race/gender/science fiction - Response 3

though it has probably been noted...

surrealistic — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 09:37:07 +0000

I decided that I needed to take one of my freebies for the Handmaid's Tale response. That book just made me angry because of its terrible ending, and potentially frightened, because Gilead resembles what a freakish fundamentalist-Christian America would be at its most extreme. For that reason alone, I actually think that more people should have to read it, and maybe have second thoughts about pushing their morals/beliefs on others. That being said, I also already have midterms beginning. My first exam is tomorrow. Gah....: /

Plausibility of Gilead

supergoat — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 19:24:29 +0000

Margaret Atwood describes a world in Handmaid's Tale that seems to be exaggerated to make a point, and not a realistic possibility. However, a closer look at the psychology behind such cultures reveals it is not as out of the question as we may presume.

A common misconception by people is their self-perceived immunity to manipulation. In 1961 Yale University psychologist Stanley Milgram performed one of the most controversial, and interesting, experiments of the century. His experiment was run three months after the start of a Nazi war criminal, and was designed to determine how much the Nazi's were individually responsible for the horrors that they committed during the war. The basic set up of the experiment involved the subject being told they were studying the effects of punishment on thinking, and were told to shock another participant (really an actor), with increasingly higher voltages until a correct answer was produced. The experiment runner, who sat near the participant and served as the authority figure, proposed the questions. The voltage went as high as 450 volts, and long before that the actor would be yelling from the other room in pain and complaining of possible serious complications from heart problems. When Milgram polled his colleagues before the experiment, they believed that only the vilest people would go all the way (an average of 1.2%). The actual results were astounding, in that 65% of participants went to 450 volts, although many of them protested while they were doing so. The reason so many commited this seemingly horrid task was the influence of the experimenter in the room, who told repeated only four lines when the participants complained:

1. Please continue.
2. The experiment requires that you continue.
3. It is absolutely essential that you continue.
4. You have no other choice, you must go on.

This experiment has been run many more times, with separate variables adjusted. The most critical variable by far has been shown to be the perceived presence an authority held by the experimenter urging them to go on. Although peer conformity has been shown to have a strong effect, for when it was run with a "dummy" teacher running the supposed same experiment next to the participant and the "dummy" went all the way with the experiment, only 3 of 40 subjects stopped before the end, meaning it is incredibly hard to resist society like that.

Ok, so the implications of this experiment are obviously huge, and go a long way in explaining how an entire country could go on a genocide campaign. It also explains how a world such as Gilead could stay in power, with half its people oppressed. The "authority figure" in Gilead is represented by the government, which although it isn't seen outright often, as we mentioned in class this can be much more oppressing than an overt government like in the movie. The government is perceived to have infiltrated everyday life with their "eyes", and so it is difficult to even talk about resistance. Disobedience has obvious consequences, as shown by the hangings of "criminals": "They have committed atrocities and must be made into examples, for the rest. Though this is hardly needed. No woman in her right mind, these days, would seek to prevent a birth, should she be so lucky as to conceive"(33). The level of authority held by the government rivals that of Nazi Germany, and so I would argue that the men in the book are no less responsible for the catastrophe than the women, and that a lack of action by any one of them does not necessarily constitute a weak character, but just a lack of an exceptionally strong one.

This goes for Offred too. Her lack of resistance in the first half of the book does not in any way make her weak, and her actions in the second half, such as playing scrabble and having sex with Nick, I believe are much more indicative of a strong character than we first assume.

As was also mentioned in class, Atwood has discussed how the roots of Gilead come from other societies that have, or currently do exist. The situations in some middle-eastern countries have very similar parallels in their oppression of women, and show that it is not that out of the question for it to occur. I believe distopian books are very important not just for the sake of whatever message they present, like the gender equality statements of "Handmaid's Tale", but so that we can be reminded of our susceptibility to authority, and avoid a distopia of our own.

What's in a name?

coffeeandcherrypie — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 19:08:57 +0000

The reader is introduced to THT's patronymic naming system via "newness" in the SF-specific, Huntingtonian sense. In the first section, we are clued in to the fact that something is awry in the book's world, naming-wise, by the sort of ominous catalogue of pedestrian Catholic school-girl-sounding names: "Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira. June" (4). ("Aunt" seems like a strange title, too, but there are other things to worry about for the moment.) This is then followed by the introduction of Rita the Martha.: "Rita is in here, standing at the kitchen table, which has a top of chipped white enamel. She's in her usual Martha's dressâ€¦. She puts on the veil to go outside, but nobody much cares who sees the face of a Martha" (9). Here, we find a recognizable use of naming paired with an unrecognizable use of naming, so that we know that certain names are used in the same way in this world as they are in our world, and certain names are used very differently. What, we wonder, is a Martha?
In the same chapter, we're introduced to Serena Joy, the Commander's Wife. At this point in the novel, it seems pretty clear that the improbable name "Serena Joy" is a stage name from "The Growing Souls Gospel Hour" (16). In the rest of the novel, though, she still bears the same name, and there is never any attempt to delve into the matter further.
Then, finally, amid this small amount of name-related confusion, we get introduced to the patronymic naming system: "Her name is Ofglen, and that's about all I know about her" (19). This is sort of a tricky way for Atwood to have gone about this business, since "Ofglen" is less immediately transparent than, say, "Ofcharles" or even "Ofwayne"--it is more than possible, that is, to look at the word "Ofglen" and see only a weird, quasi-Nordic name, without yet discerning the system and its purpose. It is also important, I think, that Ofglen's name is presented as an absolute fact--"that's about all I know about her." Ultimately, it will become clear that to give "Ofglen" as Ofglen's name is to give a sort of misinformation. She surely does have another, real name. It's simply the case that the narrator isn't privy to this information. But--strangely, I think--she doesn't seem concerned by this.
The scene in the Milk and Honey store is the first time that real information about how naming is worked gets revealed to the reader. This makes a certain amount of sense, since this is also the first instance of significant social interaction. First, there's the revelation that places can't really conceivably be named in words but must instead be named with pictures--"Our first stop is at a store with another wooden sign: three eggs, a bee, a cow. Milk and Honey" (25). The naming of women gets revealed in a way that looks incidental--via gossip: "'Who is it?' I hear behind me. 'Ofwayne. No. Ofwarren'" (26). It takes the juxtaposition of these two names--in conjunction with the already-given "Ofglen"--to solidify our understanding of what's going on as far as women's names. This is exactly the sort of principle of "newness" that Huntington points out as in Neuromancer. First, the reader is introduced into a system that feels somehow foreign or different but that is not explained in detail. It works sort of like Kafka, in a way--we just have to accept the information given to us. But, unlike in Kafka, things eventually get explained, get reordered into a system that, while still unfamiliar, seems at least logical.
I think what remains sort of disturbing or sinister about naming in The Handmaid's Tale is that none of it is ever fully explained. The new system is never fully revealed. We never know, for instance, what Offred's "real" name was. (And even her patronymic seems hopelessly vague: just as "Ofglen" looks in a certain sense opaque to me, I can't look at "Offred" and not read "Off-red," as in the color--the color of the handmaids' dresses, perhaps?)
Even the "Historical Notes" section seems perplexed by the amount of information we get: "She does not see fit to supply us with her original nameâ€¦. The other names in the document are equally useless for the purposes of identification and authentication. 'Luke' and 'Nick' drew blanks, as did 'Moira' and 'Janine.' There is a high probability that these were, in any case, pseudonyms" (306). Far from comforting or explanatory, the historical notes further undermine whatever sense of confidence or normality we might have found in, e.g., Moira's name.

