and his two siblings who have flashes of brilliance and maturity in resolving intrapersonal issues. There is a prodigious growth and self-taught intelligence in the children, as opposed to the more strict and condescending attitude of the adults, who are mostly military in nature. This, however, is lost in the movie, where narration is gone and only the stern, determined attitude of the kids is portrayed, which can easily be interpreted as arrogant.

I have a theory that any story ever told is either a love story or a social experiment, and Ender's Game is the latter. A 12-year-old child is sent to the finest military academy to potentially become a commander to lead armies and fight the Buggers (wince). He does so, but what is interesting is the sheer openness in emotions and feelings that are contemplated. This isn't a book where it's just action and backstabbing. It's all about being human throughout the most analytical of situations.

In fact—major spoiler—the only way Ender defeats the Formics in the end is thinking that he is controlling an army in a simulation, when in truth it was the real thing all along. The instructors at the academy staged a "final test" so that Ender would not have any resentments at any point (which brings about my theory of Call of Duty and Battlefield never having been the subject of any censor or true restriction). If it's all a game, it's no harm, but in truth, it's a deadly training tool that could turn lethal when need be. This particular detail was well documented in the movie as it stayed true to the book.

The true merit of the story lies in the aftermath, which was respected in the movie as well. Ender discovers that a Formic queen has been communicating with him through his dreams, and she is the last survivor of an entire species. The whole time, the Formics simply couldn't communicate, hence the war. Ender was the first to establish proper contact, and he promises that he will take the queen to a world where they may flourish again—a debt that he must pay for destroying their world.

I have to say this is one of the more bizarre books I've read. Many things about it were oddball, but somehow, that made it really good. The story doesn't seem go anywhere for a while as it all takes place in academies and military schools, but it gets the message across. As for the movie, the loss of the narration has a heavy toll on the pace, but it's a good companion for the book. I understand perfectly if someone puts the film down if they haven't read the book; the richness of the written words is lost in adaptation, as there is nothing remarkable in the film. However, I found nothing wrong on behalf of the actors or director (aside from perhaps some haste in the pacing of the story).

Verdict? The book was better.

Often, the greatest works of art, through whatever medium or format, come to this world because stars align. I found this to be the case with Fight Club.

The author's afterword offers a better insight to the origins of the novel. It was a simple but well executed exercise in short story writing (thanks to a black eye the author received one summer), which earned it front-to-back treatment into a full-fledged book. Granted, it did not hit the #1 spot on The New York Times's bestseller list upon release, but when David Fincher came along, Fight Club became a household name—at least to oppressed, middle-class men with nothing to lose or fight for.

The film did wonders for Palahniuk's career, aiding in its takeoff and making his other books more notorious. The question is, was Fight Club, as a book on its own, really that great? Take into account that I have devoured the movie somewhere around 20 times in the past 10 years or so. Whether you liked it or not, the film is unquestionably a directorial masterpiece, but that is not our concern. In true bookworm fashion, let's dissect my edition's 218 pages and weigh its pros and cons.

It goes without saying, but, spoiler alert ahead.

Aside from the obvious Brad Pitt/Edward Norton/Helena Bonham-Carter association in my brain, I found it difficult to separate the movie's grittiness and imagery at first but gradually discovered that the book seemed far darker. Our nameless protagonist narrates the story but in such a way  his speech is never in quotations. Only the other characters' (including Tyler Durden) spoken lines are quoted, making us navigate the story from within the mind of the narrator. I felt strongly that this aspect gave us more proximity to the characters than the third-person approach of the movie.

A lot of one-liners made it to the silver screen directly out of the pages, along with many of the scenes. The fragmentation of events is made even more in-your-face by the insomniac telltale of the narrator, dipped in a split personality disorder that is subtly revealed, much like in the film, but the impact wasn't as dramatic carried out linguistically.

Unfortunately, maybe because I know every frame of the movie, I was unfazed by most of the literary version. Although it is the original story of Fight Club, it's almost like it was a rough draft for a movie script. The language itself isn't poor—far from it—but the book cuts through events too fast sometimes. It's as though the movie was meant to be.

The major differences are some closer looks at certain characters, such as Marla Singer, whom I found to be more involved with the narrator in the movie than in the novel. Some one-liners were a bit different and the homemade explosives are described in more detail.

What David Fincher turned the written words into is nothing short of genius. In fact, rumor has it Chuck Palahniuk likes the movie's ending over the book's, which had an unexpectedly upbeat view of life that completely contrasted everything written up until then.

This is a good read, for sure, but it's eclipsed by the Hollywood adaption. I'll give it a 3 out of 5. I watched the movie first, and this is not one of those cases where the book is better—clearly, I favor the film. The originality of the story, which is not about a fight club but rather what's in the frame: social disparity, loneliness, romanticism, and frustration add to the score. What do you think? Is the read better than the film? You are not the safety of your Internet-procrastinating silence—comment!

Sometimes there are works in writing that deserve praise for being so straightforward. Others deserve recognition for their subterfuge and double meanings. Bret Easton Ellis's 1991 novel American Psycho belongs to both of the aforementioned categories.

