Here’s my review of Harrison Bergeron for MovieRob’s latest Genre Grandeur of dystopian films. Thanks, Rob!
For this month’s next review for Genre Grandeur – Dystopian Movies, here’s a review of Harrison Bergeron (1995) by S.G. Liput of Rhyme and Reason
Thanks again to James of Back to the Viewer for choosing this month’s genre.
Next month’s Genre has been chosen by S.G. Liput of Rhyme and Reason. We will be reviewing our favorite fantasy/sci-fi animated movies (non-Disney or Pixar) . Please get me your submissions by 25th May by sending them to animated@movierob.net Try to think out of the box! Great choice S.G.!
Let’s see what S.G. thought of this movie:
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Harrison Bergeron
Harrison Bergeron lives in the future,
Where everyone’s forced to be equal and fair.
Those cursed with talent must quench it and wear
A handicap band that will help to impair.
Harrison Bergeron’s blamed as a genius
And wishes that he could be average as well,
Until he discovers that…
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I am the fire that burns out of sight,
Starting my rampage as merely a wisp.
Celebrate victory into the night;
I will burn you and your spire to a crisp.
Why do they build these skyscrapers so high,
Making it simpler with every floor
For me to cut off and trap in the sky
Everyone over my fiery roar?
Look at the people who panic and flee,
Visitors boasting illustrious names.
Look at the firemen battling me,
Feeble to fight in the face of my flames.
I am inferno, the new height of heat,
No other bastion of bragging is hotter.
Top of the world, Ma! None can defeat
Me or my mayhem, except—oh no—water!
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Dark, be not proud, though some have cause
To fear when you fall, for you’re not that bad.
For those with blind eyes, you’re vexing a tad,
But not so much when all live by your laws.
You’re at your worst when men barge in because
They want some drugs that they can’t seem to find.
It’s hard to tell their truthfulness of mind
When I can’t see their flimsily-veiled flaws.
Thou art slave to caves, blinds, clouds, and Audrey Hepburn
And dost with broken lights and switchblades dwell,
But lighters and fridge doors can your shadow quell,
And thwart your hopeful fortunes, which (yep) turn.
One long night past, with you and deadly men,
And I won’t dare unlock the door again.
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When R.P. McMurphy gets bored,
He’s sent to a hospital board
To see if he’s nuts
Or just faking with guts
To reach the relaxed mental ward.
He starts to make unstable friends
And bucks what the nurse recommends.
Nurse Ratched cruelly
Won’t let him watch TV,
But Mac sees how far a rule bends.
Before ol’ Mac busts out, the bum
Carouses with each crazy chum.
When in comes the nurse,
Words and actions are terse,
But one inmate will not succumb.
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Cities are a dying breed,
Though those who live in them know not.
They’re full of people, noise, and need,
Yet lack the treasures man forgot,
The joys of wind and sprouting seed
And peace of mind that can’t be bought.
Here in Cross Creek, my writing wakes,
Surrounded by the Spanish moss,
By sylvan streams that link the lakes
And tiny boats to get across.
I moved here for the silence’ sakes;
The lack of clamor is no loss.
My neighbors are a different folk;
Like me, they tend to stay apart,
To work beneath the ancient oak
And never reckon to depart.
We hear the frogs in chorus croak
And know the creatures’ songs by heart.
Cities are a dying breed,
Though some say nature will go first.
Yet renters ever will secede
To find the home for which they thirst.
Cross Creek and peace will thrive indeed
When all the cities have dispersed.
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Rebecca is dead, but her room is the same.
The servants still miss her and whisper her name.
Her husband is grieving, and tries to move on,
But Mrs. de Winter is not fully gone.
Her secrets remain, as do Mr. de Winter’s,
Secrets that torture him daily like splinters.
His new wife is innocent, nervous, and shy;
She shouldn’t learn them, nor understand why.
But secrets have habits of being found out,
Casting suspicion and panic and doubt.
Rebecca is dead, Mrs. Danvers knows well,
And yet Manderley is still under her spell.
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Did you ever feel that you were being watched,
That someone saw each time you won or botched?
No one’s watching; don’t despair
(At least as far as I’m aware),
Yet Truman Burbank’s on TV,
Living life for all to see,
Quite contented in his dome,
Which he doesn’t know is home.
He has fans around the world who watch him daily
As he greets Seahaven every morning gaily.
No reality show’s greater,
Thanks to Christoff, its creator.
Due to Christoff’s shrewd promotion,
Truman’s frightened of the ocean,
So he never leaves his isle,
Though he’s tempted for a while.
Truman’s been content with blinders since his youth,
But he starts to have an inkling of the truth.
From a star that might be fake
To a radio mistake
To endorsements from his wife,
Things revolve around his life,
Such that he begins to wonder
What conspiracy he’s under.
He attempts to leave his quaint, idyllic course
But is urged to linger, even if by force.
When at last he gets away,
Sailing off across the bay,
Christoff tries to be his guide
From the unknown world outside.
Truman doesn’t want ideal;
He would rather have what’s real.
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A man is sadly at his least wise
When he prefers work above his own loveliest prize.
Wisdom can spring from pain or the past;
How you and I choose is our generation’s contrast.
Journals and annals have much to tell:
Listen and look to find in them what lessons may dwell.
Dreams are perhaps best when advertised:
Speaking them may render them more potent when realized.
Regret grows when foolish sleepers wake;
Contentment grows from dodging someone else’s mistake.
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Deep in Siberia, prison of nature,
Brig of the barbarous Soviet ship,
Men were convinced there could be no escapers;
No one could hope to survive such a trip.
Janusz, a Pole locked away by betrayal,
Hoped and gave hope when it nearly was dead.
Rushing from Russians through snow-glutted gale,
Seven escaped from the Gulag and fled.
Journeying south through the frost and the firs,
Through hunger and fears that they may not arrive,
Ever they traveled with personal spurs,
Keeping the world-weary rovers alive.
Onward and onward, from hills unto lakes,
Lakes unto hills unto plains unto sand,
Onward through nature’s unbearable aches,
Onward they walked over merciless land.
Husband and artist, accountant and priest,
Father and criminal—all carried on.
Though they were free, some were further released
To journey no farther until the last dawn.
Sojourning south through the sting of the sun,
Through thirst and through fears that they may not arrive,
Ever they traveled till travels were done,
Clinging to that which keeps all men alive.
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Rhyme and Reason 