Category Archives: Dystopian

The Year of the Flood – Margaret Atwood

flood

Yippee! It wasn’t long after I finished Oryx and Crake before I got my hands on The Year of the Flood – the second instalment in Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy. Published six years after Oryx and Crake, it seemed Atwood felt there was a little more backstory to be explored in Jimmy and Crake’s surreal world, so, as I was expecting, the story jumped back to the beginning. Instead of focusing on Jimmy again, The Year of the Flood tells the life stories of two women: Toby, a woman raised in the ‘pleeblands’ (the bottom of the pile, so to speak) and trapped as a sex worker before joining a vegan and naturalistic cult, the God’s Gardeners, and Ren, a much younger woman who joins the same cult as a child and grows up happily within it, before leaving with her emotionally distant mother and eventually turning to sex work herself. Sounds pretty dark, and parts of it were. Oryx and Crake ends on a cliffhanger, and I knew that the story would eventually line up to that; not quite a continuation, but giving the pivotal scene at the end of Oryx and Crake a little more context.

Overall, it’s a closer look at the dystopian world Jimmy, Crake and Oryx were born and grew up in. As the two protagonists of the book are female, it provides an interesting insight into how women are treated in such a world, which isn’t given too much attention in Oryx and Crake, what with the plot mostly following Jimmy’s point of view. Plus, Jimmy had the privilege of growing up in a world where his parents were well-off and worked within the structure of the government; in TYotF we see what it’s like for those on the other side, how the poor living in the pleeblands cope and how they gain relief in a seedy and dystopian world. At times, the two women’s stories were quite horrifying – particularly Toby’s. I found myself getting quite upset by it, which is credit to Atwood, who paints a very real, very sympathetic picture.

Some of the characters who pop up in passing in Oryx and Crake are given their due backstory here. The best example is Amanda Payne, first introduced in Oryx and Crake as an artsy girlfriend Jimmy lived with briefly after graduating from university, here much more a significant character: Ren’s best friend who also joins the Gardeners as a young girl. We also learn much more about the ‘police force’ that popped up in Oryx and Crake: a sinister and corrupt entity. In O&C we remember them hounding Jimmy for information about his mother, resorting to rather perverse methods to gain information from him – he accepted this rather matter-of-factly, but admittedly he and Crake were integrated with them, living in the ‘Compounds’ with the government, scientisits, and general leaders of the dystopian society. As I had hoped for, The Year of the Flood goes into a little more detail about where Jimmy’s mother actually went (though, it turns out, it’s nowhere of any particular importance).

The problem with books like this is that once you spend so long identifying with particular characters it becomes difficult to connect with the situation through the eyes of different individuals. I found myself missing Jimmy and Crake almost painfully, particularly Jimmy. They do pop up in the story a fair bit as the book progresses, but we never see too much or see the world through Jimmy’s perspective again. The plot gave me a better sense of their age: the ‘Flood’ (what the Gardeners name the apocalypse) is described to take place in Year 25, coincidentally the age of Ren and Amanda, which would make Jimmy and Crake around 27 or 28 when society breaks down (I was on the right lines after all).

As the plot progressed, I lost interest in the two protagonists quite considerably. They seemed rather generic: I didn’t get a sense of much emotion out of them compared to how interesting Jimmy was in Oryx and Crake. Their portrayal also bothered me; Atwood is praised for successfully using the opportunity to flesh out female characters after their rather 2D representation in O&C, but the women here seem to have little character scope beyond their relationships with men – particularly Ren, who is shoehorned in as one of Jimmy’s old girlfriends. This felt VERY tacked on: Ren is supposedly a childhood friend of Jimmy’s and then a teenage girlfriend, but there is no mention of her in O&C (or if there is, it is very much in passing, with none of Jimmy’s teenage conquests having any particularly importance). This obvious inclusion is worsened by Jimmy supposedly suffering from his failed teenage romance throughout his life – we know this from what his other girlfriends tell Ren (including Amanda) – which makes little sense when we know what a cad Jimmy is with women in O&C (though, to be fair, Ren suspects he is simply lying to them all).

