PDF | Set in , this landmark film took viewers into the heart of a typical psychiatric ward and exposed the realities therein. Based on the novel by Ken. language and content in this novel may be offensive to minorities and women. “ The overall theme of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is that of a man's right to be an individual . House, Inc. soundofheaven.info pdf. Ken Kesey. ONE FLEW OVER THE. CUCKOO'S NEST. The Novel. • A counter- culture protest novel, which is an allegorical portrayal of society at the time.
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“YOU FEEL THIS BOOK ALONG YOUR SPINE ” - Kansas City Star. Tired of weeding peas at a penal farm, the tough, freewheeling. Ken Kesey's One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest (Bloom's Modern Critical Interpretations). Read more · One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest: A Play in Two Acts. All producers of ONE FLEW OVER mE CUCKOO'S NEST must give credit to the Author of By Dale Wasserman (50%) Based on the novel by Ken Kesey (25%).
Don't forget, Mr. Therapeutic as all hell! There is a sound of a key in the Ward door. Turning, slowly coming back. Oh, yeah, here we go! My friend, for pure audacity that proposition wins the analysts' Oscar. Hey, where is McMurphy?
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Please review our Terms and Conditions of Use and check box below to share full-text version of article. Get access to the full version of this article. View access options below. You previously purchased this article through ReadCube. Institutional Login. They're puttin' people in one end and out comes what they want. The way they do it, Papa, each night they tip the world on its side and everybody loose goes ratt1in' to the bottom.
Then they hook 'em by the heels, and they hang 'em up and cut 'em open. Only by that time they got no innards, just some beat-up gears and stuff, and all they bleed is rust. You think I'm ravin' 'cause it sounds too awful to be true, but, my God, there's such a lot of things that's true even if they never really happen! A bell rings. They wear starched and spotless white uniforms and they lope in tandem or abreast like a team of splendid, lithe panthers.
Well, well, here's the Chief. The soopah-Chief. Had his breakfas' an' rarin' to go. Don' you know better? Don' you know keep to your room till that bell ring? Haw, look at 'im shag it!
Big enough t'eat apples off my head and he scared like a baby. What you want, baby? Yo' broom? Going to fetch it. He want his broom. Thassit, baby, thassa good loony.
Start sweepin', baby. There is an odd perfection about her: A brilliant warm smile which appears often. Her body is ripe and womanly, evident even under the starched white uniform. If you don't mind, boys? I don't think it wise to group up and stand around like that. Mean 01' Monday morning, you know, such a lot to get done? Yeah, Miz Ratched.
That's fine, boys. Warren, you might start by getting poor Mr. Bromden shaved, and Williams, you have dormitory duty, don't you? That's just fine. Enters hurriedly. She is a vapid girl with apprehensive eyes, who wears a gold cross at her throat. Good morning, Miss Ratched. Smilingly unlocks the Station. Never mind, we'd best get started, hadn't we? Her voice booms out over speakers in the Day Room and the dormitory.
All patients to the Day Room. Leaves the Station, ready to greet patients as they enter. Good morning, Mr. Are you sure? He is in his late thirties, handsome, effete. Rolling his eyes aloft.
Dear Lord, for the tranquillity we are about to receive, we thank Thee. Crosses to set up a card table and get a pinochle deck from the cabinet. Billy, dear. Linking arms with him affectionately. I spoke to your mother last night. BILLY halts apprehensively. In age, almost thirty, but appears more like a boy.
I had to tell her. Whu-what did you say? That you were very sorry and had promised not to try it again. Th-thank you, Miss Ratched. Handing him his water. Drink it all, dear. He sets down a box he is carrying, pulls up a chair and starts working with tools inside the box.
Wait a shake, honey, What're these? Christ, I can see that. What kind? Trying a flirting technique. Just swallow them, Mr. Cheswick - just for me? Don't gimme that crap, all I want to know, for the luwaGod-!
Laying a hand on his arm. It's all right, Charles.
Whattaya mean, it's all right?! You don't have to take them. That's what I mean, you just shove any old shit at a man I don't? He takes the pills and water and downs them without further fuss. Addressing absolutely no one. A once-powerful body now undirected by intelligence, blank-faced and empty-eyed, with shaven skull. Greeting him.
