Slouching Toward Winston Smith

From the start, Player Piano gives a very 1984 vibe: a well-to-do man of the state discovers and flirts with conspiratorial forces, risking the small semblance of freedom enjoyed by members of his class. It’s true that Paul Proteus feels a whole lot more jaded and self-interested than Orwell’s hero, but there’s a zaniness in Vonnegut’s presentation that keeps Paul (along with his entire world) from feeling dark and cynical. I want to call the humor Coen-esque, but that hardly seems possible. The directors could only have influenced the author if they had become–or will become–unstuck in time. Far more likely, the brothers read a ton of Vonnegut growing up (something I increasingly wish I could say for myself).

In contrast to Paul, Ed Finnerty is almost childlike in his excitement and uncritical acceptance of the underground movement. I initially thought this undermined his characterization as an old skeptic, but in time, it seemed intended to demonstrate how sheltered the man had been prior to meeting Lasher–that revolutionary ideas are just that fresh and exciting to him.

The cartoonish presentation of the Shah of “Bratpuhr” generally feels very much of the time: ignorant, awkward, silly, and ultimately harmless. I’d like to think that Vonnegut saves his novel from the jingoistic trope through moments that demonstrate that Shah’s fundamental human integrity. To my reading, the spiritual leader’s empathy for a desperate woman and his immediate disillusionment with machine intelligence serve as a sort of rug-pull for readers who may otherwise delight in the more base depictions… But maybe I’m being too charitable.

Vonnegut’s feelings toward his characters can be ambiguous, but his stance on labor is unequivocal. The novel’s so much more than a slew of achingly-apropos comments on machines’ role in society (though you’ve no doubt seen those excerpted in “AI” discussions lately). Vonnegut’s critique excoriates capitalism itself. While this commentary may have felt cautionary (or possibly even ridiculous) in its day, it feels overwhelmingly tragic as we approach the seventy-fifth anniversary of the book’s publication. Sorry, Kurt; we couldn’t help ourselves.