“If history teaches you anything, it’s how to make the unwilling comply.” 

As a long-term fan of The Hunger Games trilogy, the concept of a prequel about its most despicable character, President Snow, made me question whether such a narrative could hook me. As it turns out, I was wrong to be doubtful, even for a second. Both disturbing and enticing, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes reveals fresh information about the intricacies of Panem sixty-four years before the trilogy, showing how the Games developed into the format we recognize today.  

Synopsis

Coriolanus Snow is living in poverty after the civil war in Panem, relying on the reputation of the Snow name to maintain appearances. The starving ache does nothing to quell his ambition, however, for Coriolanus is nothing if not determined. With his eyes set on the Plinth Prize, a monetary reward offering enough to cover full university tuition, Coriolanus must upstage his fellow students as they mentor the tributes of the 10th annual Hunger Games. The only problem? He has been assigned the girl from District Twelve, “the smallest district, the joke district, with its stunted joint-swollen kids that always died in the first five minutes.” As if things couldn’t get any worse, Lucy Gray Baird looks like a “circus performer” and sings at the reaping. And songbirds do not win fights to the death.

Political Commentary

Since Coriolanus is a student, we gain an insight into how the Capitol indoctrinates its youth into condoning the cruelty of the Games. Collins highlights how the Capitol functions like an echo chamber, and when Coriolanus meets Lucy Gray and her opposing opinions, he struggles to justify or explain his viewpoint—“like a toddler learning to walk”. He only succeeds in parroting what his professors have said: that it is a punishment for the districts because they started the war through rebellion. The district people are viewed as animals, with Coriolanus’s grandmother reprimanding him for sharing food with Lucy Gray, saying, “to dine with her suggests she is your equal.” Not even Sejanus, a liminal character hailing from District Two but now a Capitol citizen, can convince a child that housing the tributes in the zoo reinforces this segregation; the hate is so ingrained.

“They’re not animals though,” said Sejanus. “They’re kids, like you and me.”

“They’re not like me!” the little girl protested. “They’re district. That’s why they belong in a cage!”

Collins urges us to understand that this hierarchical thinking will not die out with the older generations; children are being taught to uphold the power imbalance, with the concept of the Games themselves originating from a school assignment. Panem, not unlike our world, is in need of systemic change.

Quelling Rebellion

At this stage, nobody watches the Games. They are uneventful, and the tributes have no motivation to kill one another beyond survival. Reaper (District Eleven’s Tribute) protests by treating each fallen tribute with dignity and respect, lining up their bodies and covering them with Panem’s flag. For the Capitol, this signal of unity is a threat, and Collins uses this prequel to exhibit how, led by Coriolanus’s wit, rivalry is deliberately instilled between the districts, pitting them against each other to quell any inkling of rebellion. 

Coriolanus is responsible for many elements of the Games we later see in the 74th: mandatory watching, betting, sponsor gifts, and the tesserae system. These all contribute to transforming the Games into “a sporting event.” His introduction of the Victor’s Village even creates internal animosity, alienating Victors from their own people. His intention is “to bring in a decent crop of performers”, exposing the illusion that the Games were ever about revenge or remembering the war. They are nothing more than a sadistic form of entertainment designed to maintain the Capitol’s control.

Human Nature 

This book exposes the lengths people will go to justify their own brutality as human nature. Coriolanus explains that the Games use children “because we credit them with innocence. And if even the most innocent among us turn to killers in the Hunger Games, what does that say? That our essential nature is violent.” Dean Highbottom corrects him, calling human nature “self-destructive”, an opinion communicated through Collins’s writing. 

This is the only book in the series to use third-person voice, trapping us in Coriolanus’s unsettling perspective through free indirect discourse. Popular theories claim this is because we are not intended to root for him, as we are with Katniss; however, I would argue that we are. Collins wants us to root for Coriolanus to become a better person—she wants us to then be disappointed. His narrative voice is charmingly sarcastic, endearing, and logical for the most part, which is what makes the plot so chilling. He is initially so likeable, any assumption that Snow was always villainous is erased, instead highlighting how indoctrination can nurture the worst parts of humanity.

Essentially, we are “self-destructive” in our choice to be violent, our choice to create hierarchies. Collins subjects us to his claustrophobic inner monologue to make us understand him, but not to redeem him. Coriolanus is a product of his political environment rather than a character with a fantastical predisposition for evil. 

Final Thoughts 

This was an incredibly satisfying prequel, with intertextual easter eggs hidden throughout. For example, there were many recognisable family surnames—Flickerman, Heavensbee, Crane. Furthermore, events of the trilogy were cleverly foreshadowed, and despite it being “too early” for the katniss plant, Lucy Gray and the Covey are responsible for writing the songs the trilogy’s heroine, Katniss, sings as a form of protest, such as The Hanging Tree. 

I especially enjoyed the way music was presented as one of the most accessible forms of rebellion. Lucy Gray’s songs don’t disappear with her, despite music being outlawed because it “causes trouble”. Coriolanus believes Lucy Gray “and her mockingjays could never harm him again,” yet they return in the form of Katniss, who becomes the figurehead of the revolution—nicknamed “The Mockingjay.” Lucy Gray’s lyrical rebellion ultimately prevails.

“The show’s not over until the mockingjay sings.”