A mob scene

Scott_of_the_Sahara — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 18:47:50 +0000

While reading The Handmaid's Tale I noticed that there were many instances in which the mentality of the mob took control over that of the individual. This served as another way for the Handmaids to lose some of the individuality to the theocracy of the Republic of Gilead. What struck me most, however, was that there are also references to the mob mentality in the context of the actions of Offred's mother in the time before the republic. That the mob mentality is seen in both eras was quite an interesting similarity.

There are numerous ways in which this mob mentality is represented in The Republic of Gilead. The Prayvaganzas and Particicution are two of the most obvious ways this mob mentality is represented. Offred herself even admits says that "despite myself I feel my hands clench," and she knows she wants "to tear, gouge, rend" at the man (279). She understands, on the one hand, that she is being drawn into all of this, but falls for it anyway. I suppose that is all part of the mob mentality. Another instance where I thought the effects of a mob mentality were particularly evident was the Janine/Ofwarren's birthing. The other Handmaids "lean forward, tensed, the muscles in (their) backs and bellies hurt from the strain" (125). They are actually experiencing, to an extent, the birth for themselves, losing themselves completely in the process. A mob or herd mentality is certainly one way for people to lose individualism, as they just become part of the crowd and follow the crowd's actions despite what they may or may not believe themselves. Through use of activities that encourage this mob mentality it seems like the theocracy of Gilead is doing a rather good job of stripping the Handmaids of some of their individualism.

However, there are also mentions of the mob mentality as it existed in "the time before." The most notable of these is when Offred recalls the political activism of her mother in feminist activities of the late 1970s. The first instance is when she recalls the book burning that took place at the park where she though her mother was taking her to feed the ducks. There were men and women around the bonfire, "some of them were chantingâ€¦ Their faces were happy, ecstatic almost" (38). She evokes an image that seems reminiscent of book burnings from Fascist regimes. The second time she mentions it is in a flashback to a Domestic Science class. Her mother is in the video they watch and eventually just "is part of the crowdâ€¦, (she) can't see her anymore" (120). Here there is a definite sense of a loss of identity and individualism.

It is interesting to me that Atwood would include this in both the before time and the time of the Republic of Gilead. The mob mentality seems to survive, although what it becomes in the theocracy is the opposite of what it stood for in the democracy from before. The rallies and large social gatherings are no longer for women to come together in support of new freedoms, but to come together in very traditional settings. In either case, there is a loss of self to the crowd in general.

I don't actually know anything about feminism or its history. I would like to find a way to connect this with a possible critique of the feminism of the late 1970s and early 1980s. That Atwood used a book burning I thought was very interesting, because those have such strong connections with oppressive regimes. I suppose this is another point I'm interested in discussing, but don't know enough about to actually discuss.

Cuaron should make Neuromancer

FomaFan — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 18:45:05 +0000

As we keep discussing Hollywood's destruction of some of the books we've read, I feel like I should mention that there's apparently a movie being made of Neuromancer, starring everyone's favorite emo-Jedi, Hayden Christensen, as Case, and directed by Joseph Kahn, who has offered us such masterpieces as Britney Spears' video for "Toxic". Hooray.

I bring this up because as I was rewatching Children of Men, I started thinking that the approach of Cuaron and his cinematographer is exactly what I would want in a film adaptation of Neuromancer. Children of Men is one of the most subjective movies I've seen in recent memory--essentially every scene is built around Theo and our understanding of the scenes is as complete or limited as Theo's own. The world is minutely defined , yet the overwhelming detail and description with which it is given often makes it almost incomprehensible. At times, it recalls our world, yet at others seems incredibly foreign, and is immersed in an environment of despair and hopelessness that it feels oppressive at times. I don't think it's much of a stretch, though, to say this summarizes Neuromancer as well as Children of Men.

To begin, the construction of the world in Children of Men resembles Gibson's own approach. Much of the world is seen briefly or peripherally, and we are not always given a complete explanation of what we're seeing. In Children of Men, I was struck by the fact that the special effects, which so many movies love to focus on, are here relegated to the background or seen so briefly as to be almost pointless. They are used not to call attention to anything, but are rather submerged in the deluge of visuals. When used in this way, they serve not as a means of forcing the audience to accept the reality of the world on the screen, but to transition between our world and the movie. The opening scene is an excellent example of this "transition"-based use of special effects (and the long single-shot that is used a lot in this movie). We begin in a coffee shop indistinguishable from the modern day, see from the date on the screen that we are in fact in 2027, and then as Theo steps outside, we see double-decker buses and whole buildings covered with enormous television screens. As he walks down the street, we are given such a deluge of visual information that this world is "different" from our own, that we aren't fully capable of defining each individual part, and simply accept it as a whole (Granted, this may just be my experience of the movie, but it's my post, so there). Then, an explosion, acting almost as a period at the end of the sentence, calls attention to the transition that we have just undergone in a single shot that's less than a minute long.

