Rick Moody has had pretty decent luck in Hollywood — The Ice Storm turned out well on the screen — but it’s hard to figure what the town will make of his latest novel. For starters, it’s about the ”industry,” revolving around a lowly D-girl at a New York indie studio who makes up a bogus script treatment (about Mongolian Huns with divining rods, no less) that suddenly becomes the most buzzed-about property on both coasts. It’s an entertaining ride to be sure, an energetic (and highly literary) romp through the corrupt corridors of film and TV production. Think Jonathan Franzen meets Budd Schulberg. Trouble is, despite all his offbeat plot twists and writerly pyrotechnics, Moody doesn’t create a single character you care much about. And that’s going to be a big problem for anyone trying to turn the story into a movie — not to mention anyone reading this book.