![]() It can be viewed (and deconstructed) from a dozen angles at once, from its postmod, prepunk Britishness to its censor-baiting extremity and “video nasty” status-or as auteur worship for Kubrick, an actor’s showcase for McDowell, a collision of art-cinema rigor and counterculture brashness, prescient prophecy or dated posturing, or a critique of sadism, sensationalism, sexism, and exploitation in entertainment and an all-time case of the pot calling the kettle black. ![]() The film’s aesthetics may be pop brutalist all the way, but as a subject for analysis, A Clockwork Orange is positively cubist. Since the 1970s, icons ranging from David Bowie to Bart Simpson to Rihanna have either donned Alex DeLarge drag or adopted Nadsat slang. Last year, Canadian author Lynn Crosbie used A Clockwork Orange as the inspiration for her sly, shattering novel Chicken, which is about a decadent movie star modeled on Clockwork’s leading man, Malcolm McDowell. Insert a scalpel at any random point in the past five decades of global pop culture and you’ll find a steady, pumping stream of red, red kroovy. Strangelove and 2001: A Space Odyssey before it-and The Shining, Full Metal Jacket, and Eyes Wide Shut subsequently-it’s been parodied, pilloried, and fully subsumed into our collective DNA. Is A Clockwork Orange Stanley Kubrick’s worst movie? The director’s 1971 adaptation of Anthony Burgess’s futureshock novel-which returned to Netflix this month after an absence from the streaming service of several years-is a work of undeniable visceral intensity and visual imagination.
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