This is almost exactly how Gibson offers his cyberpunk world to the reader--in the background or in fleeting glimpses. Consider descriptions like "Someone scored a ten-megaton hit on Tank War Europa, a simulated airburst drowning the arcade in white sound as a lurid hologram fireball mushroomed overhead." (17), or "Case turned his head and tried to make out the outline of the old Orly terminals, but the shuttle pad was screened by graceful blast-deflectors of wet concrete. The one nearest the window bore an Arabic slogan in red spraybomb." (102). Gibson clearly uses the fringes of the environments that he creates to distinguish them from our world, and while it may seem odd to try and say that a literary and visual style are similar, I do think that Children of Men and Neuromancer share an approach to establishing a world (I think those two descriptions of Gibson's could just as easily be descriptions of deleted scenes from Children of Men, for instance).

Feel free to disagree, as I'm sure some people found the movie boring, needlessly artsy, show-offy, or lacking plot and a conclusion (all things my friends have said about it). But as we wait for the Neuromancer trailer to no doubt give us a blistering techno soundtrack, incredible special effects that make the Matrix come alive, fun one-liners that sound great even out of context, and other such standards of sci-fi adaptations, I'm going to stick with Children of Men for a while.

Sex as Hope in The Handmaid's Tale

DeusExMachina — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 18:22:52 +0000

After reading dreamfall17's comments about the loss of hope in Children of Men, I did some thinking about hope in The Handmaid's Tale, and stumbled on the idea â€“ which I presume to see, at least â€“ that sex is the predominant source of hope in this novel. Constantly, various male characters in the book seem to be offering illicit intercourse to Offred â€“ from the doctor offering to impregnate her (60-61) to the young Guardian who looks her in the eye, implying some sort of sexual possibility (21). Even though she does not take them up on these offers, they provide her the opportunity to imagine having the freedom to do so. These "moments [that] are the rewards" Offred keeps "like the candy [she] hoarded as a child" (21) â€“ just the minuscule breaking of rules which permits Offred to imagine "what if" they secretly met romantically. Similarly, the way she can make "the full red skirt sway" like "teasing a dog with a bone held out of reach" is a source of "power" (22).

In this way, Nick and Fred provide similar hope: the pleasure of Nick's approach in the sitting room is a refreshing pleasure: "It's so good, to be touched by someone, to be felt so greedily, to feel so greedy" - almost as if Luke had returned to her (99). Every encounter like this provides a hint that the desexualized â€“ or rather, desensualized â€“ society of Gilead isn't inevitable, that there are others like Offred who want to have â€“ dare I say â€“ "sexy encounters" with each other and will go to great lengths to do so. Just like the scene where Fred hands her a preserved copy of Vogue and watches her read through it. It's not sex â€“ but with the content of those magazines being what they are, it's still a "naughty" pleasure beyond just breaking the rules (157).

But the only actual "sexual act" regularly occurring in Offred's life is not hopeful. It is "performed... in a perfunctory way" (160) with only the emotion of embarrassment. So it's sex, but it's not sexuality. In reality, the true hope in the book is not the act of intercourse, but the act of lovemaking.

Janine

roseblack — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 13:17:05 +0000

I've found myself often mulling my least favorite character in this novel: Janine. She's the only character in the book for whom the narrator expresses clear contempt. While she may quietly deride or ignore other figures in her life, Janine is the only person clearly within limits. Clearly, Offred is not alone in this. The prevailing sentiment at the Red Center is to "[treat] her the way people used t treat those with no legs who sold pencils on street corners (133)." Clearly, Janine is damaged. The young victim of a gang rape, she's easily re-traumatized by the blame ritual at the Red Center. Yet in this new world, where women are theoretically safer from attack, Janine is no longer treated with the care or concern that are currently afforded to trauma victims in society. Her instability constitutes a danger to those around her, and thus, she is shunned and further harmed.

The manner in which the cast relates to Janine brings up a point that's been made in other entries: empathy is gone from this novel. Where Janine would be an object of sympathy in another novel, here she's "a dog that's been kicked too many times," and rather than creating a bond with anyone out of shared suffering, she must turn to the Aunts, or other authorities, for occasional validation. Yet even her quiet, safe submission is reviled. To the narrator, she's "sucky Janine" the one probably crying in the back of the Prayvaganza . Even though our narrator is highly complicit with the Gileadan regime, behaving so well as to convince Ofglen that she's pious for months, Janine's submission is always more vile. Perhaps it's her relative comfort in her new world that makes her an object of disgust. While other handmaids have the grace to at least be unhappy, Janine seems to truly take pleasure in the minor privileges she's granted, like a pigeon conditioned to peck at a stimulus that only results in their receiving a shock.

Janine is interesting, inasmuch as she's a character who really can't exist within a truly utopian vision. She's so susceptible to any form of manipulation that she would unintentionally create, at least locally, a crack in any system she belonged to, unless it was so completely totalitarian that she couldn't receive any contradictory messages. She's so terribly well-behaved within the Republic of Gilead only because the messages she receives are so completely standardized that she can follow every directive she's given. Perhaps what's so disturbing about Janine is that she's so very well suited to the social system of Gilead.

response 3

Its_Knucklepuck_Time — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 10:36:07 +0000

Out of all three of the novels we have read so far, I like The Handmaid's Tale the best. Starship Troopers annoyed me because there were far too many soapbox moments for Heinlein and Neuromancer was difficult for me to follow because of the massive overload of descriptions of new technologies. The Handmaid's Tale is elegant. There is a certain grace to the writing and I feel that the story flows very well as a result of it. The most noteworthy aspect of the novel, at least for me, was how effective of a cautionary tale against blind trust and inaction it was.

