Quite powerful in an understated way: a splendid portrait of a world on the verge of a new era.
A quietly evocative account of a soldier’s homecoming in northern England, by British novelist Bragg (On Giants’ Shoulders, 1999, etc.).
When Sam Richardson came back with his regiment from Burma in 1946, there were no parades: The euphoria of victory had subsided pretty quickly the year before, and the folks in his hometown of Wigton were too preoccupied with rationing, unemployment, and the creation of the National Health Service to have time for more war stories. That’s just as well for Sam, who had seen some pretty nasty action in a very nasty campaign and just wants to get back to normal life as quickly as he can. But that may not be possible. Sam’s wife Ellen became fairly independent during the war, having started a housecleaning business that she doesn’t want to give up, and she and Sam and their six-year-old son Joe now have to live with Ellen’s Aunt Grace because there’s not a house to be had in town for love or money. This is very much a story of England in the 1940s—gray, bleak, and underfed—and the overwhelming sense the author communicates is the claustrophobia that afflicts everyone who could remember the better times of the prewar years that seem to have been lost forever. Eventually, Ellen finds an affordable house that Aunt Grace will help them buy, but Sam finds himself more and more at loose ends, unable to settle for the routines of England. When he is offered an opportunity to emigrate to Australia, he finds the urge almost overwhelming—but Ellen wants none of it. Can Sam, having seen a larger world, settle for the smallness of Wigton? Or can he convince his family to embark on a new life with him?
Quite powerful in an understated way: a splendid portrait of a world on the verge of a new era.Pub Date: Aug. 1, 2002
ISBN: 1-55970-639-2
Page Count: 384
Publisher: Arcade
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 2002
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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