Dystopian Catharsis

Do these stories feed us or placate us?

When I read The Hunger Games, for a moment I had hopes that our children where angry. Angry enough to realize what was happening around them. To realize what it meant. Perhaps it’s a quiet revolt stewing in places I don’t see.

Writers and actors want these stories to change us. I commend their bravery to speak out loud, to fight the ancient Leave-It-To-Beaver guard, to try and spark some form of action.

But I fear catharsis.

By the time one hour is up, my anger, fear, desire to act has been purged and released with the scrolling of credits. I know how fiction makes me feel. This feeling has to be because of the show I watched last night. Not because I’m urged to change my world.

What happens when the world isn’t stranger than fiction?