I had been avoiding The Hunger Games for quite some time. I’m not a big science fiction reader to begin with, and, oddly enough, the premise wasn’t enticing me. I mean, nationally televised child game shows to the death are awesome and all, but perhaps stomach turning as well, no?
Thus, I dipped a tentative toe into the black pool of Hunger, which promised a myriad of deadly creatures under the serene surface of Katniss Everdeen describing her chipper kid sister, her ugly cat, a goat cheese. I read thirty pages that afternoon, enjoying the setup outlined by the jacket copy: The Hunger Games happen every year; government officials randomly select twenty-four contestants from all over the dystopia; Katniss pledges to participate in the place of her kid sister.
Then Sunday rolled around, and it was all over. I gobbled pages down greedily, sitting on a couch in a heated house in the middle of January, watching Katniss fight for her life and forage for tubers in wantonly cruel environments.
Not that the book is all bloodbath and stony faces. Suzanne Collins develops likeable, compassionate characters with real friendships, and the Hunger Games TV show boils down into more general/relatable hardships: Who can you trust? How can you use what you’ve already got? How can you recognize genuine affection?
Hunger is a well-written book with a fast heart rate and sharp edge. The world-building felt somewhat derivative/contrived, but the book even manages a little romance amid all the blood.
Blood. This is where Hunger bothers me.
Blood. This is where Hunger bothers me.
The book started out simple and bold. Panem was a thoroughbred dystopia, a mockery of its own name (Bread): Katniss and her neighbors are always near starvation. The Capitol (also simply named) is the distant center of the world where everyone eats bonbons for breakfast and enjoys Science Fiction Technology. The Hunger Games is a nationally enjoyed horror, reminiscent of Roman coliseum fighting.
And, we all know how the Roman Empire ended, don’t we?
And, we all know how the Roman Empire ended, don’t we?
But, once Katniss begins the Hunger Games, the dystopia fades behind the urgent question of whether she will suddenly get impaled with a spear or die of dehydration.
Readers have more insight into Katniss’s thinking than the Panem viewers, but the readers’ experience becomes eerily similar to theirs. We’re watching the Games, watching Katniss survive and kill and, yes, mourn the deaths.
And, Collins has become one of the Gamemakers, who keep the Hunger Games entertaining for the citizens of Panem with surprise forest fires and droughts. Collins keeps her readers on the edges of their seats with Close Encounters and brutal killings and mutant hornets whose stings cause hallucinations.
As Katniss is forced to pretend her romantic interest in Peeta for the citizens of Panem, so she pretends the same for us, allowing the violent, science fiction Hunger to get its romantic subplot after all.
And, Collins has become one of the Gamemakers, who keep the Hunger Games entertaining for the citizens of Panem with surprise forest fires and droughts. Collins keeps her readers on the edges of their seats with Close Encounters and brutal killings and mutant hornets whose stings cause hallucinations.
As Katniss is forced to pretend her romantic interest in Peeta for the citizens of Panem, so she pretends the same for us, allowing the violent, science fiction Hunger to get its romantic subplot after all.
I finished Hunger with a mixture of horror and fascination. Panem is obviously some mutant, futuristic America, from which I disassociated myself at first. “Society isn’t that bad, yet. Not during my lifetime.” And yet, Collins proved her point: Everyday readers sit transfixed by the bloody Games.
But, the seeming brilliance of Collins’s meta-narrative or dual-narrative felt belied by Hunger’s subtlety. Collins nowhere points out Hunger’s awkward role as violent entertainment denouncing violent entertainment. More confusingly, the Romantic Subplot dominates the ending: Katniss and Peeta have sort of fallen in love and are just happy to be the victors of the Hunger Games and done with it all.
The book that began with the starving empire Panem with its capitol called Capitol has become muddy and weary. Did Collins mean to lose her focus—emphasize life's complications? Is she just happy to capitalize on this darker side of entertainment?
While my brain tells me Collins must have been conscious of her meta-narrative, I have my doubts as a reader. I saw no clear signs, and promises made at the beginning of Hunger were broken.
While my brain tells me Collins must have been conscious of her meta-narrative, I have my doubts as a reader. I saw no clear signs, and promises made at the beginning of Hunger were broken.
(Hunger is the first book in a trilogy, but my perusal of Wikipedia indicates that the next books only muddy the waters more.)
All to say, I’m still not sure what to make of it.
Interesting stuff. This is ultimately why I haven't picked the book up, although my friend Em keeps telling me it's good. I think violence is a really tricky thing to do well—and even more so when it's the hub of the plot. The Watchmen movie, for ex, sent me on a week-long rant. I hate living in a world where violence is inherently entertaining. I'm fine with having violence in books and movies if it serves a purpose, but when it gets divorced from reality or used as titillation, I'm done.
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