Despite being frustrated by how pathetically attached Ren was to Jimmy, it was somehow painfully accurate, too; I recognised the heartache Ren experienced a little too well, which might have been what turned me off it. As humans, do we have a willingness to avoid closure from a relationship, and is that one of the more pathetic aspects of our nature? Perhaps, and perhaps that’s why I hated it so much. We want to see literary our protagonists glossily strong and shameless, not suffering from the same damaged pride and pathetic pining we all do.

I got to the end very impatiently to reach the closing scene of Oryx and Crake, just so Jimmy could come back into the story properly (and, with any luck, we might go pack into his POV). We end on the same cliffhanger as O&C. So, Goodreads: four stars (not as good as Oryx and Crake, but very enjoyable nonetheless). How will it all conclude in MaddAddam? You’ll have to wait and see.

[Coming next: Beloved by Toni Morrison]

Advertisement
Tagged , ,

We – Yevgeny Zamyatin

We

Yes! I knew I’d get round to reading this one eventually. As I’ve mentioned in this blog before, when it comes to dystopian fiction, I always think of there being the big three – this one, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, and Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell. People tend to be more familiar with the latter two than We, but it can take credit for both – Orwell admits he was directly inspired by We, and whilst Huxley denied his own connection with the novel, Orwell reckoned he must have been lying.

We is a fairly short book, only a little over 150 pages – more of a novella, really. As you might have guessed, it’s set in a future dystopian society where humans have been trained to work as machine-like cogs and no longer have privacy, freedom, or creative responses to anything. Our narrator, D-503, seems fairly content with his life as a mathematician who gets his own emotional fulfilment from the beauty of logic and numbers. Yes, D-503 is his name – in his world citizens are no longer granted names but are instead labelled with letters and numbers (consonants for men, vowels for women). D is the builder of a space shuttle called the INTEGRAL, a vehicle designed to spread their regime across the universe. He lives in an environment devoid of any privacy; the residents live in glass walls, only allowed to lower the blinds when they’re having pre-approved sex with pre-approved partners (like Brave New World, sex is carefully controlled and natural reproduction is prohibited). There are also figures who watch over assigned individuals who D thinks of as ‘guardian angels’ – it’s obvious that this kind of constant surveillance was the precursor to Orwell’s ode to CCTV, although Zamyatin wouldn’t have been familiar with that kind of invasive technology in 1921.

We is presented as D-503’s written records of his life, as if he is writing a journal of everything that happens to him. His fictional audience is the extraterrestial presence that the INTEGRAL might come into contact with, or future readers who might not be familiar with his society (would that be us, then?) so he explains various bits of terminology along the way. I’m not always a fan of the diary method of writing stories (do the narrators really remember that much detail, every line of dialogue, to jot down in a journal?) but it worked well enough in We.

As mentioned, D is happy with his life – until he meets I-330, a woman who seems to naturally rebel against the oppressive environment and who causes D to experience an emotion very close to love. This is a typical dystopian idea, being liberated through love – in fact I-330 reminded me very much of Nineteen Eighty-Four‘s Julia, the classic rebel below the waist. Like others from the Big Three and sci-fi works in general, it had a spooky knack of predicting future technologies and developments – in this case, space travel. I had to remind myself that it was written in the 1920s, such was the foresight behind it. It was perhaps ripe for more action, in my opinion; there’s a very tense scene when one of D’s watchers suspects him of writing about illegal exploits (which is exactly what he’s doing, of course), and he has to quickly write a fake memoir that is snatched out of his hands, while he sits on his own records to avoid them being discovered (the only way he can hide them in his glass world). I wished there were more moments like that, and perhaps more of D-503’s realisation and acceptance of his own rebellion.

Why do dystopian novels use themes like love and human connection to liberate their characters from oppressive worlds? Is it because it’s such a strong theme for readers to identify with? We connect with the characters when they want to rebel – particularly as, reading about their lives from an outsider’s perspective, we feel horrified by the world they live in. Yet other forms of love – familial love, for example – are not often touched upon. Although come to think of it, out of the Big Three it’s really only Nineteen Eighty-Four that doesn’t focus on that. Brave New World has Linda’s love for her son, John, and in turn John’s own desire to find his biological father, and We has O-90 defying the regime with her desire to conceive a child, in particular one with the man she loves (D). Yet romantic love is often given precedence as the main cause of rebellion; maybe it’s just slightly more compelling to read about.

