Much of the notoriety of A Clockwork Orange comes from the film’s first forty or so minutes of nilistic sex and violence, with the notable exception of a certain eye watering scene. Yet, ironically, the second half of the film is sort of the whole point of it really, a satirical commentary on violence and societal decay. However, in the hands of Stanley Kubrick, writer Anthony Burgess’ original intentions become somewhat warped, with the protagonist of Alex being presented more as a hero than a villain. We are shown the horror of his actions, but that’s perhaps more to do with our (hopefully) moral compass pointing in the right direction than any suggestion from Kubrick that they are wrong. Kubrick shows us and he shows Alex and his ‘droogs’ having fun. There is an uneasy sense that we should be enjoying these actions as much as Alex does. A captivating central performance from Malcolm McDowell keeps me engaged, with the future youth speak (a sort of Russian meets cockney rhyming slang) handled as naturalistically as possible. He keeps me watching, even when tedium sets in, as it does towards the end. Disappointingly, as the film makes good on its aims, it becomes less aggressively captivating.
Due to its early ban, sanctioned by Kubrick himself (who may or may not have been interested in preserving the peace after some copycat incidents), A Clockwork Orange has achieved a fame it perhaps does not deserve. I still view it as one of Kubrick’s lesser efforts, looking like a rather cheaper and less considered entry into his often laboriously crafted back catalogue. Whereas his preceding film, 2001: A Space Odyssey was clean, white and space age, A Clockwork Orange, although set in the future, is grimy, unclean and grounded (whether equally by purpose or design, remains unclear). Its camera work lacks Kubrick’s usual polish, although his hallmarks are there, including engaging and distant static vignettes of interiors, which here are often blurred at the edges as if suggesting Alex’s distorted point of view. The film does often put the viewer in the uncomfortable position of experiencing Alex’s adventures as he would see them.
The idea of Alex’s violence being turned on him, in a karmically flavoured act of justice, leaves us in doubts as to whether we should sympathise with him or cheer on his punishment and possible retribution. As shocking as the film may have been in 1971, the violence of the story leads us to the last act of the character’s penalty, whereas in lesser films there would likely be violence for violence’s sake. Not that Kubrick doesn’t know how to mischievously evoke a reaction. His rape scenes are problematic because Kubrick is not adverse to gratuitously displaying the naked female form anyway, so the violently revealed sights of Adrienne Corri’s breasts and red pubic hair are given an almost tableau reverence in the background to Alex’s taunting of the incapacitated husband. Here, as is often the case with Kubrick, there feels like a detachment from what we’re seeing. A Clockwork Orange simultaneously benefits from this presentation, suggesting Alex’s view on his activities, while also keeping us from the real horror of what is unfolding. It looks bad, there is no doubt, but perhaps it never looks bad enough. Added to John Barry’s ‘60s gone to seed Modernist interiors and the film often looks like a deliberately transgressive cartoon, whose décor likely appeared unreal (if not yet dated) in 1971.
So yet, despite this not achieving the slick and expensive sheen of many of Kubrick’s other classics (it had a tenth of 2001’s budget and was made in a fraction of the time), it leaves us with as many iconic images as Kubrick’s other pictures. The opening pan out of Alex and his droogs in the Moloko Milk bar, unveiling their deliberately transgressive attire, remains a certain ‘sit up and pay attention’ moment. There are many such visual assaults which leave us in no doubt this is a Kubrick picture, with strong images imprinted on our retina in a similar way to how Alex experiences later in the film. There is real horror here, in ways perhaps Orwell would have utilised, but unlike Orwell there is less a suggestion that the protagonist has been reformed and contained. Our consideration that Alex should be made to revoke all his evils is challenged by the fact that he is being forced to give up everything, including his love of Beethoven, a love which surely indicates that he was not an entirely evil character to begin with. Also, his former friends’ amalgamation into the police force raises controversial questions as do the vengeful actions of his former victims. Are they justified? At their denouement are they no better than Alex?
Ultimately there are conflicts of thought like this which make the film worthwhile. Is Alex his own creation or the creation of the degenerated society around him? Other films have posed these questions but few have done it with as many potent images, whether it be a lesser work of a master or not.
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