F-f-f-fuck 'em all! He backs into the wall as though yanked by a rubber rope, and freezes there, crucified. I'd like you to meet him at Receiving. Miss Flinn, I'll be in the Staff Room. To the patients. Behave yourself, boys! She exits. Come back here, yuh damn redskin! Don' like this, huh? Can't say 1 like that look in your eye. Indignantly, shoving the tray away from his box. Look out, there! No, no!
Sweet thing, you want some help? I don't need any, thank you. WARRE exits, laughing. Your deal, Martini. Oh, yeah, here we go!
Deals enthusiastically, sailing an extra set of cards off to his left to a player who isn't there. Hey, cut it out! Whatsa matter? There's nobody there. You sure? There's only four of us. Martini, will you for God's sake stop hallucinating?
Oh, give me the cards! Chortling suddenly. What's f-f-funny? That mousey little nurse. Reminds me of the first time I ever saw a girl take off her clothes. I was eight, see, and I was sitting up in a tree looking through her bedroom window, and by the time she got down to her Ii'l panties, I got to shakin' till I fell outa the friggin' tree!
Without turning his head. That's it, Billy, write it down. Well, we're sub-supposed to. Sure, get a gold star by your name. You write down everything I say. Yeah, and I'm going to write down some things you did!
Shut up, you two. F-f-fuck 'em all! Oh, for heaven's sake, this place is a madhouse. Fellow psychopaths. As President of the Patients' Council I, Dale Harding, do hereby decree ten seconds of blessed - therapeutic - silence.
Clasps his hands and bows his head. The silence is almost immediately shattered by a ringing, brassy, voice as the ward door is opened. Off Buddy, you are so wrong, I don't have to do this, and I don't have to do that, and get the hell away from me or I will take and Good mornin', buddies! Mighty nice fall day!
Shaggy, with long sideburns. A devilish grin and a face battered and scarred across nose and cheekbone. He wears a black motorcyclists' cap, an ancient brown leather jacket and jeans faded almost to whiteness. On his feet lumberman's boots with a ring ofsteel in the heels. A wide-open extroverted air which registers almost shockingly in this environment.
Now he hooks his thumbs in his belt and starts to laugh. Damn, what a sorry-lookin' bunch! Get away from me, boy, give me a minute to look my new home over, will ya? What the hell, I never been in a Institute of Psychology before!
My name is McMurphy, buddies, R. McMurphy, and I am a gamblin' fool. Squinting at the hands. What's this you're playin'? Jesus, ain'tcha got a straight deck around here? Well, say, here we go, I brought along my own just in case. Distributing samples.
Every card a picture - and check those pictures, huh? Fifty-two positions, boys, every one different. Easy now, don't smudge 'em, we got lotsa time, lotsa games. McMurphy takes back his cards. And do you think I'm gonna argue with the Court?
Winks broadly. Shoo, you can bet your bottom dollar I don't. If it gets me outa those damn pea fields I'll be whatever their little heart desires, be it psychopath or mad dog or werewolf, because I don't care if I never see another weedin' hoe to my dying' day - WILLIAMS had come up behind him to renew the assault. Mister, we got rules. I gotta take your temperature, and I gotta get you showered.
All you gotta do is let me get acquainted with my new buddies here, and if you do one thing more-! All right, fella, you askin' for it, you gonna get it. Laughs his wall-shaking laugh.
That's a whole deal better, now we can get somethin' settled. Okay, which of you's the bull goose loony? I'm askin', who is the bull goose loony?
Well, it's not m-me, mister. I'm not the buh-buh-bull goose loony, although you could say I'm next in luh-line for the job. Mister Harding Leans back, looks at the ceiling.
Does this.. Do you have an appointment, Mister-Mc-Muh-Murphy? Mister Harding is a busy man. This busy man Harding, is he the bull goose loony? That's right. McMurphy is waitin' to see him and this nut-house ain't big enough for the two of us.
You tell him either he meets me man to man or he's a yaller skunk and better be outa town by sunset. Billy, you tell this young upstart McMurphy that I'll meet him in the main hall at high noon and we'll settle this affair once and for all, with libidos a'blazin'. Billy, you tell him that R. McMurphy is used to bein' top man in every situation, so if he's bound to be a loony he figures to be the stompdown dadgum biggest one of all!