Like Brave New World, the rigid society in We filled me with the same unsettling uncertainty whether or not this kind of society would, in fact, be more productive at protecting ourselves as a species and protecting the planet. Perhaps it wasn’t QUITE as attractive (if that’s the right word?) as Brave New World‘s society, but it was pretty close. Once again, it brings up the age-old question of freedom vs. security. You can’t have both, so which do you want? It’s this message that, again and again, draws me to dystopian fiction – and crops in real life all too often.

Goodreads: five stars. Glad to have ticked the Big Three off my list.

[Coming next: Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie]

Tagged ,

Oryx and Crake – Margaret Atwood

Oryx and Crake

If you’ve never heard of Margaret Atwood, you’re missing out. Perhaps most famous for her dystopian fertility horror story The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood has long since proved she’s got a grip on writing literary masterpieces – and futuristic, terrifying, dystopian worlds while we’re at it. If you come across lists of sci-fi novel recommendations, more often than not Oryx and Crake has pride of place – in fact, that’s probably how I heard of it in the first place. And, of course, the Waterstones shop worker told me she liked it. One day I’ll buy a book that one of those shop workers hasn’t read, but I’m still waiting for that day.

I knew Oryx and Crake was going to be good (shortlisted for the Booker AND Orange Prize, not bad), but going from the blurb, I was slightly worried it would be one of thsoe odd, experimental, sci-fi works that takes a while to get your teeth into. You tell me:

‘Pigs might not fly but they are strangely altered. So, for that matter, are wolves and raccoons. A man, once called Jimmy, lives in a tree, wrapped in old bedsheets, now calls himself Snowman. The voice of Oryx, the woman he loved, teasingly haunts him. And the green-eyed Children of Crake are, for some reason, his responsibility.’

Yeah, sounds pretty straightforward.

Thankfully, it was. The story was fairly clear from the start, bar the first chapter, which plunges you straight into ‘Snowman’s’ life – he’s recognisable to us, but his fellow humans seem to view him as something of a commodity, which was intriguing. The story is told through a mix of current events (so to speak) and flashbacks to Snowman’s (aka Jimmy’s) life, bringing the events to present day.

Jimmy’s the best protagonist I’ve read in a while. You despise him, love him, and, overall, pity him, all the way through his emotionally-starved childhood to the harrowing current events that unfold around him. It’s hard to tell how old he is when the book opens, but based on his life experiences I’d hazard a guess that he’s in his mid to late twenties. This is a spoilery review, but it’s a spoilery book (as are most books that open at the end).

The plot focuses on a world where gene experimentation is a common aspect of a futuristic, dystopian society, and one man – Crake – is left to run wild with his ideas. Jimmy grows up in an environment where animals are spliced together for human experimentation and, essentially, for fun. Crake (real name Glenn), his boyhood friend who matures into a genius, becomes so wrapped up in this that he eventually manufactures a new type of human – these, then, are the only ‘people’ left in the new world, who Jimmy refers to as the Crakers, or Children of Crake. The book is a Bildungsroman for Jimmy (and Crake, to a lesser extent), as we watch him grow into a world where commercialism is everything, women are prey to common and uncontrolled pornographic exploitation, and biological experimentation has been taken to the extreme. Of course, things don’t exactly improve when a plague wipes out civilisation.

You can probably guess who created the plague to (presumably) allow his self-created humans to thrive: Crake. Why he made Jimmy immune to the disease is unclear; he never properly explains it to his best friend, but his final lines to him – ‘I’m counting on you’ – seem to suggest he trusts Jimmy above everyone else to rebuild civilisation from the roots up. But why not himself? That, I hope, is something that may become clearer in the sequels. Is Crake a psychopath? It takes a certain amount of manic self-belief to believe you have the power to wipe out society and reconstruct it based on what you deem effective, and Crake shows little emotion about it (or about anything) throughout the novel. That said, the world he lives in is unpleasant. Even beyond the state interference, we are given hints as to exactly what the Earth has become. Global warming has left a huge proportion of the land underwater, and the weather seems overly freakish compared to now (there is a storm every afternoon, for example). If this is the catalyst for Crake’s Godlike plan, it’s disturbingly easy to see the logic behind it.