Atwood was able to make The Handmaid's Tale a cautionary tale that was very effective in instilling a sense of fear and caution in the reader. The world that the story took place in was extremely intriguing to me because of its similarities to our world, which is one of the main reasons why this novel is so chilling. It seems that Atwood intentionally left out elaborate descriptions of future technology to make the story be as realistic and familiar as possible. On my copy of The Handmaid's Tale, there is an excerpt of a review on the back cover from the Houston Chronicle that states "Atwood takes many trends which exist today and stretches them to their logical and chilling conclusionsâ€¦", which I agree with. By making the events of the story seem like plausible continuations of today's trends, Atwood is able to infuse almost a sense of urgency in her story, a very real feeling of alarm. The descriptions of the downfall of the old society are extremely disturbing because they seem believable. At one point in the story, Offred was reminiscing about the very beginning of the new society. After the president was assassinated, the new order "â€¦suspended the Constitution. They said it would be temporary. There wasn't even any rioting in the streets. People stayed home at night, watching television, looking for some direction. There wasn't even an enemy you could put your finger on" (174). Offred remembered that "[t]hings continued in that state of suspended animation for weeks, although some things did happen. Newspapers were censored and some were closed down, for security reasons, they said. The roadblocks began to appear, and Identipasses. Everyone approved of that, since it was obvious you couldn't be too careful. They said that new elections would be held, but that it would take some time to prepare for them. The thing to do, they said, was to continue on as usual" (174). The most disturbing part of the revolution was how gradual it was. The new order preyed on the public's fear, slowly gaining their trust, until finally they had complete control. Another notable incident in the novel was the arrival of Japanese tourists who were free from the constraints of Gilead. For me, that was especially disturbing because it established a contrast that revealed the existence of more "civilized" societies out in the world. This made the oppression of Gilead seem even tragic, since there was salvation elsewhere in the world but it was completely out of reach for the women of Gilead. Additionally, this incident also added to the plausibility of The Handmaid's Tale because it brought to mind the Middle East, in which there is a real-life situation in which women are subject to extreme oppression. It highlighted the fact that scenarios like Gilead already exist in the world, making the novel even more chilling. One last aspect of the novel that really affected me was the overall tone of the writing - it is very melancholic and numbing and was critical in making The Handmaid's Tale poignant. I could not think of any one passage that epitomizes this tone, as it is necessary to really read the entire novel to truly get a feel for what it is like. Offred is a convincingly tortured and numb soul and her narrative on her life projects the feeling of a person who is almost completely worn down by life and struggling to keep on pushing herself through the day. All of these aspects of The Handmaid's Tale make it a very powerful story.

Blunting of HT in movie version?

Kamin — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 10:21:45 +0000

I wanted to focus in on this claim that the Handmaid's tale movie 'blunts' the scariness of the book through three particular explorations: the protagonist's access to control and identity, the depiction of the handmaids' indoctrination, and the protagonist's relationship with Nick. (This is in equal parts a response to http://machines.pomona.edu/55-2008/node/92 and http://machines.pomona.edu/55-2008/node/91).

As recognized, the movie grants the protagonist major individuality when it reveals her name. This act of establishing identity continues throughout, though, often serving to blunt the scariness of the book. Simply through the visual nature of film the movie gives her a body type, a skin color, and an approximate age. Throughout her private meetings with the commander, this identity grows. In contrast to her belief that "Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently" (p. 153), she yells and chats loudly (~54:00) and appears very relaxed with the commander. As discussed in class, Atwood closely links clothing and identity â€“ Moira escapes by donning the Aunt's garments, the red habit and wings play a huge part in defining the handmaids. In the film, Kate takes every chance she can to discard these clothes, wistfully leaning topless out the window after the first ceremony and often stripping to only her white slip when she returns to her room. Such actions contrast sharply to the novel's commentary on identity: "My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born" (p. 66). The freedom to dress as she pleases when alone (including being naked, returning to the way she was born), in addition to the exercise of more explicit control (helping Moira escape, killing the commander, as explored in the other posts) undermines the feeling of hopelessness the novel cultivated so well.

I agree with dreamfall17 and wooohooo that the indoctrination scenes seem to give up their power somewhere, though I find the particulars difficult to pin down. I find the visuals of the Marthas with their high heels, conservative brown wool dresses (not very efficient for dealing with escaping prisonersâ€¦), megaphones, and small discipline sticks less than imposing. Most importantly, I feel that the film fails to demonstrate a "breaking" process in the handmaids. In a major way, this can't be helped, as the film must sacrifice the ability to get inside Offred/Kate's head and follow her increasingly compliant thoughts. But, forced outside the stream of consciousness, the movie speeds through the transition from women fighting back against the armed guards to agreeing passively with the Marthas. Finally, one of the main issues brought up by dreamfall17 makes a huge difference â€“ the movie's obsession with depicting the actual violence involved actually weakens the threat. A future dystopia built on violence and military force is much more easy to fight than one built on laziness and arrogance.

Earlier writers also introduced the final point, but I wanted to try and flesh it out a little more. How might the protagonist's relationship with Nick differ in a way that decreases the threat of the novel? First, Luke is dead, completely eliminated from the picture. The lack of guilt that Offred is going through, then, decreases the tension with Nick. The movie continues to simplify their relationship when Nick takes on a seducing role instead of seeking to remain uninvolved ("No romanceâ€¦ okay?"). Throughout the film, nobody explicitly mentions the existence of the "eyes." Without this worry that Nick might turn her in, his relationship becomes one of sexual satisfaction and salvation (sexually and from the entire system) without guilt or downside.