There, by God, and we ain't spilled a drop ofblood! Now, who's the rest of these fellers? Well, on this side ofthe room we're the Acutes. What's acute about you? That means we are presumably curable. Over there, the Chronics. A Walker and a Vegetable. And they ain't curable? Well, what the hell! Hiya, buddy, R. McMurphy, howdye do? Randle P. Ignoring his hand. Got any cigarettes Nothin' butt.
Get it? Hands him the pack. Buddy, how'rya? Slamming the lid on the box. What's that you're makin'? A bomb - to blow up the whole stinkin' world.
Oh man, you got competition. Buddy, my name is R. McMurphy and I don't like to see a grown man sloshin' around in his own water.
Now, why'nt you go get dried up? Pull the nails out. The -? Oh, sure! Pulls the invisible "nails. He staggers offto the dorm. What have we got here? That's Chief Bromden. What's your story, Big Chief? He can't hear you. He's duh-deaf and dumb.
Well, what they got him strapped down for? I don't like that, no, sir. It just ain't dignified. Say, you get your full growth you're gonna be pretty good-sized. What tribe is he? I don't know. He was here when I c-came. According to the doctor, He's a Columbia River Indian But I believe the tribe is now defunct. That right, Chief? You defunct? He c-can't hear a word you say. Holding out her hand.
Shaking hands with her. Howdy, Ma'am! I'll take that Aide Williams tells me you are being difficult. I understand you refused to take your admission shower? Well, as to that, ma'am, they showered me at the courthouse and last night at the jail, and I swear they'd of washed my ears for me on the way over if they coulda found the facilities.
Explodes into laughter - alone. That's quite amusing, Mr. But you must realize that our policies are engineered for your cure. Which means cooperation. Ma'am, I'll cooperate from hell to Thursday, but you wouldn't want me to be unpolite? I mean, had to get acquainted with my new buddies? Please understand, I do appreciate the way you've taken it upon yourself to But everything in its own time.
You must follow the rules. Ya know, ma'am - that is the exact thing somebody always tells me about the rules - just when I'm thinkin' a breakin' every one of 'em. New admission, Papa, now they gotta fix him with controls. They got wires runnin' to each man and units planted in our heads. There's magnets in the floor so we can't walk no way but what they want. We got stone brains, cast-iron guts, and copper where they took away our nerves. We got cog-wheels in our bellies and a welded grin, And every time they thow a switch it tum us on or off.
The Combine, Papa. Big, big, big. Listens a moment. Oh, yes, there is too such a thing! They got me way back ago, the way they got to you! Music up simultaneously; it's miserable stuff, coming from the wall speakers. His cap is tiled forward until he has to lean back to see the cards. He holds a Cigarette in his teeth and talks around it. His lingo sings like a pitchman's chant. Hey-ya, hey-ya, come on, suckers, you hit or you sit. Hit you say? Well, well, well, and with a king up the boy wants a hit, whaddaya know.
So comin' at you, too bad, a little lady for the lad and he's over the wall and down the road, up the hill and dropped his load. Comin' at you, Mr. Scanlon, and I wish some asshole in that nurses' hothouse would turn down that mother-lavin' music! Rises, going toward the Station. Hooeee, I never heard such a drivin' racket in my life. Raps on the window. Sliding back. Would you mind switchin' off that god-damn noise?
Yes what? Yes, I would mind. Music is considered therapeutic. What in the hell is therapeutic about Lawrence Welk? Please don't lean on the glass, it makes finger marks.
Turning away. Horse muh-noo-ur. Oh, Mr. McMurphy, I should mention, we have a rule against gambling. We're just playin' for cigarettes. Are you sure those cigarettes don't represent something else? Yeah, a hell of a lot of smoke.
To the MEN: Confidentially Listen, that was a good thing she brought up. How about we sweeten the game? Where would we get muh-money? Shielding the action from the Station, rubs thumb andforefinger together.