Considering Jimmy and Crake don’t spend that much time together after they leave high school (at least, until Jimmy goes to work for Crake), they have a remarkably captivating friendship. It’s helped, I suppose, by that uncertainty over whether or not they actually care for one another or rather are bonded by a sense of competition. This is heightened when Oryx comes into the equation; initially spotted as a child on a pornography website when the two of them were teenagers, they both develop lifelong obsessions with her until she makes an appearance in real life as Crake’s girlfriend (of a sort) and seduces Jimmy. It isn’t clear whether or not this was set up by Crake but Jimmy quickly falls in love and is desperate to prevent Crake from finding out. Of course, it’s suggested that he’s known all along (and it is part of his plan). Crake meets his own end by slitting Oryx’s throat in front of a gun-wielding Jimmy – it’s hard to believe he didn’t know what would happen as a result of that.

Oryx is not so interesting. She’s fairly non-descript in the book, and although we get a sense of her upbringing, we get no emotional depth from her; she seems virtually indifferent to what happened to her in her past. It was almost as if she didn’t need to be a fully fleshed out character but was simply there to be an object for both of the men to project their own, emotionally-stunted versions of love on to her. When a female writer writes these male-fantasy type women into novels I’m always surprised, but in this case I didn’t care too much. From what I know Atwood will focus on much more real and three-dimensional women in the sequel, so I’m looking forward to that.

Speaking of … the book is kicking off a trilogy. Oryx and Crake ends on a cliffhanger, but from what I’ve heard the next book doesn’t continue this plot but instead flashes back in time and looks at the same set of events through different characters’ eyes. This suggests that the controlled, dystopian world isn’t entirely left behind, which is intriguing – there are a few loose ends to be tied up (what happened to Jimmy’s mother, for example). I can’t wait.

This gets the full five stars from me; I could hardly put it down. Bring on The Year of the Flood.

[Coming next: We by Yevgeny Zamyatin]

Tagged , , , ,

Throwback Thursday! Brave New World – Aldous Huxley

LB

Welcome to my second Throwback Thursday post! This book is another good’un, so apologies in advance for another long blog.

When it comes to dystopian fiction, I always think of there being the Big Three novels that every dystopia fan has to read (probably something my dad told me that has stayed in my mind): George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We, and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. I haven’t yet read We but the other two I devoured a couple of years ago – Orwell’s being probably the ONLY book I read for pleasure during my degree (ain’t nobody got time for that!) and Huxley’s I read just after graduating: a battered copy that used to be my dad’s, covered in suspicious-looking splashes which he reckoned was oil from one of the many part-time jobs he had in his youth. Tez’s version didn’t have the original book cover (see above) which is a shame because it’s a really cool image – I have it on a t-shirt, in fact! Er, I am super cool like that. I’ll aim to make this review spoiler-free, so read on if you want to give the book a go.

Fellow literary geeks might recognise the title being from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, said by Miranda in Act V, Scene I. ‘O brave new world, / That has such people in’t’. It’s since become a very famous and iconic expression, like many of Shakespeare’s quips – in fact I saw it the other day in a fashion magazine talking about the new season’s trends, so it shows you how widely it stretches. However, in this case it’s not just a catchy title but is in fact tied into the plot itself, given that the main character is a lover of Shakespeare and The Tempest in particular – and sees the ‘brave new world’ with the same initial misguided affection as Miranda does in The Tempest.

The book opens by detailing, through various secondary characters, the controlled World State that the characters live in. It is one in which the size of the population is carefully controlled; embryos are farmed instead of developing naturally, and people are sorted into ‘castes’ from birth and genetically manipulated so there is no way they can escape from the rank and job that they are assigned. Among the higher castes social sex is encouraged but the idea of family is barbaric and almost pornographic. The citizens regularly take a drug named ‘soma’ which creates controlled hallucinations – the characters use them almost in place of holidays, and the effects encourage a communion between them all, as individuality is highly discouraged.

In the latter part of the novel, we look at the world of the ‘savages’, where people are kept out of this oppressive system and are left to their own devices. Our protagonist is eighteen-year-old John, living among the savages, who is actually the son of the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning in the World State. His mother was exiled from the society for her behaviour and he with her (if I remember correctly it’s to do with the shame and humiliation of having him in the first place – as we have learnt, the idea of having a family or bearing children naturally is positively grotesque) and John grows up as an outsider and a loner in the land of the savages. The only comfort he has is his love of the complete works of Shakespeare, one of the few books in the house that they have. When John is discovered by citizens from the World State who are visiting, he gets the chance to go and join his ‘brave new world’ and confront his father.

