The Hunger Games: Pleasurable? Yes. Compelling? Maybe.

I love to read, although sometimes one wouldn’t know it. In searching for an after-graduation job, managing a new teaching position, and working on the dissertation and other writing projects, I haven’t had much time for reading anything non-school-related.

Recently, that changed when I was hit with a fourth bout of bronchitis in as many months. Too sick to leave the house, too uncomfortable to sleep, and too medicated to write, I started reading Suzanne Collins’ wildly popular trilogy, The Hunger Games.

CC-licensed photo by flickr user natashalcd

I gobbled up The Hunger Games, the first book in the series, in a matter of days. Gorged, is more like it: At night, tucked in bed with my tissues and inhaler, I plowed through the novel in marathon-stretches.

For me, the book was so pleasurable because of Collins’ world-building. According to Scholastic’s promotional website, the novel is set “in the ruins of a place once known as North America.” A new nation called Panem has emerged, and it consists of a wealthy, ruling “Capitol surrounded by twelve outlying districts. Each year, the districts are forced by the Capitol to send one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate in the Hunger Games, [which are]…televised for all of Panem to see.” Stephen King describes the Hunger Games as “a bloodthirsty reality TV show in which [participants] fight each other in a desolate environment called the ‘arena.’ The winner gets a life of ease; the losers get death.” Additionally, and perhaps most importantly, the Capitol uses the Hunger Games to ensure its supremacy. (Intrigued? Scholastic makes the first two chapters of The Hunger Games available for free.)

World-building involves landscape description, but also the creation of a logic that dictates what happens within a space that is as social as it is physical. Katniss Everdeen, District 12′s female tribute for the games, lives in a poor neighborhood called the Seam. Physically speaking, the grittiness of her surroundings contrast sharply with the verdant forests bordering it–a natural world that is forbidden to District 12′s citizens but one that Katniss and her friend, Gale, nevertheless escape to daily. There, they hunt for food that their families so badly need, but they also draw psychological sustenance from their trips into the wild, as well. Socially speaking, class distinctions within District 12 are not as sharp as those that divide the Capitol and Panem’s districts. Still, they are palpable, and Katniss astutely registers and navigates these imbalances of power in order to keep her family alive and safe.

Collins’ skill with world-building is apparent throughout the novel, particularly in her descriptions of the Hunger Games’ training facility and the arena itself.

Map of Panem by Kaydicakes via fanpop.com

Although The Hunger Games is an immersive, pleasurable reading experience, I question whether the novel is compelling in terms of its social critique. Collins attempts to evaluate modern society’s beliefs and institutions as well as their trajectories, yet her remarks on state power, surveillance, and voyeurism, seem underdeveloped and contradictory.

Laura Miller asserts a similar view of the novel’s social critique in her review of Young Adult dystopias. She claims that if the games are regarded as propaganda or a disciplinary tool, then they “don’t make much sense. They lack that essential quality of the totalitarian spectacle: ideological coherence. You don’t demoralize and dehumanize a subject people by turning them into [reality television] celebrities and coaching them on how to craft an appealing persona for a mass audience.”

For Miller, then, the televised games don’t function as a convincing “disciplinary measure” because there are too many inconsistencies between (1) the design of the games, and (2) their reverberations in Panem. For instance, Miller notes:

Given that the winning tribute’s district is ‘showered with prizes, largely consisting of food,’ why isn’t it the poorer, hungrier districts that pool their resources to train Career Tributes [who usually win the games], instead of the wealthier ones? And the practice of carrying off a population’s innocent children and commanding their parents to watch them be slaughtered for entertainment—wouldn’t that do more to provoke a rebellion than to head one off?

Perhaps, though, the televised games exert more of a disciplinary force than Miller acknowledges. Viewing is mandatory for Panem’s residents, and large television screens are placed in public places so that as people watch the games unfold, their erstwhile obedience to the Capital can be monitored; even more troublesome, public viewing events allow Panem’s citizens to watch and supervise others.
Also, Miller completed her review in advance of the publication of the trilogy’s final installment, and so it’s likely she’s operating without full knowledge of the series.
To move further in the direction of full-disclosure, I’m working my way through Catching Fire and Mockingjay (books 2 and 3, respectively). Maybe my views about the levity of Collins’ social critique will change as I progress.
Thanks to twitter user @RachMcLennan for a series of exchanges that inspired this post.


American Horror Story Season 1 Finale

A few weeks ago I wrote about FX’s new TV series, American Horror Story, which centers on the Harmon family, who recently moved into a historic LA mansion with a sordid past: nearly all of the home’s inhabitants either  have died or been killed in the house. Instead of transitioning to the afterlife, they remain imprisoned in the house as ghosts who can assume their former embodied selves at will.

CC-licensed photo by flickr user ConanTheLibrarian

Intrigued by the show’s title, I wanted to know what qualified the show’s horror story as “American” in character. I surmised that American Horror Story is less a the tale of things that go bump in the night and more a catalog of anxieties and problems that have plagued not only Americans, but especially American families, as well.

