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Throwback Thursday! Dracula – Bram Stoker

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Welcome to my first NON-dystopian Throwback Thursday post! Don’t worry, there will be plenty more of those to come, but for now we’re focusing on a very different kind of frightening and miserable tale – a horror story, to be exact. Arguably THE greatest horror story that’s ever been told (or one of them, at least): Bram Stoker’s chilling vampire tale, Dracula.

Dracula is possibly the only book I’ve ever read that genuinely terrified me (at least, since I outgrew Goosebumps). The creepy book cover didn’t help – I took the liberty of including it in this blog post, so you can look and shudder with me. The image is not really Count Dracula – it looks closer to the cinematic image of Nosferatu, an unauthorised adaptation of Dracula, renamed in the attempt to dodge copyright laws – but it portrays the chilling nature of the novel, so I’ll go with it.

To sum up… Dracula is told through various diary excerpts from three characters: Jonathan Harker, a young solicitor; John Seward, a doctor; and Mina Harker (née Murray), Jonathan’s wife. Each character has a different perspective on the strange, supernatural events unrolling around them: Jonathan is reeling from a visit to a castle in Transylvania to help a count purchase property in England, where he experienced some very horrible events; Dr Seward is perplexed by a patient of his acting very strangely; and Mina is watching her friend suffer from a mysterious illness that seems to drain her of blood and leaves her with tiny puncture marks on her neck. I wasn’t aware of it at the time but critics imply that this shifting of perspective is a powerful feature of horror fiction – if multiple characters experience the same terrifying phenomena, the reader immediately assumes that there’s no way one of them can be lying.

The novel opens with Jonathan’s description of his time in Transylvania, before the plot switches to England (Whitby, to be exact) where a ship has washed ashore. From there, all hell breaks loose. Soon Van Helsing, a man with knowledge of and experience with vampires, spots the signs and comes to help. With his guidance, a group band together to take down Count Dracula. Of course, Dracula isn’t too happy about this, and it soon becomes a game of riddles and psychological distress as they all go head to head.

This is a cracking novel by today’s standards, but it wasn’t a bestseller when it was published. It was no doubt appreciated at the time, but not until cheeky rip-off Nosferatu made an appearance did the novel’s popularity grow, 10 years after the author’s death. Stoker was a respected figure in society during his life, mainly owing to his work with the famous actor Henry Irving and his theatre work. He’s also tied to other famous novelists of the period, flitting around with Oscar Wilde and being distantly related to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (of Sherlock Holmes fame). I was unsure whether to class this as an Irish or British novel; I settled with British owing to the fact Stoker lived in London and wrote the novel during his time here – plus, nearly all of the plot takes place in Whitby and London. Dracula defined our traditional incarnation of the vampire (big cape, pointy teeth, turns into a bat, yadda yadda), although it’s safe to say the vampires of the 21st century are playing fast and loose with this stereotype. Forms of vampire had been around for hundreds of years before Stoker, but it was only in the 18th century that the V word was bandied around; John Polidori’s The Vampyre was the main predecessor to Dracula. In recent years, it seems that vampires are having a bit of a comeback – but, as I said, they’re not quite the same creatures we saw stalking a fictional Victorian England.

So how do they compare? You might remember me directing this kind of question at two authors during Hay Festival. It’s interesting that on my copy of Dracula the blurb mentions that the book probes into ‘the dark corners of Victorian sexuality and desire’. Do I agree? Actually, I’m not sure. The Count doesn’t seem to be particularly sexualised in the novel itself; he’s certainly not described as being attractive, although he does target young women, so there’s that. He also bites the neck, which could have a sexual undertone. In fact there is only one scene where I felt as if there was some kind of sexual tension building, during a close encounter with a particular young woman, but I won’t go into that for fear of spoiling. But I am reading it with a 21st century eye – to the prude Victorian audience, happy to stifle sexual desire until their wedding nights, this kind of escapism might have been the hottest thing they’d ever laid eyes on. Did this early, sexual association carry the legend of the sexy vampire all the way to 2014?

For if it was ambigious in 1897, it certainly isn’t ambiguous now. We’ve got the tedious yet popular Twilight novels, where the lead vampire’s desire to rip apart and eat the protagonist is presented as a metaphor for wanting to rip her clothes off and ravish her, and that’s probably as tame as it gets – there’s True Blood, there’s The Vampire Diaries, there are all kinds of shoddy Twilight rip-offs where mortals (normally girls) canoodle with vampiric men. Hell, even Fifty Shades of Grey, arguably THE sexiest book of the last decade, was initially written as Twilight fanfiction. The vampire is the sexiest supernatural creature of all, if pop culture is anything to go by. Admittedly, we tend to sexualise EVERYTHING these days (angels? Check. Werewolves?? Check. Zombies?!? Check…) but vampires have a certain je ne sais quoi that keeps them in the limelight, perhaps playing into the human subconscious desire for submission. Modern incarnations of the vampire evoke him (and it’s nearly always a him) being young and dashing – even the modern adaptations of Dracula are casting young, hunky male actors in the lead role, deviating far away from Stoker’s elderly Count, complete with handlebar moustache.

Dracula infamously washes up in Whitby, which I visited for the first time last year. We went at around Christmas time on what felt like the coldest, windiest, most blustery day ever, which made it absolutely perfect. Standing in the graveyard by Whitby Abbey at the top of a great hill where the wind whistles between the tombstones, all with faded, gothic letters scratched into every grave – now that’s where you set a horror novel. Stoker must have felt the same, for it was a visit to Whitby in 1890 that partly inspired his great novel. Perhaps he caught it on a similarly brilliant day – or maybe Whitby is always like that.

There are countless film and television adaptations (cough cough, Nosferatu), but the most famous is probably the 1992 version with Gary Oldman cast as the titular vampire. Oldman was only 34 at the time – a far cry from Stoker’s description of Dracula, and in fact 2 years younger than the latest revival of the Count, an NBC series starring 36-year-old Jonathan Rhys Meyers – but given Oldman’s versatility as an actor, I was sure the character wasn’t in unsafe hands. I haven’t had a chance to catch it yet (and I’ve heard they take great liberties with the plot), but I look forward to checking it out, at some point.

So, my Goodreads review: four stars. Another great classic for my shelves.

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Throwback Thursday! Brave New World – Aldous Huxley

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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!

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Throwback Thursday! A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess

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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.

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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…

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