Stop kiddin', I found out a few things about this place before I got sent over. Damn near half you boys in here pull compensation, three, four hundred a month, and it don't draw nothing' but dust. So all you gotta do is sign some IOU's. All right with me. Let's say each cigarette's worth a quarter? Run 'em! Here we go! Over the speaker. Don't forget, Mr. McMurphy, no gambling for money. Staring up at the speakers. Say, is that a twoway system?
No, but Miss Ratched is a human radio. Is, huh? Well, I just may have to pull her plug. All right, Perfessor, there you sit with a deuce showin' and here's a pack o'Marbros says you back down. The bell rings. Now what? On the loudspeaker. Group Meeting. Time for Group Meeting. The MEN get up quickly.
What's goin' on? Group Therapy. Every day this time. Picks up her wicker basket and goes to take the Log Book from its stand, then seats herself 1. McMurphy, would you like to join us? He takes an empty chair. Now, then, would anyone like to begin? Touching the bandage on his wrist. I guh-guess I ought to talk about this. It was on account of my mother.
Every time she comes to visit it leaves me feeling just awful. Your mother loves you, Billy. I know. That's the trouble. I'm such a duh-disappointment to her, but she won't admit it. She won't suh-see me like I am! I say to her, "Mama, I'm nuh-not right in the head. I can't even tuh-talk straight. And pretty soon I want to k-kill myself. So I try. Is it possible that you may be trying to punish her? Sure, it's possible! Muh-Miss Ratched, couldn't we tuh-talk about somebody else today?
You really ought to face it, Billy. At length: Very well. She opens the Log Book. At the close of Friday's meeting we were discussing Mr. Harding's young wife Does anyone care to touch upon this further? Touch upon what? The subject. Oh, I thought you meant touch upon her But the MEN are gazing at him blankly and the laugh dies ofmalnutrition. To continue. According to notes entered by various patients in the Log Book - DR. He is a resident psychiatrist, a pipe-smoking, glasses-fumbling, harassed fellow of no great force.
He seats himself - Good afternoon, Doctor. Harding's relations with his wife Whose wife? Yeah, I see her! Jumping up. Mama Mia Una popponal La figura d'una deal Ma fa allungare! God, what I wouldn't give for that man's eyes. McMurphy, Randle Patrick. Committed by the State for diagnosis and possible treatment. Thirtyfive years old. Never married.
A history of drunkenness, assault and battery, disturbing the peace, repeated gambling, one arrest for rape. With a child of fifteen. Said she was seventeen, and she was plenty willin'. Doc, she was so willin' I took to padlockin' my pants.
Our new admission, Doctor. In the silence DR. He looks up to find all eyes on him.
Any time spent in other institutions? Well, sir, includin' state and county coolersDR. Mental institutions. This is my first trip. But I am crazy, Doc, I swear it. Yeah, here it is. Doc, is that real serious? I mean, you every been troubled by it? No, Mr. McMurphy, I'll admit I haven't. That bit about fightin' I can understand, but whoever heard of a man getting' too much poozle? Referring to file.
I am interested in this statement: What about that? Do I look like a sane man? Laughs uproariously at this joke. Perhaps, Doctor, you should advise Mr. McMurphy on the protocol of these meetings. One of the first rules is that the patients remain seated. Seating himself Why, sure, Doc. You see, we operate on the principle of the Therapeutic Community. The which? Ther-a-peutic Com-munity.
That means that this ward is society in miniature, and since society decides who is sane and who isn't, you must measure up. Our goal here is a completely democratic ward, governed by the patients - working to restore you to the Outside. The important thing is to let nothing fester inside you. Do you know what this procedure is called? Help yourself and your friends probe the secrets of the subconscious. Bring those old guilts out into the open!
Blankly What guilts?
You have them or you wouldn't be here. Oh yeah, yeah I think I'm beginnin' to ketch on Like this dream I had the other night, couldja maybe tell me what it means? Y'see, it was like me in the dream, but then again it wasn't me, I mean Yeah, that's who it was! It was my daddy for sure, because when I saw me - him, I mean - he had this big iron bolt through his jawbone like Daddy used to have. Your father had an iron bolt through his jawbone?