Ten seconds' worth of half babies

LeoniaTavira — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 09:22:37 +0000

This Margaret Atwood book, having such an intensely gendered agenda, is sometimes confusing to the reader and the author's opinions, as expressed through different characters, seem to mislead the reader as to her own opinions about feminism and a potential utopian order for the world. Specifically, it was difficult to piece together exactly what her mother's position had been in terms of the protests and issues like abortion and pornography, although less so with the pornography as there is the scene where Offred's mother burns it. At one point the mother talks about being called a "pronatalist" by her friends because she wants to have a baby and it is difficult to tell exactly for what reasons this is such a horrific thing. Other places in the book other characters mention the women who realized the infertility problem and gave up trying, and perhaps this is the group that Offred's mother was involved with. Unfortunately, it is very difficult to cite specific parts of this book without having excessively marked up the text while reading, as the nature of the narrative is that it hops frequently between past and present in no predictable pattern.

One particular passage where Offred is reliving a conversation with her mother stands out as an interesting set of beliefs about women and their place in the world. The scene begins with a description of the mother being over for dinner around Offred and Luke. A discussion of why she refuses to dye her hair is what launches the mother's tirade.
"What do I need it for, I don't want a man around, what use are they except for ten seconds' worth of half babies. A man is just a woman's strategy for making other womenâ€¦just do the job, then you can bugger off, I said, I make a decent salary, I can afford daycare." (120-121)
Clearly she has respect for men as producers of sperm, but little else. As if to support the Commander's claim to Offred during one of their chats, the mother suggests that the feeling had gone from their society and any idea of love was the exception rather than the rule.

Perhaps Atwood uses the figure of the mother to play the stereotype of the feminist, the feared, illogical and outspoken feminist that most other women with the occasional feminist thought consider when denying the label "feminist". And yet even hidden amongst stereotypically hostile statements, the mother sometimes makes logical points â€“ or the beginnings of them â€“ so she is not rendered a completely ridiculous character. Instead she could be a method for Atwood to deliver certain ideas with immunity, having a character like this to hide behind. The reverse sexism is evident in comments from the mother such as, "it's like they're permanently absent-mindedâ€¦they aren't a patch on women except they're better at fixing cars and playing football, just what we need for the improvement of the human race, right?" (121). This sentiment mirrors the statements made by men about women throughout history suggesting a lack of intelligence and a strict limitation to only a very few activities they may do better than men. Considering the impression given by the book as a whole, it is still difficult to pin down where Atwood stands. She does present this extreme feminist activist, but at the same time, belittles her in many ways and renders her somewhat comical. There are many layers to the gender conflict in this book, but without more in depth study of other characters and specifically how they interplay in the mind of Offred, Atwood's intentional message remains somewhat mystifying.

female objectification

amandejoie — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 09:02:27 +0000

Although Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale is often described as a work of feminist literature there are no heroic, or even admirable female characters. Instead, the cast of female characters serves as an inventory of all the ways a woman can fail in the context of oppression.
Serena Joy was an advocate for the return of "family values," she campaigned for women to return to the domestic sphere. If any woman should have wholeheartedly embraced the Republic of Gilead, it should have been her, but she is not happy. Offred even wonders: "Which of us is it worse for, her or me?" (95). The only thing she seems to take pleasure in is abusing her power over the other women of the house. She does have real power over them, particularly Offred, whom she can have sent to the colonies on a moment's notice. She punishes Offred for stealing husband's attention even through the tiny practice of digging her rings into Offred's hands during the all-important "ceremony." Gilead causes makes her hypocritical and cruel. Aunt Lydia did in fact wholeheartedly embrace the oppressive regime of the Republic of Gilead; she played an active part in its implementation and persistence as a matron of the reeducation centers. She goes beyond simply accepting the oppression, and actually adopts an oppressive role, and she relishes it: "we, sitting in our rows, eyes down, we make her salivate morally. We are hers to define" (114). Aunt Lydia is particularly repulsive in her active suppression of the "right to" for women, given that she herself is a woman.
Janine, a.k.a. Ofwarren, is similarly distasteful because of her apparent acceptance of her existence as a handmaid, even though this appearance is completely contrived. Though in another context, we might forgive her behavior as a necessary evil for survival, here as readers it is incredibly difficult. She supplicates herself at the feet of the regime. She does so literally at the red center "kneel[ing] at the front of the classroom, hands behind her backâ€¦ her red face and dripping nose" and she admits, as to the cause of her rape at the age of 14 "It was my own fault. I led them on. I deserved the pain" (72). Later, as a handmaid, she partakes in the bloodlust of the particicution.
Moira, at the beginning of the novel, is promising as a heroic female figure. She escapes from the red center and becomes the handmaids' "fantasy" (133). Throughout her time at the Commander's house Offred fantasizes about the "frisky" Moira at large in the world, as a last remnant of the old world. We finally meet Moira again at Jezebels. She is, in a certain sense, freer than Offred. She can smoke, and drink, and have sex with women, she has face cream and drugs, she only works nights. But she's not really free, she's a prostitute, but sells her body for only modest freedom. She wasn't supposed to, as Offred says "give in, go along, save her skin," we, like Offred want "gallantry from her, swashbuckling, heroism, single-handed combat" (249). But even her spirit is broken.
The resistance of Ofwarren, our theoretical heroine, is potentially even more pathetic than that of the other women. She's incredibly apathetic. She spends more time making excuses than being angry. She gives up resisting, to the point of being annoyed by Ofglen's plans for resistance, simply because of a small sexual outlet, in the form of Nick. She, more than anyone else, has internalized her oppression. This fact manifests itself in her descriptions of the world. She illustrates the world around her in compulsive detail, her justification being that it keeps her mind from her oppression. However, these descriptions show her obsession with the color red, it shows up more than any other color in her descriptions. She describes the red of the blood-smile and the Serena Joy's tulips. The smell of the flowers in the garden is red. She comments on the dusk-rose velvet on the drapes in the commander's house and remembers the veiny redness of a leaf on the ground of the forest when she was captured. For her, red is the color of her robe, representative of her definition as being functional purely on a biological level, representative of her adultery and shame. That she should be so aware of it in her life shows how deeply she has internalized her shame.
Given that this novel is so often read as a work of feminist literature, clearly Atwood wasn't trying to show that women are weak or inferior to men. Rather this pervasiveness of shame, and guilt, the fact that they all felt that they "deserved it" (177) goes to show just how debilitating subjugation can be. An effective oppressive regime can cause even the freest of spirits to surrender if given a small chance for release within the system, whether that release is control over other women, uncertain sexual relief, or forbidden pleasures at a steep cost. For this reason, the novel is just as humanist as it is feminist.

