A Clockwork Orange (1971)

Yesterday was another one of those days, movie-wise; I was convinced I wanted something slick and overproduced and undemanding, and that I'd undoubtedly find it within the afternoon TV listings. Instead, however, I found the schedules empty, so I was forced to head for the DVD collection to see what might be lurking there. 

Eventually, I was able to express the desire to watch something like the Wolf of Wall Street, only not 3 hours long. Okay, great, it was a start.

I settled down to watch Danny Boyle's Sunshine, on grounds that I'd only seen it once before, only to give up 20 minutes in on grounds that the grounds for only having seen it once before had been that it was actually really, really boring.

Back to checking the DVD shelf, then, at which point I realized I'd been fancying A Clockwork Orange all along. I've been a huge fan of the book for about a decade, and while the film's fearsome reputation meant I came to it rather later, I'd been fascinated by it on a previous viewing.

Only one problem: greater minds than mine have written thousands of words about this particular movie, and they've done it more eloquently than I ever could. More to the point, they probably didn't do it in the 90 minutes before work whilst trying to get dressed, eat breakfast and catch up with a couple of online games where they couldn't afford to miss a day.

What follows, therefore, are a few of my very briefest thoughts about the movie, and a promise that if I'm ever in a position where I can actually get my writing published, you can have a proper essay then.

Resuming regular service now.

A Clockwork Orange is Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of Anthony Burgess' dystopian novel of the same name. It tells the story of teenage thug Alex (Malcolm McDowell), whose twin loves of rape and violence are only surpassed by his passion for the works of Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

We follow him through several years of his life as he commits a number of shocking crimes and is jailed for them, before being selected for an experimental aversion therapy that leaves him physically and mentally incapable of perpetrating further offences. He is released into the world as a model citizen, but soon finds out that people can sometimes have remarkably long memories...
  

The good

There's a lot about this film that I love - pretty much all of it, in fact. More than that, though, there's a lot that I appreciate, and it mostly links in to the aesthetics, from the garish retrofuturism (futurism? This was the 70s, after all) of the interiors to the brutalist concrete structures that feature so largely in the location shots. Even Wendy Carlos' score, which adapts popular classical themes and turns them into bouncy synth-pop jaunts, hits the right note of cheerful irritation to match Alex' sunny but dangerous demeanour.

I love, too, that the violence still has the power to shock, in spite of its largely pantomime nature, or perhaps even because of it. Barring a few shots with visible genitalia in frame, you can see far worse these days on mainstream TV, even before the watershed. Nevertheless, some of the attack sequences left me feeling genuinely disturbed. This is a powerful film - so powerful, in fact, that it was banned in the UK for decades after multiple instances of copycat violence. Worryingly, over 40 years on, it still feels fresh and relevant.

The bad

I wouldn't say that I have any huge criticisms of this one, but neither would I say it's half as profound as those in certain quarters would suggest. The story of a a young tearaway's misdeeds being nothing compared to the greater evil of the ruling elite is, after all, nothing new. At its heart, this is a relatively simple story about class; the beauty and the perfection of it are to be found in the elegance with which it is told.

The verdict

As art? This scores 100 percent, undoubtedly. As social critique? Only 65, 70 tops. Don't let this prevent you from taking a look, though; I haven't even scratched the surface, and by the time I've written my proper essay on it hopefully you'll be able to come back at me with some thoughts of your own.