It’s hard to remove ‘the real world’ from film criticism – I am part of that unpopular school of thought that insists on correlating the present-day realities we deal with to the work and using that to ground our discussion of art. In this moment where we watch astounded as genocides take place around the world, as Israel plays into every single trope of an aggressor state in a dystopian novel in its campaign of militant ethnic cleansing against Palestinians, The Hunger Games: The Songbirds and Snakes entered cinemas, seeking to try to do justice to Suzanne Collins’s prequel to the acclaimed original series.
We are now more than familiar with the moral questions her work raises and the barbarism she encourages us to critique and challenge in the real world. Children are sent into an arena, forced to fight to the death as entertainment to the Capitol (a gluttonous society segregated from the rest of the world, where money and excess are familiar companions). As we yell out against the mistreatment of real children in Congo, in Sudan, and in Palestine, we are met with our foil in the Capitol.
From the moment you spot Sejanus Plinth (Josh Andrés Rivera) on screen, it is obvious that he is a boy burdened with something. He wears the same regalia as the rest of the academy’s students, clad in maroon – and academic superiority like his classmates. His very presence in the room speaks to an access counter to the fundamental truth of him: Sejanus Plinth should not be there. Sejanus Plinth is different.
Sejanus comes from District 2. His father’s wealth and loyalty are owed to the same regime that propels his old classmate Marcus (Jerome Lance) into an arena of death for entertainment and grants him and his family Capitol citizenship. He is predictably picked on for his difference – his friendship with Coriolanus Snow arguably stems from a connected displacement they both feel among their cohort. As soon as the Games are mentioned, his opposition to them is clear and constantly present at every stage of the film. He is us; he decries the Capitol, dehumanizing the districts in this way, placing value on their lives as equal to the residents of the Capitol, and pointing out the absurdity of generational retribution for an uprising none of the tributes would even be old enough to remember. At first glance, he plays an easy-to-follow philosophical ‘rebel,’ an activist of sorts. But there are layers to his character.
He has money and privileges gifted to his family because they armed the Capitol’s violation of District Thirteen. His clothes, his place in that school, his house – all of it – is the direct consequence of the violence his family helped perpetuate against his people. The blood of the district’s children can be traced to the Plinth family, and Sejanus knows this. So, another thread is revealed, and another motivator of his politics comes to light. Sejanus Plinth is a boy riddled with guilt, and it is a guilt that eats away at him. Much like Corio’s (Tom Blyth) cousin Tigris (Hunter Schafer), his humanity makes watching the Games proceed a bitter pill to swallow.
Whilst Tigri’s opposition to the Capitol’s actions is constant, they are done privately, a small dinner table rebellion. Sejanus is loud, and it is arguably reckless when he sneaks into the arena to pay homage to Marcus. It is not a logical, well-thought-out, or planned opposition. It’s heated and messy, and so very angry. It is thrilling and frightening to watch because you know he can’t go on like that if he wishes to remain alive…but he seems to be the only one willing to speak truth to power in that way.
It’s a debate that the original series has, too. What is the most efficient way to fight oppression? Gale takes the direct approach – he stands and argues, suggests armament, and is punished for it, just as Sejanus is. The only difference is that Sejanus is also trying to alleviate his own survivor’s guilt.
“They are like us,” he says at one point in the film. The truth is they aren’t; the Capitol’s structures have ensured that. They are a people policed like criminals, their access to key resources and weaponry all contained by one omniscient power that has formulated birds to help capture even their voices. It is telling that it is his voice that condemns him to death. Like the artists of Palestine whose deaths we watch tally up, in this dystopia, even words are punishable because in order for an apartheid system to stay in place, you must first categorically and structurally insist on the dehumanization of your victims.
He presents a fascinating conundrum: how does one with power use it to help others without combusting under the weight of their own guilt and urge to wither away in a cloud of self-flagellation? Is it possible to? The advice of Snow, a man he considers to be a friend, propels him towards his fate (beyond the obvious). In the arena, as he tries to mourn the death of a friend, Snow tells him to fight the evil of the Capitol from inside the house. ‘Use your power and money and do it from the comfort of your own home.’ It is a suggestion we see made to people time and again. That activism can be just as valuable at the very table, decreeing people to death, as it is in the streets.
The biggest tragedy for Sejanus wasn’t his death – it was dying without realizing that things would get better. Snow outlives him after betraying him. He never gets to see Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) prove him right. There’s a weight to that – Suzanne Collins lets the districts save themselves, and no matter how much he may feel connected to his home, Sejanus died in the uniform of the Capitol. Whether he liked it or not, he was both indirectly a culprit and most blatantly a victim of the system. He paid the ultimate price for his compassion, but ultimately, his wish came true. All the characters in the film are trying to survive in different ways, except for Sejanus. His life doesn’t seem to be much of a consideration to him. Josh Andres Rivera’s beautifully layered performance had me wondering if that was his gift to the revolution after all: himself.
An example is that your response to cruelty and injustice doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to exist.
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