Kerri Battles the AFI’s Top 100 — #70: A Clockwork Orange

Last Thursday was what I like to call Smithmas, so I opted to take the week off from fighting the AFI. I could have done the same this week, too, with New Year’s Day falling on a Thursday, as well. Trust me when I tell you that the temptation there was real and strong, particularly once I realized what I was up against next. A Clockwork Orange is one of those movies I’m supposed to enjoy. When I first watched it at about 17, I was excited beyond belief to finally view what is widely considered by counterculture and rebellious teens everywhere to be a cinematic masterpiece. Hell, there’s a constant line of tshirts and sundries plastered with the poster image above perpetually available at your local Hot Topic. To a 17 year old, that means it must be awesome. Lesson the first: 17 year olds generally don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. I learned this lesson during my first viewing and only cemented it further this time around.

A Clockwork Orange is the tale of Alex DeLarge and his “droogs” who spend their evenings drinking milk spiked with drugs and committing acts of ultraviolence for fun. One of his droogs complains that they should be committing larger, “manlier” crimes with bigger financial takes, but Alex dismisses him out of hand. The droogs react by trying to boot Alex out of the role of gang leader. To defend his throne, Alex beats them all senseless, then agrees to an attack on a wealthy woman all alone with her cats. During the attack and robbery, the woman fights back, so Alex smashes her in the face with a giant penis-butt-statue. When he hears police sirens, he runs to alert his droogs, who knock him out with a milk bottle and leave him to be arrested. In prison, Alex appears to be the model inmate, spending most of his time helping the prison Chaplin and reading the Bible. However, thanks to omniscient narration from dear Alex, we know he’s really just reading the Bible for the images of violence it provides. When he hears tale of an experimental treatment that will allow him to commute the rest of his 14 year sentence, he eagerly signs up. Only too late does he discover it’s some sort of deeply drastic aversion therapy that combines a nauseating drug cocktail with forced viewing of ultraviolent films scored by his beloved Ludwig Van. Upon his release, Alex finds that his parents have rented his room and consider their lodger more of a son than Alex ever was. With nowhere else to go, Alex wanders the streets, happening upon an elderly former victim of his crimes. The victim recognizes him immediately and calls upon his other elderly friends to return the beating. Alex, suddenly nauseated and paralyzed by his “successful” treatment, is unable to fight back. Thankfully, two policemen happen by and break up the melee. Unfortunately, those policemen happen to be two of Alex’s former droogs. They drag Alex out to the edge of town, beat and nearly drown him, then leave him for dead. Alex manages to crawl to the nearest home, unaware at first that it is yet another scene of one of his grisly acts. The homeowner recognizes Alex immediately from the papers as the boy who received treatment from the government and offers him a place to stay. Homeowner and his friends, you see, disapprove of this current government and hope to use Alex’s story to swing public opinion away from the incumbents. Homeowner ultimately recognizes Alex as the leader of the group who left him crippled and raped his wife so brutally that she died from the injuries. When he and his friends discover that Alex can no longer enjoy Beethoven’s 9th as a side effect of his treatment, they lock him in a second floor apartment and play the symphony until he attempts suicide by jumping from the window. When he awakens in the hospital, Alex is met by the Minister of the Interior, who assures him that Homeowner is “away” in a place where he can never hurt Alex again and hopes that Alex can forgive The Government for their shortsightedness, particularly now that they have reversed his treatment. As a token of friendship, the Minister brings in a large record player to blast Alex’s precious Ludwig Van and prove he’s been cured. Amid sudden daydreams of orgiastic violence, Alex proclaims, “I’ve been cured, all right.”

Let me start off by saying I have never even attempted to read the source material for Kubrick’s flick, so I’m not  taking the original novel into consideration at all when judging this film. Still, judge I shall because I really didn’t enjoy this movie at all. There’s a lot of good things here, from Malcolm McDowell’s performance to interesting cinematography and impeccable use of score. Unfortunately, they didn’t do enough to counter the two things that continued to irk me about almost every scene: THE EVER-PRESENT BOOBS AND VAGINAS. If you’re a straight guy reading this, you’re probably thinking that sounds more like a reason to watch A Clockwork Orange than not. And for you, maybe it is. And I’m also sure that Kubrick would say it was just meant to display the hypersexualization present in this near-future London he was trying to create. But if you’re going to claim symbolism as your answer, then I’m going to unpack that symbolism with a feminist fist. Why does hypersexualization have to equal naked women in submissive poses? Aside from that giant rocking-horse-butt-penis above, there’s only one other scene I can recall that showed any kind of penis and it was in the form of lewd graffiti. Yet in every home depicted in the film, there’s at least 2 or 3 paintings just like the ones also showed above — naked women just waiting to be “taken.” Even the milk-plus bar where Alex and his droogs spend their nights is furnished entirely with naked female mannequins that dispense said milk-plus out of their breasts. There are also two different rape scenes that are each much longer than they needed to be to get the point across. Hell, the one female character that dared to fight back against Alex was bludgeoned to death by a giant cock. That’s not just hypersexualization, my friends. That’s the definition of misogyny and the objectification of women all rolled up into one neat, two and a half hour package.

I realize that Stanley Kubrick is considered an auteur and master of film and that everything he touches is deemed to be gold. Four of his movies even appear on the AFI’s list. Unfortunately, Doctor Strangelove notwithstanding, I just don’t agree. Most of the time, his “voice” as a director reminds me of that asshole that was in the back of every film class I ever took, as though his presence was a required part of the curriculum for the rest of us. That asshole would either claim deep symbolism in his student film that the rest of us were just too obtuse to understand or would browbeat us with “symbolism” so obvious and overt that it no longer stood up to the name. One way or the other, that asshole’s goal always seemed to be to alienate the audience in such a way that left them afraid to admit they didn’t get it for fear of being labeled “uncultured swine.” I’ve never had a fear of that label because, well, I’m pretty sure I am uncultured swine. With that said, let me just add this: The merits of A Clockwork Orange have been grossly and unjustly exaggerated. –KSmith