One Paragraph Movie Review: A Clockwork Orange

Eighty-third film: A Clockwork Orange, a film of synthesizers, pubic hair, Beethoven, and bludgeoning. Having read the book as a teenager because I thought I was an edgy teenager and seen the film in my twenties because I thought I was edgy in my twenties, this second watch makes it no less stunning and disquieting, and me no more edgy, watching it as I did in a cardigan with a nice riesling. What a goddamn film, mate. Violence, creepiness, dystopian brutality and shag carpeting. I want Kubrick to interior-design my brain, and I want him to quit making me cheer for the bad guys with a confused, reluctant cheer. That said, in this film there are absolutely zero good guys as far as the eye can see forever and ever. You can barely move for codpieces, though. And in case anyone needs reminding: aversion/conversion therapy is a crock. Four and a half long tall glasses of moloko plus out of five.