A failed attempt to weave past and present.
Four characters are tethered to the past in this flaccid memory piece, the fifth work of fiction from the Australian Jones (Sorry, 2007, etc.).
One fine summer day, they converge on Sydney Harbor. The cosmopolitan crowds! The Circular Quay! That world-famous cultural icon, the Opera House! It’s a backdrop but not a catalyst for a novel sorely in need of one. Two of these people knew each other as kids in Western Australia. They were clumsy but passionate 14-year-old lovers; having sex in an abandoned foundry is their most joyous memory. Now, 20 years later, James has sought a reunion. Unlike cheerful, robust Ellie, he’s a sad sack who went to pieces after his Italian immigrant mother died in a mental hospital. What they’ve been up to in those 20 years is mostly a blank. (There’s enough missing material here to build another opera house.) But we do know James needs to talk to Ellie about a girl’s death. Death is also on the mind of Catherine, an Irish journalist mourning her brother Brendan, her life’s formative influence. Why she had to leave her hot French boyfriend in London, exchanging her job with Reuters for an unspecified gig in Sydney, is unclear (more missing material). The fourth character is an elderly Chinese woman, Pei Xing, a longtime resident of Sydney. Both her parents were killed during the Cultural Revolution; Pei was imprisoned for two years. However, forgivingly, she visits her brutal female prison guard, now a stroke victim. The disproportion between deaths caused by one of the 20th century’s worst atrocities and the banal accidental deaths so upsetting James and Catherine throws the novel further out of whack; and a late attempt by Jones to link her characters through the surveillance video of a kidnapping falls flat.
A failed attempt to weave past and present.Pub Date: Feb. 28, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-250-00373-7
Page Count: 224
Publisher: Picador
Review Posted Online: Dec. 4, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Dec. 15, 2011
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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