Vince Cyrus M.

Serio May 8,2021

G10-Amethyst

OUTPUT#5
20 years ago, Lois Lowry's dystopian YA novel "The Giver" won the
Newberry Medal. Creepy and prophetic, told in a kind of flat-affect
voice, it has been a staple in middle-school literature curriculum ever
since, introducing young students to sophisticated ethical and moral
concepts that will help them recognize its precedents when they come
to read the works of George Orwell or Aldous Huxley.

"The Giver" gives us the overall structure of Lowry's original work, adds
a couple of understandable details like a sweet little romance and then
derails into an action movie in its final sequence, complete with attacks
from the air and a hi-tech command center.

"The Giver" takes place in a community at some point in the

indeterminate future where "Sameness" is prized above all else.
Multiple factors have gone into creating a monochromatic world
(literally, colors have been erased) where individuality is crushed, a
citizen's every move is monitored from the moment of birth, natural
families have been replaced by artificial "family units" and choice has
vanished. A soothing voice makes passive-aggressive scolding
announcements over loudspeakers. The Giver's cavernous dwelling,
perched on the edge of a cliff, is a gloomy and masterful set,
overlooking the clouds gathered below, making The Giver appear like
Citizen Kane, holed up in his mansion surrounded by accumulated
possessions and raw pain.
"Precision of language" is enforced, and so people are constantly
apologizing and saying "I accept your apology" to each other, but in a
rote way that drains the language of meaning. "The Giver" is a
cautionary tale about what happens when language is controlled and
limited—ground well covered for all time in "1984"—where citizens
have no language available to them outside of "newsspeak." Memories
are gone, too, in "The Giver".

The young actors in the film are pretty nondescript, the lead included,
although Thwaites seems to come alive in mischievous ways when he
starts to take care of a fussy newborn who can't stop crying at night.
Holmes and Skarsgård are both strange and unplaceable, playing
human beings whose emotions are entirely truncated. "Precision of
language, please," says Mother at the dinner table when one of her
children starts to speak. Bridges galumphs across the screen, a madman
out of Melville, tormented, lonely, in and out of reality. His memories
sometimes flatten him. There is one moment where he tells Jonas what
the word is for the "feeling between people," and his eyes burn with
pain and loss as he says, "Love. It's called love." It's the only powerful
moment in the film. His emotion is so palpable it reaches off the screen
and grips your throat.