Prisoners in their own system

Captain.ver.Kerk — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 08:40:01 +0000

The Handmaid's Tale depicts a world in which women are highly subservient to men, some even to the point that they only exist to fulfill the biological process of reproduction necessary for the survival of the species. Such is the lot of our protagonist Offred, and it is from her we get our entire perspective of the civilization of Gilead, a society in which she and many other women are very much prisoners and slaves. This society is very strictly controlled and repulsive to our modern ideals of freedom and justice within a nation, and shares some striking points in common with Nazi Germany. Even more striking and frightful is Atwood's claim that most of what was written, the trends, the occurrences, the injustices, was grounded in real events of her modern era, the 1980s.

The parallels with Nazi culture are prevalent and plentiful. Gilead is a very homogenous society in which everyone is Caucasian, a somewhat lessened version of Hitler's Aryan Master Race, but continues to exclude further down by relegating its citizenry to those of a single Christian (I believe it's Christian, I may be wrong) faith. We even find persecution of Jews in Gilead, where was composed "the Jewish repatriation scheme, with the result that more than one boatload of Jews was simply dumped into the Atlanticâ€¦ from what we know of [those in charge], this would not have bothered [them] much," (307). Much like Hitler's rallies and grandiose speeches, Gileadean subjects are sometimes called to mass gatherings to listen to propaganda and further entrench themselves in the customs and offenses of the nation as a whole. At a Prayvaganza, the Commander "ascends the steps to the podium, which is draped with a red cloth embroidered with a large white-winged eyeâ€¦ 'Today is a day of thanksgiving,' he begins, 'a day of praise'â€¦ a speech about victory and sacrifive. Then there's a long prayer, about unworthy vessels, then a hymn," (218). Now, political rallies and the like are by no means a strictly Nazi practice, but the effects and levels of participation observed in those of Gilead do hold similarities. In Nazi Germany, such rallies were used to brainwash large amounts of people to accept the oppression and eventual slaughter of countless Jews and minorities, making them accessories toÂ¬ the commission of crimes against humanity. "I've leaned forward to touch the rope in front of me, in time with the others, both hands on itâ€¦ then placed my hand on my heart to show my unity with the Salvagers and my consent, and my complicity in the death of this woman," (276). In one instance they even go as far as to rend a man to pieces with their bare hands upon provocation by their superiors. One common argument coming out of Nazi Germany after the war was that people had essentially brainwashed themselves or had been brainwashed to accept the genocidal efforts as something that had to be done, much at the behest and influence of the state, and that they weren't entirely sure how they could have done such things, but such can be the power of speech and gatherings.

A final real point I want to make is that, at least in this early Gileadean culture, women don't seem to be the only captives. Granted they've got it much worse off, but from the sparse scenes we are given that include males that are a part of the culture, it seems that they too are very much prisoner to their own system. The Commander, obviously rather high in the social strata, finds the need to escape the rigidity of the world he helped to craft, smuggling Offred, his newfound mistress to a not so secret brothel. "'Well?' he says. 'What do you think of our little club?' 'I thought this sort of thing was strictly forbidden.' I say. 'Well, officially,' he says. 'But everyone's human, after all,'" (236-7). The commander admits need for change and the enactment of behaviors not allowed in Gilead, and it appears many other high ranking officials (all male of course) feel the same way, as the brothel is extremely busy. Nick, a servant to The Commander, similarly has his vices in this highly controlled society, conducting frequent trysts with Offred that could cost him his life, then going to the ultimate illegal lengths by not only being part of the Gileadean equivalent of a secret service, The Eyes, and a rebel faction known as Mayday at the same time. It is even speculated in the epilogue that this double life caused his downfall, for as "Ofglen's association with Mayday had been discovered, he himself was in some jeopardy, for as he well knew, as a member of the eyes, Offred herself was certain to be interrogated," and so he helped Offred escape, when "he could of course have assassinated her himself, which might have been the wiser course, but the human heart remains a factor," (311). Both the commander and Nick help create and enforce the system that entraps and removes the freedoms of womankind, but as we see, their own emotions and humanity is similarly imprisoned to drastic degrees.

As a last little aside, I'd just like to call to everyone's attention the passage on page 186, in which Offred thinks, "The pen between my fingers is sensuous, alive almost, I can feel its powerâ€¦ Pen Is Envy, Aunt Lydia would sayâ€¦ I envy the Commander his pen." Seriously, "Pen Is Envy?" Yeah, that's not obvious at all.

knowledge is power

dragongrrl — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 08:20:54 +0000

(I have a different edition of the book, so I apologize that the page numbers are off.)

In The Handmaid's Tale, Atwood clearly makes the argument that knowledge is crucial to empowering individuals. Certainly, there is a reason education is such a big deal in our society--we believe that knowledge empowers people, makes them better citizens. It is through knowledge, or rather, the denial of it, that the totalitarian regime takes over Gilead. Even the very first steps towards changing the society, if people had known what was happening they might have been more compelled to doing something about it, resisting the new regime. When Offred is denied her bank account and loses her job, neither she nor Luke has any idea why, so the easiest assumption is that it is a simple and quickly fixed mistake.

On the other hand, there is the undercurrent that they don't actually want to know what is going on because if they do, they will be compelled to do something about it. There is the subconscious denial of responsibility. "What you don't know won't tempt you, Aunt Lydia used to say. Maybe I don't really want to know what's going on. . . . Maybe I couldn't bear to know." (252) Of course, simply the fact that she is justifying an Aunt's words makes the reader pause a bit. Yes, "The Fall was a fall from innocence to knowledge," (252) but who's to say we aren't better off knowing? Who's to say Eden was perfect? Maybe, in fact, Eden was dystopic rather than utopic. (I'm sure there has been literature about this very idea, but I am not well read so can't name anything.)

