I have recently spent a couple of wild nights in bed with Aldous Huxley.
Guilty of betrayal a year earlier for putting George Orwell’s 1984 by my bed side table, only half read and gathering dust – I felt it was time to put the memories of an unsuccessful de-virgining experience between myself and the dystopian literary genre behind, and give Huxley’s Brave New World a shot.
In comparison to my struggle with Orwell, (which by page 67 felt like I had in fact been reading the book, pretty much, since 1984) Huxley was quite a different story…
Orwell and Huxley tackle Dystopia from different angles. Orwell’s opression is created by the external Big Brother, whereas Huxley’s oppression is internal & self-inflicted. There is no need for Big Brother in order to deprive people’s autonomy – they do a pretty damn fine job all on their own. However, either way, both pieces describe very clearly how mechanization drains society of its essential humanity.
Orwell’s 1984 is a true classic and quite possibly the most popular & definitive dystopian novel. True it has been pimped, abused & disfigured ad-nauseam by modern daytime television, but that’s just another beautiful example of how disgustingly bleak the concept behind the book truly is.
Being familiar with the 1984‘dian concept since well before Cable TV or even before I made enough pocket money to buy my own books and as a post-modern slave of today’s world, I have come across various scenarios in my lifetime which have sent frightning Orwellian shivers down my spine – some of which were greater than I care to admit. And as someone with a keen interest in (and phobia of) the potential developments of future societies, I will forever hold a soft spot for George.
But whilst I loved the NUT, it’s the shell I had a problem with.
I am likely to have my “pass” for the Pearly Gates of Literati revoked for admitting this; but I found 1984 simply irritating (even more so considering it was published almost 2 decades after Brave New World). True, debates could go on for hours on whether Orwell’s endless regurgitation of a rather unthrilling storyline is, in fact, what makes this book so grand and perfectly serves the purpose of conveying the author’s concerns of dystopia in the most clear & straight forward way. Yes, No, Maybe?! Possibly… I am no Literature Professor and this is not aimed to be a state of the art book review, I just know what I like and this was not it. I am sorry my dear Winston, but despite the thrillingly mortifying concept of ”Oceanea” being all too familiar, no matter how hard I tried, each page was so painful to flip over, I simply had no desire to keep on reading.
And Huxley…?
I whizzed through the crazy disturbia filled pages of Brave New World like a Duracell Bunny on acid practically fastforwarding my brain into the year 632 AF (circa 2540 AD – in which the plot is set). The mental pace in which the storyline runs made me feel like I was part of the setting, with a piece of each of Huxley’s characters’ DNA throbbing – to various degrees - inside me. I found myself passionately relating to the “Savages”, libidal fears, frustrations and desires in all their rawness but also - oddly enough (and slightly frighteningly) – relating to the conditioning & the ”community, identity, stability” motto.
As opposed to 1984 which to me felt like a dull means to an ingenious end - Aldous’s writing was a mesmerizing journey that made me realise many of us carry our own private version of a Brave New World inside us (whether we choose to admit it or not) . We already are our future (and not just 40, but over 500 years ahead!). That is where, to me, lies the true beauty of this the book and Huxley’s writing.
Brave New World has earned a spot up there with my favourite pieces of literature, and Huxley is definitely an author I am eager to spend more time in bed with. And as for Orwell… knowing myself all too well, I will probably get back to him in future as unfinished books tend to haunt me, but next time - I will be sure to take “a gram of soma”, or at least a Viagra, to cope.
City: TLV
Having recently returned from a very long holiday – my brother (bless his cottons) decided to snap me out of the misery that slapped me across the face, like a seriously angry hoochie mamma, the minute the 747-400 from LHR hit the tarmac in the land of all things holy.
The solution to my misery: “Lets go watch a Funny Movie“ (yes, that’s how depressed I was… “Comedy” was simply not a strong enough word to get me out of my mental pajamas and off the sofa).
The “Funny Movie”, so it was decided, was going to be The Hangover. Or as titled here On the Way to the Wedding We Stop in Vegas – So of course, the journey to the cinema was filled with my ramblings on how no one can ever get anything right in this godforsaken country - and how….just how…. in a land that’s so small, and could cease to exist the day after tomorrow, could someone actually TAKE THEIR TIME to turn the original title into its very own painfully long and ugly version?!
Despite the negative Modus Operandi, I decided to let that issue slide (to my brother’s relief) the minute I discovered that the cinema had recently opened the first ever Jelly Belly store on this side of the Separation Wall. “Great” I thought to myself “If I am clearly doomed to be this unhappy being stuck here, at least I can give myself a distracting 7 minute sugar rush and later – most likely – fight the need to vomit after having consumed tiny yet lethal eclectic combinations of cocktail-flavoured chemically-florecent jelly beans“
By this point I was sure that my brother started developing suicidal tendencies from the mere thought of having to put up with me for a few more hours. With a shred of hope that he was at least appreciative of the fact that once the movie started I would finally put a sock in it and shut-up, we walked into the auditorium.
