If there is an inherent pretentiousness which [Lou] Reed usually manages to avoid in the role of romantic outcast, chances are that David Bowie … will both seek it out and exploit it. More a masterful manipulator of media than a creditable creative figure, Bowie, whom critic Frank Rose has aptly dubbed "the first space-age bisexual Deco superstar," has fabricated his fame primarily by flitting from one threadbare, mock-serious philosophical stance to another without truly embracing any of them. Sensitive artiste, space baby, glitter queen, neo-Nazi supergod, disco robot, Cabaret cadaver—pick any two and then try to figure out whether any real relationship beyond a chic and timely theatricality exists between them. Is there a happy ending? I don't think so.

While a majority of critics would seem to have wagered their superlatives on the Great Pretender's allegedly uncanny intellect, art-rock lyrics, and avant-garde visual flair, this writer...