A Clockwork Orange (1971), Dir. Stanley Kubrick

A Clockwork Orange (1971), Dir. Stanley Kubrick
The Durango ‘95 purred away a real horrowshow - a nice, warm vibraty feeling all through your guttiwuts. And soon it was trees and dark, my brothers, with real country dark.
— Alex, A Clockwork Orange (1971)

Stars: Malcolm McDowell, Patrick Magee, Adrienne Corri, Michael Bates, Warren Clarke, James Marcus, Michael Tarn, Carl Duering, Paul Farrell, Miriam Karlin, Sheila Raynor, Philip Stone, Pauline Taylor, Godfrey Quigley, Aubrey Morris, Clive Francis, Richard Connaught, David Prowse.
Director: Stanley Kubrick
Screenplay: Stanley Kubrick

This weekend, the Embassy Theatre in Wellington had a Stanley Kubrick; A Retrospective. So this was the perfect reason to finally watch the mighty classic in cinematic history; A Clockwork Orange (1971). But really what can I say about this film, I have given it the highest rating but I also feel as though I could give it the lowest with the same affect to my psyche. This is because as much as I love and admire this piece of art, I also hate it...

Hate is a grand word and even as I am writing I don't feel as though it should be sitting in my head and the feeling of admiration overshadows it. It overshadows it because this film has the ability to overcome my own sense of criticism; a film that cannot be placed on any scale, in any moral state, or considered anything but pure art. This film is simply art and it is a beautifully horrific art form that will permanently have its own space in art history.

The need to rewatch is already gnawing at my subconscious; the need to sit through a film that if I were not in a cinema with a whole room of film lovers I could have easily turned off—and there are many times where I have turned A Clockwork Orange off. Burgess has created this world which has rules, rules that have been broken as the world is left to fend for itself as mankind leaves it behind in the pursuit of the stars. Hooligans rule the city both day and night; rape, murder, chaos rule our narrators most inner thoughts and actions. This world is sick which makes it cure even sicker. But for a world that has been left to its own devices there really is a push in this story to salvage it back.

My thoughts are still dangling around with no direction; all I can say is that I am so glad I have finally taken the time to escape into this world that still has me caught in its void. However no matter how hard Kubrick tries, he can never twist my love for the most sincerely pure song as Signin' In the Rain—if that was even his desire.

Because what else can you give it?

Because what else can you give it?