A Clockwork
Orange

Young people declare war on the world and look outrageously good doing so. The future they promise is becoming dangerous.

A horde of youths rampages through the city, speaking in incomprehensible gibberish, beating up complete strangers, drinking and getting high, mugging the hard-working citizens of society, raping the women, threatening the men. Their notorious leader: 15-year-old Alex, a charismatic sadist of incorruptible intelligence who loves Beethoven and never misses an opportunity to punch the world in the face. It’s a good thing there’s a functioning state that takes decisive action. When a death occurs, Alex is apprehended and put behind bars: 14 years’ imprisonment. Peace at last.

But Alex grasps at a straw that might get him out of prison sooner and cure him forever of all that violent yearning and behaviour: the Ludovico technique, currently in the trial phase, which is supposed to lead to a complete aversion to violence. You are given medication, combined with a visual barrage of murder and mayhem, until the subject is overcome by an unbearable nausea at the sight, indeed at the mere thought, of any violence. When Alex is released from prison after the treatment, everything could be just fine. This boy will never harm anyone again. But how does one survive, devoid of any ability to endure evil, in a world like ours?

Whilst Anthony Burgess was accused of glorifying violence following the publication of his dystopian novel in 1962, A Clockwork Orange has been regarded as a cult classic ever since Stanley Kubrick’s iconic film adaptation. Pain and beauty, blood and Beethoven – a sure-fire hit? Yet there is something terrifying in the confusion of freedom with violence, which can be observed in Alex and his infernal gang: what if these young people have more in common with their parents than we would like? A hellish ride with the new kids on the block right across our beautiful old world.