In any case, the changes made in Gilead seemed rather a Fall themselves (as opposed to a rise, though definitely a return to ignorance)--a fall of democracy, a fall of equality, a fall of freedom of every sort (except freedom *from* certain things). "That was when they suspended the Constitution. They said it would be temporary." (225) I can't imagine anything that would justify suspending the Constitution and yet people knew no better than that it was "temporary" (how temporary?) and knew not how to fight such power. Offred also remembers that "Yesterday was July the fourth, which used to be Independence Day, before they abolished it." (257) The only reason to abolish such a holiday is to say that independence is not good for society, should not be celebrated, should not even be remembered. Perhaps in the later generations of Gilead, when they will not have ever heard of Independence Day, they will not even know the idea of independence. The farther away from knowledge the people become, the easier it is to control them. After all, one cannot miss what one does not know exists.

The totalitarian government of Gilead definitely made sure to keep knowledge away from the majority of its citizens. The women are not allowed to read or write--all signs are comprised of symbols--books and magazines were banned and burned, only an elite few know anything about this war that seems to be going on, and real conversations are generally not allowed amongst the handmaids. What is perhaps the most detrimental to Offred's adjustments and coping is this lack of conversation. Humans are a social bunch, and without anyone to connect to, Offred must stay within the too-tight confines of her mind. There are those, of course, with whom she shares opinions of the new regime, such as the original Ofglen--but there, again, knowledge is the main factor. There is almost no way of knowing those who are "true believers" and buy in to all the new rules versus those who are also wishing there was a way to change things.

Interestingly, I think this is why the novel can be so frustrating at times. Atwood shows us just what it's like not to know what's going on around you by not explaining the society of Gilead for a long time, and then, in implicit bits and pieces. It's really annoying not knowing, and this helps the reader see more clearly what Offred--as well as the majority of her society--is going through.

Empathy for a Handmaid

drawercat — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 06:50:12 +0000

We've said a lot already about some pretty powerful issues that can't be ignored in this book. Here, I think I'd like to talk about something that isn't perhaps as critical to understanding the novel's implications for our own real, modern world, at first glance or otherwise. I'm interested in how the novel deal with empathy; as a human characteristic, as a potentially gendered characteristic, its sentimentalization (or lack thereof), and the ways that these understandings of empathy might inform society, dystopic or otherwise. To be clear, I really think this novel makes a point of *not* sentimentalizing empathy (or sympathy), and by doing so seems to imply that it may not be a natural (real? easy?) human instinct. This is quite different form the way that so many narratives, Hollywood or otherwise, are formed, in which it is empathy that finally breaks through a villain's shell or that sets the hero apart from the rest and make him/her attractive to others. The Handmaid's Tale the film is hugely different from the book in this respect I think, and therefore I'm going to ignore it for now.
One of the things we talked about in the last class on Monday (and is discussed extensive on this blog) was a particular scene at the end of chapter 28 (my page 236, probably not yours), one of many flashbacks, in which Offred is remembering Luke's reaction and attempt at comforting her when she ends the day without a job and with no property whatsoever to her name. Some people are troubled by the depiction of Luke here, either as unfeeling and chauvinistic (he doesn't care enough about her problems to think twice about asking for sex), or as an unfair and emotionally warped depiction of him by an upset Offred. Either of these interpretations seems to me potentially to make a comment on the gendered nature of empathy, depending on whether it is Luke or Offred who is incapable of understanding the feelings and motivations of the other. I'm more inclined to understand Luke in this scene as unable to understand, despite his intentions. His actions read more to me like someone who wants to offer comfort, but is unsure how in the face of feeling he cannot comprehend. Offred herself was just as complacent before that day when confronted with signs of the coming horrors, feeling that she was watching stories "About other women, and the men who did such things were other men. None of them were the men we knew. The newspaper stories were like dreams to us, bad dreams dreamt by others" (74). In fact, later in the novel Offred almost seems to be troubled by the universal ability to ignore and distance: in Gilead marketplace with Ofglen, Offred witnesses one of the few public disturbances in the novel, a scene in which a seeming innocent bystander is whisked away by the Eyes in a brutal maneuver. Shortly thereafter the traffic resumes as though nothing had happened, and Offred notes that all she feels is relief that it wasn't her (220).
I find that the most frightening characteristic of this novel is the isolation that every citizen of Gilead, and the isolation that we experience through Offred's eyes. She constantly dwells on how she does not (and can not) know what her companion, be Ofglen, Serena Joy, The Commander, or Nick, is feeling. One almost expects some relief of this emotional isolation to come of Offred's interactions with the Commander, since he seems to imply that understanding and complicity is what he seeks, and Offred is there because his wife and he "Don't seem to have much in common, these days" (203). However, though Offred and the commander become more human to one-another, there is no genuine understanding of the mentality of the other. "For him, I must remember, I am a whim." (205). The most Offred can seem to say of any newfound understanding of or connection with the commander is that "He is of interest to me, he occupies space, he is more than a shadow" (210).

god, hollywood sucks at life.

dreamfall17 — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 04:32:47 +0000

Given that this was the first week the book and the movie could be so directly contrasted, the differences between literary and Hollywood conceptions of what makes a good story really struck me. My generalized conclusion: Hollywood is SO LAME!

In the book, I found the widespread tendency toward inaction especially disturbing, but also the most relevant to today. Some things Offred said â€“ 'I took too much for granted; I trusted fate, back then,' for example, or 'We lived by ignoring. Ignoring isn't the same as ignorance, you have to work at itâ€¦' â€“ struck me as very true and real (27, 53). Laziness, or apathy, or ignoring, is a pretty powerful force. It seems almost plausible that the country would allow a force to slowly gather power as the population ignored it until it was too late, when it would slip fairly quietly into control.

