Rare is it to watch television so
searing as to elicit a visceral and almost continuous feeling of tension and
slow-creeping fear. But try, as a woman, to watch The Handmaid’s Tale and not
feel that parts of you have been bruised, others ripped open.
The vivid brutality of the world evoked
by this series is breathtaking, its power the result of economy. Not all violence
comes in technicolour. Disenfranchised women, offered an outlet for their rage,
savage a man to death with their bare hands. A newborn baby is wrenched from
its mother, as she cries out in soundless agony. A man lasciviously licks the
stump of a woman kept alive only to pleasure him and others like him - because
in this society, all female body parts except the reproductive organs are
dispensable.
The basic premise might once have
been termed the stuff of Orwellian nightmares. Now it feels more like eerie
prescience. In an America beset by environmental and social problems, with catastrophically
declining fertility levels, social restructuring has been orchestrated by an
elite that wields its power mercilessly. Still-fertile women are subjected to ritualistic
rape for the purpose of procreation, its baseness in no way disguised by a
veneer of religious ceremony.
As with all good totalitarian
regimes, the new state is peopled by an extensive spy network and designed to
subjugate any attempts at free thought. Academics have been sent to a toxic
wasteland or brutally murdered; books have been burned, museums and churches destroyed,
games outlawed. The sterility of sanctioned interactions is embodied by the accepted
phrases and greetings used: joyless praise
bes and blessed days pepper this social
wasteland, where, we are told, carbon emissions have reduced dramatically,
crops grow and children are born. Only the ominous under his eye carries with it a deeper meaning – a reminder to
watch others as you are watched, that privacy has been abolished, that your eye
can be plucked out.
But this series made me recall
recent – unrelated – conversations with two female friends who, by coincidence,
each said the same thing: still so much about conception is a mystery.
So too parenthood, so too sexuality,
so too human connection. Life finds a way. A defiant sentence etched into a
wall can penetrate a person’s psyche. Trying to reduce a group of women to
bland uniformity, to erase individual identity, may instead create a solidarity
so powerful as to give birth to resistance. As two people find each other after
long separation, they are reminded that familial bonds are not always of blood,
but they cannot be artificially created. Women who have been robbed of their
agency in every possible respect wield what weapons they have to fight back:
they speak their own names, they tell their stories, they insist on being
remembered. One steals a car and deliberately, with exhilaration, runs over one
of the faceless men who has served as a warden in her open-air prison. The
viewer shares in mixed fear and triumph at the bloody mess she leaves, knowing a
worse fate awaits her, encased in walls of clinical white.
The Handmaid’s Tale is a glorious
celebration of humanity’s enduring ability to give the finger to forces that
would have us cower, even as it is a warning against the growth of the
totalitarian regime in sheep’s clothing. Its female characters are not only
real and vivid; they, in particular, resist easy characterisation and are
accorded a depth and complexity equalled by no male character. Two of the women
who in some ways govern, were part of creating or at least perpetuate the
system are shown, as the series progresses, to be compassionate as well as
bitter and petty, to wish to protect and nurture even while they continue to
bully and torment. You see flashes of their anguish and remorse, and you see
how these feelings fuel their fury.
In close-up shots exposing both wrinkles
and inner thoughts – each one perhaps equally dangerous for women in this
society – steely resolve can crumple to vulnerability, smug complacency can
turn to confusion and revulsion can be painfully pushed to one side to make
room for mock-flirtatiousness.
The ultimate success of this
series, for me, is that you are never invited to judge the protagonist. She is
sympathetic but refuses to be saintly. She swears and rails against the
unfairness of her situation but she seizes her chance to seek pleasure for its
own sake and she won’t apologise for it. You feel every violation of her body,
whether it is the crack of a whip on her feet or the slithering of an unwanted
finger running down her arm. You feel the potency of her barely-contained rage
and you find yourself waiting, breathless, until the moment when it will
finally explode into life.