I’m done with dystopian fiction – reality is scary enough

An early episode of Black Mirror accidentally depicted the grossest political scandal in recent memory before anyone even knew it had really happened. Rewatching it in today’s political climate, Veep’s crude, absurdist comedy is no longer shocking or satirical; it’s become a quaint, wholesome little show about the beating heart of politics, in line with Parks and Recreation.

On any given Saturday morning, outside any given apartment block in South Yarra, we watch The Hunger Games play out as dozens of people fight for tenancy in an overpriced, under-ventilated one-bedroom flat. I’m pretty sure the Earth Matthew McConaughey’s character leaves behind in Interstellar is about five years away, and the one we see in Mad Max can’t be far behind. We all know that every weirdo loser billionaire watched Ex Machina and got so carried away over their manic pixie dream girl that they missed the cautionary tale of their own hubris.

The Handmaid’s Tale was never an easy read or watch, but America is looking more like Gilead with every passing day. If a certain opposition leader gets the top job in our next federal election, I fear that our country will soon be following a similar path.

The magic of dystopian fiction is in its feasibility. When its creator takes something from our reality and perverts it, their ideas get caught between our teeth, and that unsettled feeling follows us around for days. Now, though, all those stories seem less like idle thought exercises and more like warning signs we’ve ignored. God, I miss crass buddy comedies and formulaic romcoms.

No need to wait for the credits to roll. Dystopian fiction is done now, everyone. Reality ruined it.