A racy and sometimes witty romp through New York's yuppieland, a nasty urban jungle where making connections both sexual and professional is the only way to go. Deliberately imitating 18th-century comedies of manners—with connections between characters multiplying into a confused tangle of deceits, dalliances, and desires that don't get unraveled until the last page—Spiegelman tells of two couples, Dawn and Hank, and Kath and Jack. The couples' happiness is thwarted and deferred by a slew of colorful characters, including Chris, the designing woman with the heart of a cash register; Mike, a sentimental transvestite; Marco, an office temp who's ashamed of the source of his real income; and Andy, a fitness-freak who gets around a surprising amount. Dawn, an editor, has been abandoned by Hank, who was seduced by Chris, but Hank, finding Chris increasingly tiresome, wants to get back with Dawn. And he does—briefly—but Dawn is editing a book by Mike, who owns a notorious transvestite escort service, that could make her publishing career; and Hank is representing Mike in a case that could make his legal career. With more than the usual conflict of interest involved, the two—Dawn and Hank—quarrel and part. Meanwhile, Kath, Dawn's friend, has been so busy writing her thesis that she's had no time for relationships, but this changes when she meets handsome Jack, a scenery builder who loves her but can't commit. Over a year, the couples, who always remember to use condoms because safe sex seems about the only thing to believe in, drift into other relationships. But true love is vindicated when predictably serendipitous coincidences get Dawn and Hank—and Kath and Jack—back together again at last. A neat idea that almost works, but Spiegelman's prose is too clunky for a genre so dependent on flights of verbal virtuosity. More flat than fizzy.
Pub Date: May 30, 1993
ISBN: 0-7145-2952-4
Page Count: 240
Publisher: Marion Boyars
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 1, 1993
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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