CW: Major spoilers for Sunrise on the Reaping
 

The film adaptation of Catching Fire, the second installment to the Hunger Games series, holds a particularly shocking exchange which is as haunting as the violence characterising the concept, lead up and execution of the Games. Katniss and Peeta are shuttled between districts and Capitol parties on their ‘Victor’s Tour’ in the wake of their seditious victory in the Games - accompanied by their drunk but seasoned District 12 victor and mentor Haymitch. As the pageantry reaches an unbearable state of oppressiveness for Katniss, Haymitch retorts:

"You never get off this train!”

This is the nightmare underpinning Sunrise on the Reaping. And I think it encapsulates why this is perhaps the most shocking and devastating installment in the series. The conclusion that Collins hurtles towards in this prequel is that the true ‘Games’ at play are resisting and surviving the ‘arena’ of an authoritarian regime. 

Initially surly and defeatist, Haymitch slowly lets his guard down throughout the trilogy and becomes fiercely protective of Katniss and Peeta. This quality (alongside his deadpan humour) secured his status as one of the most memorable and beloved characters from The Hunger Games. In the series, his fate is divulged to readers in sparse snippets: we learn he won his games by weaponising the arena’s forcefield, earning the ire of President Snow; we learn his loved ones were murdered upon his return home from the Games; and we know he has spiralled into depression and alcoholism, emotionally distant as a consequence of his self-imposed exile. As these pieces of his past shift into vision, Haymitch comes across as less of a surly asshole and more a tragic hero.

There are three key characteristics that make a prequel both good and justified. Firstly, that the author capitalises on the reader or audience’s existing knowledge of the text/film, by subverting their expectations or reinforcing a sense of pathos through the inevitability inherent to a prequel. Secondly, new thematic discussions are introduced or existing ones are substantially enriched. Finally, the actual world of the text and/or the reader/audiences’ knowledge of it is expanded to a point which re-shapes how the original content is understood. I was curious, and if I’m honest, wary, to see whether Sunrise on the Reaping would be justified and powerful, given its incredibly bleak premise, and the amount of specific context we already understand from Haymitch’s story. In comparison to Collins’ earlier prequel (A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes) which covered almost totally uncharted territory from the Hunger Games world, I was uncertain whether Haymitch’s story would result in a similarly devastating effect on the overall conception of this series. 

In relation to thematic payoff, I felt Collins enriched her exploration of the arts. This is a key facet to her argument regarding power dynamics and is central to this novel and the overall series’ heart. Music, poetry and even art (represented in Peeta’s painting) are represented as powerful political tools which both act as and facilitate rebellion (for instance the motif of the “Hanging Tree” song which has appeared throughout the series). Song and poetry are key to this novel, as Collins further develops the Covey family narrative first introduced in Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. In Sunrise on the Reaping, Collins invokes lyrical motifs alluding to the Romantic poetry of William Blake and Gothic writing of Edgar Allen Poe. These provide rare moments of solace and respite for both characters and audience as they grapple with their fate through the spirituality they find in music. After the death of Leonore Dove which marks a devastating, psychological breaking point, Haymitch’s narration becomes fragmented, interspersed with the lyrics of the poem which is her namesake:

"Sorrow for the lost Leonore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Leonore -

Nameless here for evermore…”

The lyrics are the final thread tying him to her and providing an escape from the trauma of his seemingly eternal Victory Tour. There are also pertinent callbacks to lyrics and songs invoked in previous novels which contribute to a sense of hallowedness associated with these lyrics, most poignantly “The old therebefore” from Songbirds and Snakes as District 12 mourn their fallen tributes, and “The Hanging Tree”. In this text more than ever, Collins reminds her readers the power of art as a means of rebellion, but more importantly as an essential facet of human survival as a source of joy, beauty and therefore power.

One of the strongest aspects of this novel was the relationship between Haymitch and the equally dry-humoured, cutting Maysilee. Collins’ capacity to cultivate our emotional investment in these characters regardless of the fact that their horrific fate is inevitable is an incredible strength of her writing. The final moments between these characters are some of the most devastating in the novel, and it only reinforces the pathos surrounding Haymitch’s role in the original trilogy – while he couldn’t save Maysilee or his other allied tributes, he manages to bring home the infamous star-crossed lovers of District 12.

The lack of expansion on readers’ existing understanding of Haymitch’s experience and the games as a whole (to my first argument regarding prequels) is probably where the justification for this novel becomes contested. I turned through its final pages in the early hours of the morning with a gut churning anticipation of the horrific fate awaiting the protagonist. Collins takes us through each of these horrors, but aside from being as chilling and devastating as expected I am unsure whether readers are granted any ‘new material’ which underpins this incredible bleakness with a sense of purpose. Despite anticipating this gory ending, there is something incredibly painful about watching Haymitch’s self-deprecation transition to self-loathing. Particularly devastating is the moment he realises his Games have been edited and collaged to a point that totally eradicates his character—instead of a defiant rebel trying to undermine the Capitol, then protect every vulnerable child left standing, he is reduced to a coward who hides and betrays his District ally. The living nightmare Haymitch becomes trapped in culminates with Collins’ particularly harrowing invocation of cyclical structure in the final line, “happy birthday Haymitch”, prior to the epilogue. It is a disconcerting and unsettling turn for a character portrayed as totally undeserving of such a horrific fate.

Sunrise on the Reaping was dedicated in large to unpacking the way propaganda is the most powerful weapon that can be wielded by authority: dictating the games, shrouding any local dissidence and shaping the political arena. Ultimately, the message remains pertinent despite the fact that it doesn’t necessarily take a different flavour to what Collins has established before. The propaganda narrative speaks to the media saturation and echo chambers defining its contemporary context. The American political climate Collins satirises is falling into its own dystopia, and the world watches on through their screens as children suffer horrific fates in Gaza. Suzanne Collins only speaks when she has something to say, and her message remains powerful now more than ever.