I read Margaret Atwood’s brilliant dystopian novel when it was first published in the late 1980s. The impact of The Handmaid’s Tale was powerful and made more potent by an existential crisis I was experiencing at the time. Atwood has a remarkable capacity to observe and to share her observation of the human condition in a way we find both fascinating and repellant, like a macro image of an insect. We know what's there, but we don’t necessarily want to look at it so closely. For there is nothing that happens in the fictional Gilead that has not already happened in our history.
I feel so strongly about the book I really did not want to see the television series, although many friends assured me I should. Finally, during a sleepless night I cracked and dipped into an episode. Having now watched most of the series I find I have very mixed feelings about this version of the tale.
I understand the need to veer from the text to provide a better cinematic experience and I accept that there is much in this novel that must enthuse a location finder and set construction manager. Visually, the screen version is convincing and compelling, particularly in the way colour, light and shade are managed. That’s not where my difficulty lies.
Firstly, it is far, far too long. I query the choice of a ten part serial rather than a ninety-minute feature film. It feels as though having sourced the locations and spent a fortune on sets the producers have to make it last long enough to justify the expense. Also, the novel is not heavy on plot - that is not its purpose - so the series has to be padded out with sub plots that feel like the superfluous garnishes in nouvelle cuisine that always make me want to say, ‘I’m not a child, you don’t need to make it look pretty for me!’
Secondly, although some viewers have told me that they found it horrifying, my criticism is that it is not nearly as horrifying as it should be! It’s the familiar argument that less is more, both on screen and in text. Think of the shower scene in Psycho - it is what we don’t see that scares us most. Atwood’s spare text in the novel makes the whole experience more troubling. In the televised series, the camera lingers far too long on Offred’s agonised face. I became impatient with her continually squaring of her shoulders and sticking her chin out, presumably to represent her steadying herself to retain what was left of her humanity in the face of the appalling cruelty. Atwood does this so much better in the text, showing how the Offred survives by keeping the memory of her previous life alive. This is not to criticise Elisabeth Moss as an actor; I thought her superb in Top of the Lake and quite enchanting as a child becoming a woman in West Wing, but this production did not give her an opportunity to portray complex emotions in the spare, sensitive manner of which she is a master.
Finally, there were so many unnecessary deviations from the novel that showed a lack of understanding of Atwood’s purpose. For example, in the novel, we never learn Offred’s real name, in a powerful evocation of the ways in which people are written out of history or forced to take on their owner’s name as slaves. Or consider the length to which the screen version goes to present a happy ending of sorts for Luke and Moira, perhaps because the writers felt their audience could not bear the ambiguous ending. It also bothered me that Canada is presented as the safe haven, welcoming escapees from the Gilead regime with open arms and practical support. It is clear in the novel that Canada was not considered safe for the escapees. My own experience of Canadian prairie culture leads me to believe it would be mildly sympathetic to the Gilead regime! Was all the maple flag waving the producers just a nod to Atwood's nationality?
In spite of those caveats, I am grateful for the screen version because it has exposed many who have not read the book to its powerful message. I’m also grateful because it drove me back to the text, to discover much that I had missed the first time round. To read it against the background of Trump’s America was particularly persuasive, but the best thing was to read Atwood’s introduction to the new edition. I spend a lot of time pondering on patriarchy and misogyny these days (there is a lot of it about) and it’s correlation with religion. Atwood confirms my belief that it is not religion that creates patriarchy and misogyny, but that within religion, these formations find shelter. And it is always nice finding someone who agrees with you, especially if it someone of the calibre of Margaret Atwood.
I feel so strongly about the book I really did not want to see the television series, although many friends assured me I should. Finally, during a sleepless night I cracked and dipped into an episode. Having now watched most of the series I find I have very mixed feelings about this version of the tale.
I understand the need to veer from the text to provide a better cinematic experience and I accept that there is much in this novel that must enthuse a location finder and set construction manager. Visually, the screen version is convincing and compelling, particularly in the way colour, light and shade are managed. That’s not where my difficulty lies.
Firstly, it is far, far too long. I query the choice of a ten part serial rather than a ninety-minute feature film. It feels as though having sourced the locations and spent a fortune on sets the producers have to make it last long enough to justify the expense. Also, the novel is not heavy on plot - that is not its purpose - so the series has to be padded out with sub plots that feel like the superfluous garnishes in nouvelle cuisine that always make me want to say, ‘I’m not a child, you don’t need to make it look pretty for me!’
Secondly, although some viewers have told me that they found it horrifying, my criticism is that it is not nearly as horrifying as it should be! It’s the familiar argument that less is more, both on screen and in text. Think of the shower scene in Psycho - it is what we don’t see that scares us most. Atwood’s spare text in the novel makes the whole experience more troubling. In the televised series, the camera lingers far too long on Offred’s agonised face. I became impatient with her continually squaring of her shoulders and sticking her chin out, presumably to represent her steadying herself to retain what was left of her humanity in the face of the appalling cruelty. Atwood does this so much better in the text, showing how the Offred survives by keeping the memory of her previous life alive. This is not to criticise Elisabeth Moss as an actor; I thought her superb in Top of the Lake and quite enchanting as a child becoming a woman in West Wing, but this production did not give her an opportunity to portray complex emotions in the spare, sensitive manner of which she is a master.
Finally, there were so many unnecessary deviations from the novel that showed a lack of understanding of Atwood’s purpose. For example, in the novel, we never learn Offred’s real name, in a powerful evocation of the ways in which people are written out of history or forced to take on their owner’s name as slaves. Or consider the length to which the screen version goes to present a happy ending of sorts for Luke and Moira, perhaps because the writers felt their audience could not bear the ambiguous ending. It also bothered me that Canada is presented as the safe haven, welcoming escapees from the Gilead regime with open arms and practical support. It is clear in the novel that Canada was not considered safe for the escapees. My own experience of Canadian prairie culture leads me to believe it would be mildly sympathetic to the Gilead regime! Was all the maple flag waving the producers just a nod to Atwood's nationality?
In spite of those caveats, I am grateful for the screen version because it has exposed many who have not read the book to its powerful message. I’m also grateful because it drove me back to the text, to discover much that I had missed the first time round. To read it against the background of Trump’s America was particularly persuasive, but the best thing was to read Atwood’s introduction to the new edition. I spend a lot of time pondering on patriarchy and misogyny these days (there is a lot of it about) and it’s correlation with religion. Atwood confirms my belief that it is not religion that creates patriarchy and misogyny, but that within religion, these formations find shelter. And it is always nice finding someone who agrees with you, especially if it someone of the calibre of Margaret Atwood.