Gritty, lyrical, intense.
An Everyman turns to dealing drugs—and pitches headlong downward.
Tommie Simms is desperate. Laid off from his job at Global Mutual IndemCorp, he’s torn from the sanctuary of his 83rd-floor office and returned to the Four Corners, a Chicago neighborhood where “they’ve got as many cardboard box-tops covering window holes as they’ve got glass.” Ojikutu (47th Street Black, 2003) renders the desperation palpable—of Tommie’s mother, on Step Five of her 12-step program, sick with worry; Tommie’s wife, Tarsha; and baby girl a stone’s throw from homelessness. A former golden boy who’d made it out of the ghetto to Southern Illinois University, Tommie can’t bear his defaulted credit cards and his family’s disappointment. His cousin, Remi, offers a way out: nickel bags of pot to sell. Tarsha turns a blind eye, and for a while, Tommie prospers, as feelings of guilt gnaw at his soul. He’s crossed over, after all—from the dream of suit-and-tie deliverance to a hard-knock nightmare, where hustlers parade the avenue oozing menace. Will he become, then, his own shadow-self? Officer Weidman has his eye on him, itching to bring down the upstart, too well-spoken for the Corners, too confident, uppity. Sure enough, Tommie gets busted—and a teasing, violent mano-a-mano begins between the fallen angel and the vengeful, devilish cop. Ojikutu’s story is tough and assured. What truly dazzles, though, is the language, a cross between James Baldwin’s soulful song and the nightmare poetry of Louis-Ferdinand Céline. The author’s voice is especially riveting when discussing loss and Tommie’s “mother who left me pinned to the window glass, watching trains and folks running in vain and waiting for some sign to point out love’s return.”
Gritty, lyrical, intense.Pub Date: Oct. 3, 2006
ISBN: 1-4000-8289-7
Page Count: 400
Publisher: Three Rivers/Crown
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 2006
BOOK REVIEW
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.
The time is the not-so-distant future, when the US's spiraling social freedoms have finally called down a reaction, an Iranian-style repressive "monotheocracy" calling itself the Republic of Gilead—a Bible-thumping, racist, capital-punishing, and misogynistic rule that would do away with pleasure altogether were it not for one thing: that the Gileadan women, pure and true (as opposed to all the nonbelieving women, those who've ever been adulterous or married more than once), are found rarely fertile.
Thus are drafted a whole class of "handmaids," whose function is to bear the children of the elite, to be fecund or else (else being certain death, sent out to be toxic-waste removers on outlying islands). The narrative frame for Atwood's dystopian vision is the hopeless private testimony of one of these surrogate mothers, Offred ("of" plus the name of her male protector). Lying cradled by the body of the barren wife, being meanwhile serviced by the husband, Offred's "ceremony" must be successful—if she does not want to join the ranks of the other disappeared (which include her mother, her husband—dead—and small daughter, all taken away during the years of revolt). One Of her only human conduits is a gradually developing affair with her master's chauffeur—something that's balanced more than offset, though, by the master's hypocritically un-Puritan use of her as a kind of B-girl at private parties held by the ruling men in a spirit of nostalgia and lust. This latter relationship, edging into real need (the master's), is very effectively done; it highlights the handmaid's (read Everywoman's) eternal exploitation, profane or sacred ("We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices"). Atwood, to her credit, creates a chillingly specific, imaginable night-mare. The book is short on characterization—this is Atwood, never a warm writer, at her steeliest—and long on cynicism—it's got none of the human credibility of a work such as Walker Percy's Love In The Ruins. But the scariness is visceral, a world that's like a dangerous and even fatal grid, an electrified fence.
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1985
ISBN: 038549081X
Page Count: -
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Review Posted Online: Sept. 16, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 1985
SEEN & HEARD
BOOK TO SCREEN
A modern day fable, with modern implications in a deceiving simplicity, by the author of Dickens. Dali and Others (Reynal & Hitchcock, p. 138), whose critical brilliance is well adapted to this type of satire. This tells of the revolt on a farm, against humans, when the pigs take over the intellectual superiority, training the horses, cows, sheep, etc., into acknowledging their greatness. The first hints come with the reading out of a pig who instigated the building of a windmill, so that the electric power would be theirs, the idea taken over by Napoleon who becomes topman with no maybes about it. Napoleon trains the young puppies to be his guards, dickers with humans, gradually instigates a reign of terror, and breaks the final commandment against any animal walking on two legs. The old faithful followers find themselves no better off for food and work than they were when man ruled them, learn their final disgrace when they see Napoleon and Squealer carousing with their enemies... A basic statement of the evils of dictatorship in that it not only corrupts the leaders, but deadens the intelligence and awareness of those led so that tyranny is inevitable. Mr. Orwell's animals exist in their own right, with a narrative as individual as it is apt in political parody.
Pub Date: Aug. 26, 1946
ISBN: 0452277507
Page Count: 114
Publisher: Harcourt, Brace
Review Posted Online: Nov. 2, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 1946
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