Season one’s finale confirmed and extended my mid-season critique. After watching all thirteen episodes, which constitute a discrete story line that won’t continue with season two [1], I can say this: the inaugural edition of American Horror Story implies that Americans past and present have been haunted by financial insecurities. Each home owner, from the first to the last, has encountered financial trouble because of personal habits, larger economic forces, or both. Moreover, home ownership exists at the center of these issues. The Harmons, for instance, had limited liquid assets; their cash resources were tied up in the house. Because the house couldn’t be sold, the Harmons were hindered in their ability to move to another location should life demand such a change (and it did).

While personal choices undoubtedly shape a family’s financial health and degree of mobility, so too, do economic downturns. The current recession provides a telling lesson regarding this point. Hope Yen of the Associate Press writes that currently “U.S. mobility is at its lowest point since World War II. New information from the Census Bureau highlights the continuing impact of the housing bust and unemployment on U.S. migration” [2]. Mobility thus is an important indicator in the nation’s overall financial health. As Richard Florida notes in The Atlantic, “the mobile possess the resources and the inclination to seek out and move to locations where they pursue economic opportunity” [3].

American Horror story also addresses other endemic stresses of contemporary American families. School violence, teen depression and suicide, marital discord, and infidelity are recurring themes in the series. Moreover, many of these issues emerge due to dysfunctional family relationships between parents and children. Both Tate and Violet, the show’s central teen characters, are profoundly impacted by their respective parents’ marital problems. While Tate directs his rage outward towards others by maiming his stepfather and murdering his high school peers, Violet turns her emotional despair inward; she commits suicide.  

Much of the first season, then, identified the multiple and seemingly endless conflicts in American life. The season finale, however, offered something different by addressing how American anxieties might be resolved or at least acknowledged in a productive way.

The Harmon family’s fate in the final episode thus symbolizes a potential resolution for long-standing as well as uniquely contemporary American anxieties and problems. Significantly, the Harmons have long regarded mobility—that is, moving to a new house—as the solution to their problems. Yet, one by one, each Harmon dies in the house and returns as a ghost, forever trapped between the bounds of the property.

CC-licensed flickr photo by takfoto

The Harmons eventually find some sort of strange contentment in their new ghostly existence—that is, in being stuck as opposed to mobile. As ghosts, Vivian and Ben experience a functional, if not loving, husband-wife relationship for the first time in long time. Their relationship with Violet, their daughter, prospers, and Vivian even is reunited with her baby son, who supposedly was stillborn when he was delivered at the house. (It turns out the baby took one breath before passing away; since he died in the house, he became a ghost). This picture of family togetherness culminates in a touching Christmas-tree-decorating scene, which is so serene that it almost erases the turmoil, pain, and sheer physical violence that the family endured in the preceding weeks.   

Julie Irwin Zimmerman notes in a response to Florida’s assessment of American immobility that stuckness does not always reflect financial hardship; stuckness also can indicate contentment in one’s geographic surroundings [4]. The Harmons’ imprisonment in their home as ghosts, then, might indicate that resolving American anxieties has  something to do with family unity as well as contentment with one’s surroundings.

[Snort.]

American Horror Story clearly indicates that the Harmons’ contentment is a fiction. It is a projection of a past that never was and a future that can never really be. (The Harmon’s former maid, herself a ghost, alludes to this idea during the tree-decorating scene.)

The Harmons represent an American fiction—an ideal as opposed to a reality–whose cultural currency is in decline. Who, then, is the new America and where are they headed?  Who will inherit the Harmons’ shattered past, and how will they forge a new life in their adopted home? Not coincidentally, the next homeowners are an American family of presumably Hispanic descent, but they don’t last one night in their newly purchased mansion. (Terrified by  the legion of ghosts, they flee screaming under the cover of darkness.) I’m not one to be turned off by heavy-handed symbolism. (If I was, I wouldn’t have made it through even two episodes of this series.) So,  while I’m sad that the show’s first story arc has come to a close, I like that American Horror Story ended its first chapter by addressing a complex American anxiety about immigration, ethnicity, whiteness, and cultural contamination.  

What do you think about the season finale’s pronouncement regarding the “next generation” of America and how this unfolding future is being received?

Works Cited
1. Villarreal, Yvonne. “Ryan Murphy Discusses the Future of American Horror Story.” Los Angeles Times. Show Tracker. 22 Dec 2011. Accessed 22 Dec 2011.
2. Yen, Hope. “Mobility Falls to Record Low as Americans Stay Put.” Associated Press. 27 Oct 2011. Accessed 22 Dec 2011.
3. Florida, Richard. “The Geography of Stuck.” 25 Nov 2011. Accessed 22 Dec 2011.
4. Irwin, Julie Zimmerman. “Stuck or Content?” The Atlantic Cities. 21 Dec 2011. Accessed. 22 Dec 2011.