And confront him he does – but of course, the idea of being someone’s father is so mortifying that the Director resigns from his position in shame. From there John is initially treated as something of a glamorous novelty, but he quickly becomes a nuisance. I won’t tell you any more than that to avoid spoiling the outcome, and I really do recommend you read it. It’s a book I really loved.

Like a lot of dystopian fiction, it seemed to prematurely predict a lot of scientific or technological advancements that hadn’t happened when it was written. The book was written all the way back in 1932, smackbang in the middle of the Big Three (We was published in 1924, Nineteen Eighty-Four 1949 – Orwell, himself influenced by Huxley, said that Brave New World must have been heavily influenced by We) and considering we’re eighty years ahead now, it’s disturbing how many of the themes or ideas are relevant to our modern society. Test-tube designer babies, genetic manipulation… I mean, I’m writing this at a time when the first embryos are being developed from three parents. It’s also interesting how the characters are amused with formulaic entertainment and can no longer observe and enjoy beauty (such as Shakespeare) – ok, so we haven’t QUITE reached that point yet, but at a time where creative risk-taking is discouraged because businesses are more interested in making money with predictable formulas rather than pushing boundaries and stimulating thought (a creative masterpiece like Brave New World would face some serious publishing difficulties these days), it has a horrible familiarity about it. But the dystopian aspect that disturbed me most of all in this novel was the mind conditioning from birth and genetic manipulation – in Nineteen Eighty-Four, Winston (the protagonist) lives in a horribly oppressive state but he still has the ability to perceive it and aspires to break out of it. The idea of being so controlled you aren’t capable of free thought, as it is in Brave New World? That’s a terrifying prospect.

A theme I always find fascinating which is often addressed in dystopian fiction (and is particularly a theme in A Clockwork Orange, so I might have discussed it back in my review of that) is the idea of freedom vs. security. How much personal freedom do we sacrifice in order to have security? Look at CCTV, for example – some people argue it’s an invasion of privacy, but if it leads to increased safety, is it something we should accept? The boundaries are becoming blurred, particularly as technology moves forward, and dystopian fiction looks at the extremes. Brave New World in particular takes it very far, emphasising the loss of individuality in order to have a ‘perfect’ functioning society. And that’s what’s really disturbing – by the end, you are left wondering whether that kind of society would be better after all. A character does justify the structure very well in an explanation to John, whilst you can’t say the same for something like Nineteen Eighty-Four, where characters are expected to abandon pure, hard logic in order to fit into society. They (and we) struggle to do that – but it’s all too easy to see how this book’s World State might work in real life, and that’s a terrifying thought. For that reason mainly, Brave New World is my favourite of the two (but I can’t wait to read We and see how that compares).

The book has been adapted twice for American television, which is odd considering it is a British novel set in dystopian London, but I can see how it could be easily translated to suit an American audience. There’s no big-screen blockbuster adaptation, but considering there’s a bit of a trend for dystopian literature and film at the moment (as seen a lot in Young Adult fiction), I wouldn’t be overly surprised if one appears – particularly as the book is so iconic. I haven’t seen either of the television adaptations so I’m not sure how they compare to the book, but I’ll keep a look out for future on-screen versions of the novel.

Goodreads review? Five stars. This is one of my absolute favourites – there’s no way it was going to get any less. I think you can pretty much assume all (or most) of my Throwback Thursday entries are going to be five-star books – keep an eye out for the next!

Tagged , , , ,

Throwback Thursday! A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess

A Clockwork Orange 1

Welcome to the first of what I hope to be a regular blog feature in which I post on a Thursday – geddit – and, in the typical vein of ‘Throwback Thursday’ on social networking sites (#TBT), look at books I read in the past. So I’m kicking this off with a particularly memorable book for me: Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange. I apologise now if this blog post is super long, but I really love writing about this book. I won’t include any major spoilers, so feel free to read through and maybe give the book a try if you like what you see!

If someone asked me ‘what’s your favourite book?’ there’s no way I would come to a quick answer. But out of all the books I’ve read and all of the ones that have stuck in my mind, I’ve got to say – A Clockwork Orange has come the closest. In fact, I probably would describe it as my favourite book – combining a dystopian future (a particular fiction love of mine) with literature’s most repellent anti-hero, creating one of the most morally ambiguous, screwed-up storylines I’ve ever seen on the page.

