In the horror world, Chandler Morrison is undoubtedly best known for the notorious Dead Inside, the shocking and graphic tale of the relationship between a cannibal and a necrophiliac. This particular story hits the extremes of literature and the author’s subsequent releases have shown restraint in comparison. This is a wise move, as Dead Inside is impossible to top or follow, alternatively Morrison’s more recent work explores the sleazier elements of Los Angeles, which is a recurring theme of his

I have read a fair bit of his output and find his non-horror fiction, along with his Los Angeles obsession, endlessly fascinating and unnervingly voyeuristic. His novella #thighgap is another outstanding recent example of his non-traditional horror work, featuring an anorexic model who could easily have been a character in his new book American Narcissus. This is best summed up as a sleazy snapshot of a loosely connected group of characters drifting through life, picking apart their anxieties, desires and faults. Nobody is happy (this is a Chandler Morrison novel after all), most have drug problems and lead seemingly empty lives bouncing from party to bed to drug or a mixture of all three. There is nothing particularly original about this story, exploring the lifestyles of the rich in Los Angeles is as old as the hills, but Morrison has his own unique in-your-face, near-documentary style, which is impossible not to find captivating or unnerving.

It is also worth noting American Narcissus might be Morrison’s most mainstream novel to date, and although there are moments when it teeters on the brink of going too far, compared to his earlier work it is relatively mild without losing any of the bleakness or cynicism. However, it is still sexually graphic, grubby, exploitative, and peppered with every drug known to man but lacks some of the extreme filth which makes Along the Path of Torment so disturbing.

American Narcissus deliberately lacks a central plot and is stylistically built around failed relationships or those looking for love and comfort in the wrong places. The story drifts in and out of the lives of four Los Angeles locals, who are struggling with relationships which are surely doomed to fail. This is car crash stuff, which has a certain inevitability to proceedings, but it is difficult to turn away from the page. Due to the elevated level of detachment from the lives of the protagonists the novel tracks, you are unlikely to care much for what happens to them. That is probably the point.

Baxter Kent is so addicted to porn he can no longer connect with real women or form lasting relationships. By chance, he finds an incredibly realistic sex doll (a prototype owned by his father) which he borrows and becomes obsessed with. This is as funny as it is seedy as Baxter spirals further and further away from reality into infatuation and God knows what.

Baxter is old friends with Arden Coover, who at the start of the novel returns home after finishing a philosophy degree. He is completely directionless, has a terrible drug problem, and believes a new relationship with an older woman will either save or fix him. Although none of the four characters have much in the way of redeeming qualities, Arden is particularly pathetic and a real loser, albeit a rich one.

Arden’s younger sister Tess is drop-dead gorgeous and knows it (Baxter thinks she is almost as gorgeous as one of his perfect porn dreams) and spends her time aimlessly moving from party to party. Her narrative is built around dating an extraordinarily successful (and much older author) referred to as ‘The Writer’, who is too famous to be cancelled. I couldn’t make my mind up whether he is based upon a genuine author. Tess pretends not to have read all his novels, when in actual fact she is as obsessed with him as all the other young groupies who hound him (as she once did). There is a certain inevitability to how this narrative plays out, but I did not buy into the conclusion 100%, as the girl is just too selfish and self-obsessed for me to swallow how it finishes.

Finally, there is Ryland Richter, an insurance executive with both an alcohol and drug problem, who falls under the spell of an alluring junior worker in his office who has her own problems. This has toxic disaster written all over it, and you know things are not going to end well. Society may well have moved on from the sort of revenge Glen Close dishes out in Fatal Attraction, as there are much worse horrors lurking in the digital age than boiling rabbits.

In the background, huge wildfires approach Los Angeles, but the characters American Narcissus focuses on are too self-centred to even notice or care. Why does literature give such deeply unpleasant characters such as these so much page time and why are we endlessly fascinated with them? I do not know the answer, but within the boundaries of a Chandler Morrison novel, I would expect nothing less. Bleak, unforgiving, compelling and grimy as hell.