The Cinema, like any good Cinema in TLV had this overwhelming smell of sewage combined with buttered Popcorn – divine! I didnt know how or if my olfactory senses would ever be able to survive the whole experience…. luckily, the woman sitting next to me had clearly masterd the art of ‘chewing with one’s mouth open’ to absolute perfection. The sound was deafening and so I soon forgot about the stench and whilst trying to avoid being blinded by a myriad of actively flashing mobile phones, I sat there thinking what a huge mistake it was…back in 1948 ,when the majority voted in favour of… and the independance of a new state was declared, giving way for the evolution of a new, not necessarily desired, species.
After a bunch of trailers and some really badly made local commercials, the movie finally started. And at that stage I still didnt understand how, what seemed like the epitome of a Bloke Movie, could make this particular girl have fun. And then… well…along came Fat Jesus…
Phil, Doug, Alan and Stu – mixed and matched – are all too familiar. I have at one point or another, as I am sure you may have too, come across/hung out with/dated/worked with the Phils, the Dougs and the Stus of this world – and yes, even the Alans. Yet, happily female since the day I was born, it was not until I watched this movie, that I actually wished I could experience being in their manly shoes.
Being a girl, I have had my fair share of watching Stags on their Stag weekends, going out with Hens on their Hen nights, and generally being active in observing the behaviour of the sexes (usually during “lets drink to oblivion and make an utter tit out of ourselves” scenarios). Moreover, as a girl, I have always felt that despite the period pains, the outing of watermelon babies from very small private parts & the pain endured in order to look sexy in killer heels - despite all these, being a Jane was far far better than being a Tarzan. After all, we truly get to experience real & complex emotions, thoughts and feelings. Not only that, but we also own the art of communication and thus, are able to engage in exciting constructive discussions with our girlfriends creating a true female meta-bonding. All this, without having to be simple, be stupid, drink beer or attempt to deal with an emotionally vacant look behind which the male mind has set adrift on imaginary football bliss. Basically, we can deal with life the way it was meant to be dealt with - and what is life if not one big Double-D, Blonde, Bubble-Gum roller-coaster of thoughts, feelings and emotions?!
Yet, lo and behold….
The Hangover threw all my girlie crap out the window. Sitting in the cinema, forgetting my “the end is nigh” mood I couldnt help but roar with hysterical laughter at the various pearls of wisdom so elegantly and effortlessly shooting through the movie as quick as a gram of cocaine up a very eager nostrile. Following each and every on-screen move of the Fab-4, I actually started to feel the Male-in-Vegas rush running through my own veins.
That’s when it hit me, how could I not have noticed it before?! It’s obvious – Girls are so busy trying that they ’Just Wanna Have Fun’… but Guys?! Guys ACTUALLY DO have fun. Never in my life have I been envious of guys until that evening in the cinema. I simply wanted to switch sides and experience that “everything and anything goes” of being a guy on the loose (rather than being a loose girl…) in Vegas on a ’surrealism galore-male adventure’.
After a couple of hours of complete unadulterated pleasure, I walked out of the cinema still female, but with a new take on male experiences and bonding. Instead of connecting by means of analysing emotions to death, instead of being busy looking pretty, instead of having 17 hour long discussions trying to understand the true agendas and hidden meanings of pretty straight forward stuff - Men have the ability to just “Be”, just “Happen” and just “Do” in the wackiest of contexts.
And me…??? I realised that I too want to keep it crazy yet sweet & simple – I want to experience life that happens “the Vegas way” . The spontaneity, the randomness, the ups (roofies!), the downs (floories!) - I want to be a woman who can take it and sometimes do it like a man!
And, as that kind of woman, I decided to let the grumpiness go, to take it on the chin, to put up with coming back from holiday, to get out of my mental pajamas and to slip on a mental, little black ‘go grab the world by the balls’ dress but this time, with a pair of male boxer shorts underneath.
Although this movie would probably never be defined as a classic, it truly has earned its cult status in my book. The (sur)real characters, the witty dialogue and the depiction of some of the grimmest scenarios men can (and probably have) found themselves in whilst away on bachelor parties are just downright hysterical. And moreover, I think these Tarzans could teach us Janes a thing or two on how to party, but also – on how to bond.
You may think I am giving too much philosophical credit to a movie that was created most likely for the purpose of sheer entertainment and ”busting some blocks” - and that is fair enough, you have your opinion and I have mine.
But no matter what your view is, please just remember one thing; whether Male or Female, neither or both, “What happens in Vegas stays, in Vegas… Except herpes, that shit will come back with you!”
I have just given birth to this beautiful baby blog… 1/10/2009 @ 09:50 GMT+2