I’d sum it up like this (spoiler-free! I think): Alex, an intelligent 15-year-old boy with a love of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, is the head of a gang in a dystopian world of ‘ultra-violence’. He and his ‘droogs’ (friends) stroll around beating and raping the majority of people they come across. His parents seem downright terrified of him and he is eventually betrayed by his gang and nicked by the police. In an attempt to skip the prison sentence, he volunteers to be the subject of a new form of psychotherapy that promises to correct his violent ways. After lengthy psychological torture and conditioning from the government, he comes out unable to commit an act of violence (no matter how much he wants to), but struggles to cope with the side effects and as a result becomes a victim to almost everyone around him (including his parents, the police, and his old gang). As the book continues and he loses his free will entirely, the reader is constantly left with the moral dilemma of siding with the free, violent Alex, or the conditioned, victimised, ‘safe’ Alex. Oh, and did I mention it’s written in a made-up language? Well, it’s written in a made-up language.

‘Hang on!’ I hear you cry. ‘How can it be written in a made-up language?’ Well, not every word is supplemented with something made-up by Burgess, but it reads more as an extreme version of teenage slang. While it’s difficult to grasp at first, as the novella progresses you begin to pick up on what the words mean until, by the end, you are virtually fluent in it and barely notice it’s there (although I believe American audiences were given a glossary, which takes away the fun slightly). It’s often remarked that this effect is ‘brainwashing’ – particularly interesting to think about when we witness the brainwashing the main character goes through and the negative effects it has on his life.

Burgess was inspired to write the novel after a series of incidences – the most upsetting being that his wife was beaten and raped by four men during the Second World War. It is strange that he chose to relive that experience in the novel through the perspective of the attackers – and stranger still that the woman attacked by Alex and his friends was the wife of an author who was writing a book called A Clockwork Orange. However, a big theme in the book is the effect of youth culture in society – which was definitely influenced by the emergence of youth culture in the fifties and sixties (such as the teddy boys, and later on the Mods and Rockers). Alex and his friends are constantly trying out bizarre new fashions and challenging rival gangs in the streets. The direct contrast between Alex’s intellectual interests and his complete lack of moral decency was inspired by Burgess’s observation of Russian teens, whose violence contrasted with their polite and gentlemanly manners, and it makes for very interesting characters (not to mention that the language it’s written in, ‘nadsat’, was based on Russian).

I gave this to my sister to read and when she finished she said that she’d never been so disturbed reading a book. I don’t know if it’s because I was near the end of my English degree at the time I read it, but I didn’t have that feeling (if there’s one thing you get used to during a Lit. degree, it’s death, violence, and generally disturbing topics). Given that I’ve told you it’s probably my favourite book… well, I’m not sure what that says about me, but there you go.

I won’t tell you what happens in the last chapter, but the book was split into twenty-one chapters as it’s largely about Alex maturing into adulthood, and Burgess believed that twenty-one was the age that a young person hit maturity. The twentieth chapter has its own sort of ending (again, won’t tell you the details) which finishes on quite a different note to the twenty-first, but in the American edition, the twenty-first chapter was removed for that very reason. It was believed that the final chapter had an ending that was too unbelievable in comparison to the twentieth, but the change made Burgess deeply unhappy, especially as it ruined the structural pattern he created for the novel and the significance of twenty-one – and the film did nothing to improve things (more on that later). I much prefer the twenty-first chapter, which ends on a morally high note – I won’t say too much but you leave the twenty-first chapter feeling hopeful (even if it is slightly implausible). Both endings, however, end ‘happily’, albeit in very different ways.

Why a ‘clockwork orange’? The title of the book has been debated, but there are all sorts of theories about it: mainly the idea of taking something natural (an orange) and wiring it up so it becomes something mechanical and unnatural (reflecting the treatment and conditioning that Alex received). Burgess spent time in Malaya in the fifties and became fluent in Malay; incidentally, the Malay word for man is ‘orang’ (incorporated into the word orangutan, meaning man of the forest). Could be a coincidence, but unlikely. The classic book cover supports this, depicting who we assume is Alex with a clockwork eye – though the film adaptation took this image and chose instead to turn it into part of his surreal youth fashion, with Alex sporting spiky make-up around his eye. Speaking of…

If we’re talking about A Clockwork Orange, there’s something we HAVE to discuss. And that’s the film.