I have to admit that the 2000 Christian Bale-starred movie adaption of the book was plastered into my psyche (probably due to the actor's milestone performance), but as nearly every instance has proven, the book is usually more detailed (and better) than the film.

I won't say the book is better, but it feels like a different, new world than that of the silver screen adaption. For starters, we have a more in-depth accommodation when it comes to Patrick Bateman's mind. It's a front row seat into the careless and completely unbalanced psyche that is the Wall Street yuppie's world, narrated by him in the first person (and, on at least one occasion, third person). All that matters is the competition of dress wear, which starts out to be a very boring obsession on Bateman's behalf, but highlights his oncoming lunacy. At least every two or three pages, he must point out the minute details of what he or someone else is wearing, from a description of Oliver Peoples glasses to the specific fabric of an Armani v-neck sweater, or the price of a piece of Tiffany & Co. jewelry.

It is a dreary, boring affair to follow the steps of a person who is completely alienated, yet fits in with the elite of late 1980's New York City—seemingly. His obsessions, such as dress codes, the latest high-tech home appliances and subjects on The Patty Winters Show (the latter appears to be the only way Bateman keeps track of days), are a burden, and though they provide stress relief for our narrator, all of them prove to be a cage from which he is desperate to escape. The only way to do so is to apply a completely reckless approach towards his surroundings; daydreaming of slicing throats open, not knowing anyone's name with absolute certainty, and harassing and bullying the homeless.

The book should make some sort of progress when reaching its middle, but no—it's the same keen analysis of Patek Phillipe watches and lame show-off dialogue when Bateman is among peers. Even though I was aware of the satirical nature of the book, it only truly becomes clear when you happen upon the discography chapters, such as the Whitney Houston and Huey Lewis and The News 'discography reviews.' The severity of Bateman's obsessions are clear with the constant over-analysis of every corner in his life, from the food to the specific champagne glasses he and others drink from.

Wall Street is about competition, and in American Psycho it's no different. Bateman is at a constant race to be the best, though he is usually hopelessly behind in many self-imposed races against his social group. One of these is Dorsia, a restaurant measured as the pinnacle of New York City's finest dining experience. I actually laughed while reading this book on the bus when I came to the chapter where he discovers his date is the fiancee of  Dorsia's head chef; the description of his anguish and need to hurt what he cannot control becomes quite amusing at that point.

In literary terms, American Psycho can be somewhat progressive, with broken trains-of-thought and unfinished paragraphs, which manage to make very good sense if you are a fast reader—the lack of breathing room adds significantly to the character's social claustrophobia. This is an aspect the movie failed to deliver properly, only showing one scene in the end where he loses control and cries on the phone with his secretary.

One cannot read about a delusional serial killer without running into graphic details. The pornography is quite explicit in a few chapters, and shows Bateman's complete detachment from other people, including the women he has threesomes with, and then (not always) kills. The murder scenes are like a horror buff's essays, describing body parts and actions to go with them in precise detail, and where he will stash the bodies and parts.

These torture-kill scenes are written in such a manner as to act as a gateway into Bateman's innermost frailties and reveal him to be a babbling child at times, with complete desperation taking hold, only to find himself pulled together in the following paragraph at a banquet or the latest well-reviewed restaurant in the Zagat guide (probably Nell's or a nightclub like Tunnel). It wouldn't make too much difference: often, Bateman—and all other characters of his ilk for that matter—forget restaurant names, confuse each other's names, and don't really recall what they did the previous day because all is disposable and replaceable in this world.

It was no surprise to me when I researched a bit into Bret Easton Ellis's motivations for writing this book, and found quite the obvious; for the constant race in materialism is an empty affair, which led the author to become entrapped in his own observations whilst pandering to materialistic needs. This period of his life brought nothing at all, only distance from what seemed to be real happiness. Ellis only admitted to having much more in common with his main character in an interview in 2010, a good twenty years after writing the novel.

American Psycho, after all its endless flurry of daydreaming murders (which are logically daydreams, though that is never made absolutely clear), obsessions with appearances and upscale restaurants, brings to light a very good point from the author's point of view: if we are to consider the highest strata of society as something all should strive for, then we are going about life in the wrong way. The highest rung of New York City life is deceitful, coke-addled and narcissistic beyond repair. Patrick Bateman was only one point of view; a man who measures life exclusively in money and possessions (and quality thereof), and mocks those below him. Troubling, however, is the fact that many of his peers and colleagues usually behave in the same way, such as forgetting people's names, acting interested in the shallowest possible way, and only communicating through achievements in purchase, wealth, and reservations at Dorsia. It is a world where all of this is what people strive to achieve, only to realize there is no finish line, only empty indulgence.

This book rates a 4 out of 5 to me, not making it to full score because of the non-stop descriptions of couture, wool vests, and suitcase leather color. Although pivotal to understanding the narrator's narrow view on life, it seemed a bit much to me; otherwise, it is a very well written caricature of what the author saw in this lifestyle.Manhattan is also portrayed as what it really was: a contrast of rich and poor.

What do you think? Did the book convey a more detailed message than that of the movie? Or was the film faithful to the feel and pace of the book? Comment, then have dinner at Olive Garden. No, wait—Red Lobster. No, Olive Garden.