A few of the books I’ve read fairly recently have a few
unsettling things in common. First off, not too long ago, I read George
Orwell’s 1984. Published in 1949, it tells
of a rigidly controlled society where to even think outside the accepted lines is
to invite horrifying conditioning until your mind thinks the proper way. The
population are told what to think, and the structure of society ensures the
population think it, even when it flies in the face of all observable facts.
Recorded history changes overnight and yet to call attention to this, to
question what those with authority tell you is truth is simply not conceivable.
It’s hard not to find echoes of Orwell’s totalitarian vision in the way
newspapers will publish blatant untruths again and again because it backs their
ideology, driven to recent ludicrous highs in the lead up to the election.
(Loosely related tangent: Russell Brand is a cock; we all
know this. There is, however, no denying that the cock has become a bit of a
figurehead for the disillusioned non-voting masses. So, appearing on Brand’s
web show The Trews as Ed Miliband
did, in an effort, however
half-arsed, to at least try to engage with these people is surely worthy is it
not? It seems not. The official Government line is that Brand, and therefore by
extension, the large percentage of the population he is speaking for, is a
joke. Way to show contempt for the people whose lives you’re supposed to be working
to improve. The papers declared it to be the desperate move of a lunatic. Why
is it such a terrible idea to try to talk to the apathetic non voters? I agree
that they should vote, but apathy doesn’t justify the contempt the press has
shown them, lumping them together as some kind of bad smell it’s impolite to
even acknowledge. Of course, judging by the recent election results, the silent
majority might well consist of mostly UKIP voters, so now here I am, quite out
of character for me, kind of hoping they go back to being silent.)
Anyway, back to the point; prescient novels. It seems
Orwell’s future is one increasingly within the realm of possibility with every
passing year. I’ve mentioned before how one of my favourite films growing up
was the 1960 adaptation of The Time
Machine, but I hadn’t, until recently, read H. G. Wells’ original novel.
Rach picked it up for me from one of our local libraries (I get a delicious
thrill every time I remember I’m lucky enough to live in a place where ‘local
library’ is plural, and now that where I live has gone blue for the first time
in over a decade, I’m concerned that may not be the case for much longer). Published
in 1895 and set in Victorian times, it follows a scientist, known in the
narrative only as ‘The Time Traveller’ to the year 802,701 to discover what has
become of Earth and humanity in the far future. It turns out the divide between
the rich and poor in our society continued to grow and grow and grow. It’s
incredible that even pre-1900 there was concern in society about the widening
gap between the classes, and that over 100 years later, we’re still having
trouble with that issue. Did I say incredible? I meant incredibly depressing.
But hey, I suppose I’d better get used to things being incredibly depressing
for a while.
Having conquered the need to struggle for anything, the
upper classes have evolved into the Eloi; mindless children, spending the days
frolicking, eating, fucking and, well, not much else. Certainly not thinking.
Their language is hugely simplified and their attention span is practically
non-existent. The Time Traveller contends that this shows that struggling and
fighting for a better world is what has driven us to achieve so much throughout
the years, and when we finally got what we had struggled for for so long, our
drive, our intelligence, our will to improve and our creativity withered and
died, no longer needed. Meanwhile, the working classes have retreated
underground and evolved into pasty, light-fearing Morlocks, living in dark
holes full of machinery and manufacturing. The relationship between those above
ground and those below is no longer economic, for there is no longer the need
for an economy. Nor is it master and slave. The Morlocks continue to
manufacture clothes and shoes for the Eloi, but it is not to serve them, nor is
it because they are still some beaten down underclass. For the Morlocks have
become cattle farmers, and the Eloi their unthinking food source. The gap
between rich and poor, between upper and working class, has been widening for
some time and is already pretty sickening. Inexplicably, we seem happy for it
to get worse. The 19th Century concerns expressed in The Time Machine seem more timely now
than ever.
And then, I came to High
Rise. I’d read some J. G. Ballard before; The Drowned World, The Wind From Nowhere, The Terminal Beach & The
Drought were my first experiences of the British writer, which I picked up
after raiding my father-in-law’s book shelf. When news broke that Ben Wheatley
was adapting it and that it is widely known as Ballard’s best novel, I reached
out to my local libraries again and picked up a copy. High Rise was published in 1975 and is set almost entirely within
the concrete walls of a recently opened self-contained living apartment. 1000
apartments on 40 storeys, the building includes shopping malls, swimming pools,
schools and anything else the occupants might need. The only reason to leave is
to work.
It doesn’t take long for things to start going awry; able to
shut themselves off from society completely, those living in the high-rise
begin to alter their self-contained society into something more primal –
physical class distinctions evolve, literally lower, middle and upper class,
reflected in the floors they occupy – and, freed from the restrictions placed
upon them by a civilised society, a different rule takes precedence, that of
hunter/gatherer, of predator and prey.
The really uncomfortable thing about High Rise is the fact that the inhabitants of the building actually
welcome this degeneration, like a long-tamed beast finally throwing off its
shackles. There is a sensation of the people actually pushing things further
and further deliberately, out of a need just to see how far it can actually go;
they embrace the darkness eagerly. The thing about High Rise is that it is so disturbingly plausible, that while the apartment building offered the ideal
environment for the events described, sometime it feels there is every
possibility of pockets of civilisation going this way as a prelude to the whole
of our society plunging purposefully and giddily down this path of
de-evolution. The intent of our new Government to re-legalise foxhunting and
stop Britain being subject to the Human Rights Act, maybe even to withdraw from
Europe altogether, make it feel like our entire country is becoming a
self-contained high rise of its own, and the feeling of the balance tipping,
gently at first, then quicker and quicker towards oblivion that many of us
currently have is evoked so strongly in the early chapters of Ballard’s novel
it is dizzying, and not a little disconcerting.