Laziness is not an enemy that translates very well onto the screen, though, so the movie changes it up, and destroys much of the story's power in the process. That a country as populous as the United States could be subdued purely by military force, which is what seemed implied by the movie, is so much more unlikely (and therefore distant and safe to its audience). Atwood constructs a scenario that one could see actually occurring; the movie is just a movie.

For one thing, most people do not seem too pleased with the new arrangement; the second scene in particular depicts a forced subduing. They are reminiscent of film portrayals of Nazi Germany, with soldiers corralling the undesirables into trains and trucks like cattle (as oh-so-subtle truck with the crossed-out label 'livestock' points out) and carting them off to certain death. The book distances itself from such disturbing scenes, making it easier for the reader to slip into the same apathy that Offred does.

In addition, the people fight what is happening to them â€“ they make the soldiers shove them around, they try to escape, they resist, instead of just standing around as this new totalitarian regime is built around them. Throughout the movie, there are references to the ongoing war that indicate a more widespread discontent and organized resistance than the book. Not only are the rebels powerful enough to disrupt fruit shipments from California and Florida, the handmaids know about it.

In the movie, Kate (she has a name! an independent identity!) is quite a bit more feisty, as well. She is not submissive â€“ at least any more than so many Hollywood leading ladies are. She challenges the commander, falls into an affair with Nick at an absurd speed, and even helps Moira bind and gag Aunt Lydia when Moira escapes. She is a Hollywood hero â€“ she takes risks, stands out, does what others are too cowardly to. Atwood's Offred admits she does nothing and is reduced to reveling in the power she has, '[the] power of a dog bone, passive but there' (30).

The movie gives her much more motivation to resist. For one thing, there is still a sense of community among the characters; they do not exist in their own little bubbles of fear and isolation. In the book, Offred does not trust anyone, fearing Nick to be an Eye and saying of Rita, 'Why tempt her friendship?' (15). Kate has to fear only the soldiers and the government they represent. Just as powerful, but at least she knows who they are. They don't hide as handmaids, wives, or drivers.

Additionally, the Offred of the book can describe the Ceremony scenes with an almost clinical distance. 'Below [my skirt] the Commander is fucking. What he is fucking is the lower part of my bodyâ€¦rape [doesn't] cover it: nothing is going on here that I haven't signed on for' (121). The Ceremony of the film reads much more like a rape scene, with Kate crying loudly though most of the first one, and the Commander is sort of a lecherous old man â€“ easy to hate him.

In the film, her life is bad enough, and her motivation (finding her daughter) strong enough that NOT acting seems inconceivable. The book's Offred is not in a living hell so much as in a vaguely unpleasant place, and the risks of leaving it are much too high. Inaction is much easier, and it's a pretty steep and short slope from inaction to apathy to acceptance. Atwood's world is a much scarier, and much realer, place. Hollywood cannot deal with anything less than five steps removed from reality.

gambling

greenhedge — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 03:10:38 +0000

To me, Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale" is, in large part, a cautionary tale about the dangers of apathy. It is difficult to see the Republic of Gilead as anything but a totalitarian regime, with only the interests of the very few at heart. Women are entirely subservient to men. The men they service are limited to the aging and supposedly infertile commanders, leaving the majority of men with very little contact with women. Basically, the majority of the population is disenfranchised. However, despite the obvious lack of satisfaction there is little resistance against the system, further aggravating the situation. It isn't until the end of the book that a sliver of hope for change appears.
While the lack of resistance from men is more understandable than for women, because they aren't subjugated in the same way, the extent of male apathy in the text seems almost ludicrous. Why would young men tolerate nearly no contact with women? One would think their sexual drive alone would be enough to convince them that this is no way to run a country. They don't benefit from female subservience, and are unlikely to ever do so, so what else compels them to support the system?
It seems to me that the system that Atwood proposed is paralleled by the culture of selling hard drugs. In reality, one doesn't make much as a crack dealer, and the dangers involved are huge. Getting caught by the police has significant consequences, and there's always the possibility that a disgruntled customer will try to get all of what you've got without paying for it. In reality, most dealers could get a better paying job at Burger King. However, as you move up the status ladder, to relationships closer to the distributor, the quality of life improves drastically, with a radically higher income and much more safety. Yet, the likelihood of going from dealer to a more luxurious job is extremely low. This system, which presents the faint possibility of a great reward, keeps many thousands of dealers selling in very poor conditions in the same way that a slot machine keeps a gambler occupied for hours. The same kind of mentality seems to keep the men of Gilead in check. When Kate passes guards, she imagines "They think [] of doing their duty and a promotion to the Angels, and of being allowed possibly to marry, and then, if they are able to gain enough power and live to be old enough, of being allotted a Handmaid of their own." (22) The tantalizing thought of a handmaid of their own seems to be enough to focus the men on their duties.
Remarkably, the women of this culture seem to be in the inverse of the male situation. All their rights are deprived, and they have been put into a hierarchy where even the most privileged woman, the wife, is limited to domestic issues. Despite this, these women are unwilling to break norms, or resist the system, because they don't want to appear disloyal. When asked by the Japanese tourists if she's happy, Kate responds that she is, rationalizing "what else can I say?" (28) While the response can be seen as reasonable in this situation, it reveals a system of thought which is complacent. Of course she can say other things. She merely sees the consequences of rebelling, even a little, as unacceptable. The fact that she is mentally unwilling to face the consequences of an unjust regime shows that the regime is in complete control over her. This seems to be the trend for almost all the women in Gilead. The consequences of disobeying are to lose priority status in the society, and risk becoming an "Unwoman". It is specifically because the gamble has so much at stake that women are so hesitant to resist.
For both women and men, it seems that self interest has inhibited the resistance which would benefit both sexes. Clearly, their care for their individual future outweighs the power of any sort of moral conviction. While there are a few counterexamples, it seems to me that this book is pointing out how risk operates on the different sexes if they are allowed to diverge, the developments from that divergence produce apathy which causes seemingly intractable social stagnation.