Shailene Woodley, Zoe Kravitz, and Ben Lloyd-Hughes in Divergent.
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Laurie Penny on fiction: No wonder teens love stories about dystopias – they feel like they’re in one

Civilisation as we know it could collapse in 15 years, something which is reflected in the viewing habits of today’s kids.

Fifteen years. According to a Guardian report, “civilisation” as we know it could collapse in 15 years. In a Nasa-funded paper, accepted for publication in the journal Ecological Economics, resource depletion, climate change, escalating inequality and the unstoppable greed of the elite are all cited as reasons to imagine why democracy as we know it is time-limited. The study was initially reported uncritically; Nasa has since attempted to distance itself from the paper. Yet the countless young people who shared its conclusions on social media seemed to do so with a gloomy shrug, as if their suspicions were merely being confirmed. I was reminded of this while booking tickets for Divergent, the film version of a wildly popular dystopian young adult novel.

It is always worth paying attention to what the kids are reading. Sparkly chauvinist vampires are finally falling out of fashion, with “supernatural romance” giving way to “horrific post-apocalypse dictatorship” as the main refrain of young adult literature. The Hunger Games, thankfully, has killed Twilight. It elbowed aside wilting reactionary female leads literally dying to be abducted by floppy-haired, cold-blooded aristocrats in favour of badass heroines shooting arrows through the heart of post-capitalist patriarchy. What would Katniss Everdeen do with Edward Cullen? The creepy love interest of the Twilight novels would surely find himself staked out at the gates of Panem as a warning about what happens when entitled nobility oversteps itself.

The themes of Divergent, the debut novel of the 25-year-old American author Veronica Roth, are no less exciting for being familiar. A courageous but flawed young girl finds herself at odds with a repressive oligarchy established after an earlier collapse of civilisation. She must fight for her survival and that of her people. Along the way, there’s some smooching, moral turpitude and buckets and buckets of blood.

Today’s teens love stories about dystopia and they have plenty of appetite for more. Readers are already eagerly anticipating the next instalment of Samantha Shannon’s The Bone Season, starring yet another complex, challenging female lead who is more afraid of her government than any monster. Shannon was a teenager when she began writing it. Veronica Roth was 22 when Divergent was released. That these books are febrile and replete with the rhetorical simplicity of a teenage manifesto only makes their message more compelling: Cinderella as rewritten by CrimethInc to a riot grrrl soundtrack.

Young adult books (and films) are part of a relatively new genre and they speak to the young adult inside us all, the part whose identity is yet unformed, full of rage and fear and longing. They’re not great literature, which is fine, because they’re not designed to be. The new teen dystopias are profoundly romantic, full of doomed crushes and broody heroes in tight athletic suits, but they resist portraying love as the answer to the heroine’s problems. Kissing is fantastic but what Katniss Everdeen, Tris Prior and Paige Mahoney need is someone with pretty eyes to help them bring down the government. Don’t we all?

The stories begin with co-option – with the heroines being forced to compete in the system of violence of which they are unwillingly a part. Why do they do it? Why would any rebellious girl consent to play along, fighting her peers for the amusement of those with power? Because they’ve got her family, of course. A running theme in the new teen dystopias is profound anxiety for the protagonist’s siblings, parents and friends – an individual might be able to escape but they’ll have to leave their loved ones behind. This is an important break with the more conventional young adult device of killing off the family before the story starts. Today’s teen protagonists are worried about how the people they love will manage in the meathook future. They want to know if romance and adventure will still be possible. They want to know if they’ll have the strength to survive.

There are clear reasons why this sort of story is appealing. The complete collapse of the narrative of what a secure future looks like for today’s young people and the grim messages about what the teenagers who grew up with Occupy and austerity have to look forward to as the planet heats up, the job market stutters, pension provision is depleted and the police get meaner have fostered a generational anxiety about how to cope with overmighty state power. These stories function both as manifesto and pressure release valve. They are escapist only in that they allow for the possibility of resistance. The message of The Hunger Games, like the message of The Bone Season, could not be starker: however much they make you fight one another, you must always “remember who the real enemy is”.

