Suzanne Collins’s “The Hunger Games” (the first book in a best-selling trilogy) is a sensational piece of pop primitivism—a Hobbesian war of all against all. In a dystopian society in the future, a group of wealthy, epicene overlords—authoritarians with violet hair and the vicious manners of French courtiers—threaten and control an impoverished population. Years ago, the virtuous commoners rose up, unsuccessfully, against their decadent rulers, and they’ve been both cosseted and terrorized ever since by a yearly lottery in which two teens from each of twelve districts are selected, trained, and turned into media stars. They are then set loose in a controlled wilderness, where they must survive hunger and one another, until only one of them is left alive. The survivor will bring home to his district both glory and food, and everyone, rich and poor, watches the events on television. Collins’s idea seems to be derived from the bloodier Greek myths and Roman gladiatorial contests (the big shots have names like Cinna and Claudius); from William Golding’s “Lord of the Flies”; and from TV spectacles like the myriad “Survivor” shows and sado-Trumpian elimination contests. Collins’s strategy of putting girls and boys (some as young as twelve) at the center of a deadly struggle adds tense, nasty excitement to the old tales and tawdry TV rituals she draws on
Out of 24 participants, only one child will live. And we hope it will be Katniss Everdeen, from the impoverished mining District 12 — a teen who, when her little sister is picked in the lottery, volunteers to take her place.
Why is it problematic? Kids killing kids is the most wrenching thing we can imagine, and rooting for the deaths of Katniss' opponents can't help but implicate us. But the novel is written by a humanist: When a child dies, we breathe a sigh of relief that Katniss has one less adversary, but we never go, "Yes!" — we feel only revulsion for this evil ritual.
If the film's director, Gary Ross, has any qualms about kids killing kids, he keeps them to himself. The murders on screen are fast and largely pain-free — you can hardly see who's killing who. So despite the high body count, the rating is PG-13.
Think about it: You make killing vivid and upsetting and get an R. You take the sting out of it, and kids are allowed into the theater. The ratings board has it backwards.
The packed preview audience clearly loved The Hunger Games, but I saw one missed opportunity after another. Director Ross has a penchant for showbiz satire, pleasant in Pleasantville but ruinous in Seabiscuit — a great book about the torturous underbelly of horseracing turned into a lame, movie-ish period piece.
Out of 24 participants, only one child will live. And we hope it will be Katniss Everdeen, from the impoverished mining District 12 — a teen who, when her little sister is picked in the lottery, volunteers to take her place.
Why is it problematic? Kids killing kids is the most wrenching thing we can imagine, and rooting for the deaths of Katniss' opponents can't help but implicate us. But the novel is written by a humanist: When a child dies, we breathe a sigh of relief that Katniss has one less adversary, but we never go, "Yes!" — we feel only revulsion for this evil ritual.
If the film's director, Gary Ross, has any qualms about kids killing kids, he keeps them to himself. The murders on screen are fast and largely pain-free — you can hardly see who's killing who. So despite the high body count, the rating is PG-13.
Think about it: You make killing vivid and upsetting and get an R. You take the sting out of it, and kids are allowed into the theater. The ratings board has it backwards.
The packed preview audience clearly loved The Hunger Games, but I saw one missed opportunity after another. Director Ross has a penchant for showbiz satire, pleasant in Pleasantville but ruinous in Seabiscuit — a great book about the torturous underbelly of horseracing turned into a lame, movie-ish period piece.
No comments:
Post a Comment