When I first read “The Hunger Games” trilogy, I was 12 years old. The series changed the way I viewed and read the dystopia genre, and to say I was a fan would be an understatement. The concept, pacing and symbolism within the trilogy were beyond fascinating.
The original trilogy (2008-2010) captivated readers with a post-apocalyptic North America where children are forced to fight to the death on live television. The series follows Katniss Everdeen, a teenager from District 12 who volunteers to play the Games to save her younger sister, guided by her mentor Haymitch Abernathy, a former victor with his own tragic past. Through their journey, Suzanne Collins critiques media manipulation, class inequity and the human cost of authoritarian rule, ultimately chronicling a generational rebellion.
Now, opening “Sunrise on the Reaping” at 19 years old, it feels like no time has passed. Collins plunges us back into the world of Panem, deepening the fictitious world we’ve known for 17 years.
The heartbeat of this prequel is Haymitch Abernathy during the 50th Hunger Games, where double the amount of tributes are chosen. On his sixteenth birthday, he is selected by a cruel twist of chance.
“Sunrise” largely fleshes out the skeletal story that Collins established in the original books. Rather than populating this prequel entirely with new characters, she brings back familiar faces such as Mags, Wiress, Beetee and Plutarch Heavensbee. This decision effectively shrinks the world, as if Collins doesn’t want to trust us with entirely new characters. Perhaps this creative choice is for our benefit, knowing we already connect with these established figures.
Woven throughout the novel is a persistent undercurrent of rebellion, from Heavensbee’s subtle manipulations to Beetee’s technological resistance. These elements demonstrated convincingly that tangible opposition to the Capitol began long before Katniss ever volunteered as tribute.
In crafting this narrative, Collins masterfully delivers the pivotal Quell moments we’ve heard referenced in “Catching Fire:” Haymitch’s cocky interview answers with Flickerman, the strategic alliance he forms with Maysilee and the ingenious moment he discovers how to use the Games’ own design to his advantage.
However, what makes this account truly fascinating is what it reveals beyond these known events — for instance, a Games arena explosion that was systematically scrubbed away from records and television broadcasts because they contradicted the official narrative of Capitol dominance and complete control.
Perhaps the most valuable contribution of “Sunrise” is the profound insight it provides into Haymitch’s complex character — effectively explaining why he becomes the person we encounter 24 years later.
Through his experiences in the Quarter Quell and its aftermath, we finally understand the origins of his persistent drinking problem, his reluctance to form emotional connections and his pervasive apathy toward almost everything except bringing down Snow. The novel reveals how Snow methodically eliminates anyone Haymitch cares about, systematically destroying everything he loves until only bitterness remains.
Against this backdrop of loss, the core love story Collins crafts provides a tender foundation, making the inevitable tragedies that follow all the more devastating. Throughout these personal journeys, we witness the horror that Collins has always emphasized exists beyond the Games themselves: It’s not just the violence of the arena but the psychological buildup and lingering trauma that truly define the experience of the tributes.
As with previous installments, familiar themes of artifice, spectacle, reality, and propaganda return with Collins’ characteristically pointed political commentary, which occasionally verges on heavy-handedness. She deliberately intensifies the callous, naked cruelty of the Capitol, ensuring that this Quarter Quell is every bit as gruesome as Games we’ve encountered before.
Characters like the detestable Drusilla embody the Capitol’s horrid prejudices against the district tributes, portraying them as fundamentally less-than-human in ways that resonate disturbingly with real-world discrimination.
The writing remains sharp and evocative.
While I am glad this story was actualized, I can’t help but question whether the immediately announced film adaptation represents something of a contradiction. There seems a strange irony in a book so intent on critiquing the spectatorship of violence being rapidly adapted for the screen and sent on a promotional tour. This raises legitimate questions: Do we need another Hunger Games movie? Is this kind of graphic violence something that audiences need to be reminded of in visual form?
Have we already witnessed the scale of extreme violence and brutality? Yes.
Does it still scare us? Yes.
It’s both satisfying and deeply unsettling to return to this world. In “Sunrise on the Reaping,” Collins once again demonstrates why her dystopian vision continues to captivate readers across generations. The book, like all the others in her series, is not only entertainment but also a mirror through which to examine our own society’s relationship with power and media.