The next generation don’t need a Nasa-funded study to predict that their adult lives will be harder than those of their parents. Slavoj Žižek, every hipster’s favourite communist philosopher, once opined: “It’s easy to imagine the end of the world . . . but we cannot imagine the end of capitalism.” I’m not sure that’s true any longer. I suspect that young people today are gradually beginning to imagine what the end of capitalism as we know it might look like – and while it might be exciting, it won’t be a lot of fun and might require some weapons training. 

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 03 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, NEW COLD WAR

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Poldark is the latest show to throw in a lazy, irresponsible rape scene

It’s particularly dangerous to present a scene like this as consensual, as the writers insist it is.

So Poldark has become the latest show to throw in a lazy, irresponsible rape scene to spice things up. We’ve sat through them in outrage-courting Game of Thrones, in cosy Sunday night drama Downton Abbey, and even at the opera. Now, they’ve come to BBC period adaptations, too.

This is how the scene plays out (a detailed description of the events leading up to the rape follow):

Poldark (Aidan Tuner) turns up at his friend Elizabeth’s bedroom door in the middle of the night, in a rage. She suggests he come back tomorrow morning. He refuses. She suggests they relocate downstairs. He refuses. She suggests he should not be in her bedroom. He refuses to leave, and shuts the door behind him.

They argue about Elizabeth’s plan to marry an enemy of Poldark’s, a decision that disgusts him. She asks him to leave, again. “I’m sorry you feel like this, but I cannot help it,” she tells him. “Oh, you’ve never been able to help anything, have you?” he says, mockingly, adding, “well, perhaps you can’t help this either,” kissing her forcefully before she pushes him off her.

Poldark threatens her, approaching her again as he insists, “I oppose this marriage, Elizabeth. I’d be glad of your assurance that you will not go through with it.” She says again that she will be married. Poldark kisses her again against her will. She tells him she hates him. “You would not dare,” she pleads, looking at the bed. “I would, and so would you,” he says. He pushes her onto the bed. You can guess the rest.

Of course, this is a rape scene. Some say it isn’t – because Elizabeth shows signs of enjoying the sex, and she’s nice to Poldark the next morning, because she has (or has had) feelings for him. None of these things are relevant. Poldark verbally pressured and physically forced a woman who was refusing to have sex with him. That’s rape.

It’s particularly dangerous to present a scene like this as consensual, as the writers and cast insist it is. Andrew Graham, the son of Poldark novelist Winston Graham, who was a consultant on the BBC's current screen adaptation, said:

“There is no ‘shock rape’ storyline. The only way to judge what my father intended is to read the novels as a whole. Doing so it becomes clear, from earlier scenes as well as from Elizabeth's immediate reactions and later mixed emotions, that what finally happened was consensual sex born of long-term love and longing. It was, as Aidan Turner has put it, ‘unfinished business emotionally’.”

His opinion was supported by Poldark screenwriter Debbie Horsfield as well as Turner – who said the scene “seems consensual”.

This is not how consent works. Consent is not something you can assume based on “earlier scenes”. And it’s certainly not something you can retrospectively achieve based on the “immediate reactions” or “later mixed emotions” of someone you forced to have sex with you. That’s just you attempting to justify the fact that you raped someone.

The idea that Poldark knows Elizabeth so well that he knows what she truly wants (sex with me, the man of her dreams, duh!!) might seem romantic. But no love is so great that it imbues the lover with the ability to read minds. Implying that Poldark knew best peddles the dangerous myth that when women say no, they mean yes. Beliefs like this create rapists. The only way to know what someone wants is to ask them, and to listen to what they say. Elizabeth said no.

Adapting period material can be tricky – not least in its presentation of women, gender dynamics, and sex. The Poldark books are from the Fourties, and set in the eighteenth century. It’s a miserable state of affairs when the understanding of consent presented on primetime television, in 2016, is as dated.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.