A Clockwork Orange 2

Almost a decade after the book was released, Stanley Kubrick would buy the rights to Burgess’s novel and turn it into one of the most well-known and iconic films of all time. The image of Malcolm McDowell’s Alex in his bowler hat and heavily-mascaraed right eye, not to mention the white braces and glass of milk, would forever be recognisable (and makes for a pretty good Halloween costume – trust me on that.) This is a film you HAVE to see before you die – it’s common knowledge. That said, and with all my love for the novel expressed… I haven’t seen it yet.

I have a difficult enough time with book-to-film adaptations, but the ones that the authors have bad relationships with are particularly hard to watch. Burgess’s attitude towards Kubrick’s interpretation of what he perceived to be one of his less-interesting novels was very bad indeed, even though he initially praised the adaptation. The short answer is that he probably sold it for peanuts, and resented the success and iconic status it quickly developed – I don’t think he expected a novel he wasn’t the most proud of to become his most well-known work. Indeed, nowadays not a lot of people even know it was based on a book, which says a lot about Kubrick’s stamp on it. But even with this added publicity for Burgess at the time, the idea of labouring for years over a storyline and characters and to see it, in your eyes, butchered on screen must be particularly horrible. One of the most famous scenes is when Alex, during the rape of the author’s wife, starts to sing Singin’ in the Rain; this was lauded as a genius move by many critics but pissed off Burgess and, supposedly, Gene Kelly (the star of Singin’ in the Rain) – who was completely disgusted and snubbed McDowell at a party. Some critics responded to the film as being one that glorified violence, which led Burgess to feel his work was being misunderstood, particularly as the film was based on the abridged American edition with the missing chapter at the end. In an effort to redeem the story, Burgess actually put on a stage adaptation that was more along the lines of the book which included obvious digs at Kubrick (I remember reading that at one point a character who looked a lot like Kubrick came on stage playing Singin’ in the Rain on a flute, before promptly being kicked off), but it didn’t have quite the same lasting impression as the film.

Despite the fact I imagine it to be a very disturbing watch, this is a film that I NEED to see. For one, I have a secret love for the young Malcolm McDowell – although that might disappear once super-violent Alex walks on to my screen. McDowell starred in Lindsay Anderson’s If…. – a very odd film about British public schoolboys starting up a revolution. (The sixties were a weird time for film.) I watched it two or three years ago but there’s one scene that sticks in my mind, in which the boys take it in turns to head into the school gym and be caned by their teachers. McDowell’s character (Mick) is last – if I remember correctly – and in an act of defiance, he throws open the doors to the gym with the most maniacal smile on his face. Supposedly when McDowell was cast in A Clockwork Orange he turned to If…. director Lindsay Anderson for advice, who pointed at that particular scene, at that particular moment, and said ‘that there… that’s Alex.’ Considering how well I remember that scene, and how mesmerising McDowell was at that moment, it’s pretty shameful, actually, that I haven’t seen A Clockwork Orange yet.

I think I will see it eventually but (as pathetic as it sounds) I need to prepare myself mentally, make it an event. I’ve actually seen clips of it during its constant re-runs on ITV2 and from the few scenes I did see, it seemed they toned the violence down a bit – though I didn’t see the Singin’ in the Rain scene so I’m not sure if I just caught a few good bits. I suppose one of the reasons for my resistance is that I think the language of the novel is so clever at creating violent images in the readers’ minds that they partially have to construct themselves (particularly at the beginning when the language is completely unfamiliar, so when the violence is being described, all you’ve got is your best guess), and I can’t help but wonder if this effect loses its spark when it’s played out on screen. But it made its mark and will forever be remembered, so it needs to be seen to be discussed properly. One day I’ll report back when I’ve seen it. But until then… I’ve got the book!

To finish with, my Goodreads review: A Clockwork Orange gets the full whack from me. Five stars. I know many people will disagree with this, and Burgess himself would DEFINITELY disagree, but I consider it a literary masterpiece. Oh, and just in case you were curious about that Halloween costume…

A Clockwork Orange 3

Tagged , , , , ,