Before it was an OK film it was a fabulously precocious and obviously highly-autobiographical first novel by literary wunderkind Martin Amis. Self-indulgent, but very enjoyable for those of us young enough not to know better; that is, to pretend that we identify more completely with the protagonist than we possibly really can because he's so damn clever. Therein lies the problem: he's kinda hard to care about. An easier novel to admire than love, and a sign of things to come for old Mart. (Kingsley Amis, his father, hated it. I think.)