A regular Frankensteen! How fascinating. If I may suggest, Doctor, Mr. McMurphy might learn best by example? Re-opening the Log Book. According to notes entered by various patients in the Log Book, Mr. Harding has stated that he was uneasy when walking with his wife on the street because of the manner in which other men stared at her.
He has further said, quote: She damned well gives them reason to stare, unquote. He has also been heard to say that he may give her reason to seek sexual attention elsewhere. What reason, Dale? I can't say that I have been notably ardent Do you mean sexually inadequate? Maybe she's just plain too hot for him. That it, Harding?
With malice. I'll b-bet he's afraid of her. Not afraid! Okay, scared! It might be fair to say Same thing. I see Mr. Harding has also stated that his wife's ample bosom gives him a feeling of inferiority. So why does he marry a broad with such big knockers to begin with? I'll bet he's got a mother fixation. I'll bet he was never weaned. That's not so! I wanted a womanly woman. His hands wave.
Referring to notes. She has commented, Dale, that she finds you less than masculine. Yeah, like the way you use your hands.
How about it, Harding? You chose a woman who was quite obviously your inferior. Don't you find significance in that? Yes, of course, but I theorized You're always saying she's such a guh-good lay. Yeah, what happens in the sack? Say, Harding, wouldn't it be a lot easier if you was to just come and admit you're a faggot?
Up out of his chair with a roar. Awright, knock it off! Leave the guy alone! Sit down. Lissen, buddy, you don't hafta take this shit! Closing the Log Book with a "Splat! Close it until discipline has improved. His cheeks are knotted and he hums a shapeless tune. Say, buddy, is this the way these leetle meetings usually go? Bunch of chickens at a peckin' party? Pecking party? I haven't the faintest notion what you're talking about. Why, I'll just explain it. The flock gets sight of a speck of blood on some chicken and they all go to peckin' at it, see?
Till there's nothin' left but blood and bones and feathers. But usually a couple of the flock gets spotted in the fracas, then it's their tum. Lacing his hands together, forcing himself to be casual. A pecking party. That certainly is a pleasant analogy, my friend. That's right, my friend. And that's exactly what that meeting reminded me of. And that makes me the chicken with the spot of blood, eh, friend? That's right, friend.
And you want to know who pecks the first peck? It's that 01' nurse, that's who. So it's as simple as that. As stupidly simple as that. You're on our ward six hours and have already simplified the work of Freud, Jung and Maxwell Jones and summed it up in one analogy: I'm not talkin' 'bout Fred Yoong and whosis Jones, buddy, I'm talkin' 'bout that crummy meeting and what that nurse did to you.
Did to me? In spades. Why, this is incredible! You completely disregard the fact that everything she did was for my benefit. Horse apples. I'm disappointed in you, my friend.
I had judged you were more intelligent. But it's evident I made a mistake. The hell with you, buddy. Oh, yes, I also noticed your primitive brutality. Psychopath with definite sadistic tendencies, probably motivated by unreasoning egomania.
And those talents certainly qualify you as a therapist, my friend. Oh, yes, they render you quite capable of criticizing Miss Ratched, although she's a highly regarded psychiatric nurse with twenty years' experience in the field.
But you, no doubt, with your talent could work subconscious miracles, soothe the aching id and heal the wounded superego. You could probably cure the whole ward, Vegetables and all, in six months, ladies and gentlemen, or your money back!
Regards him levelly. Are you tellin' me that this crap that went on today is doing some kinda good? Why else would we subject ourselves to it? Miss Ratched may be a very strict lady, but she is not some kind of monster chicken, pecking our eyes out. No, buddy. She ain't pecking at your eyes. She is aimin' right square at the family jewels!
Miss Ratched! Don't give me that tender-mother crap. She's a ball-cutter from way back. His talk speeds up, his hands dance and flutter, a wild puppet doing a high-strung dance. Why, see here, my friend, my psychopathic sidekick, Miss Ratched is a veritable angel of mercy and - why, everybody knows it. She's unselfish as the wind, toiling thanklessly for the good of all, day after day, seven days a week.
Why she has no life, no husband, nothing but her work, and everybody knows it. Do you think she enjoys being stem with us, asking those questions, probing our subconscious till it hurts? So you're wrong, I assure you. Our Miss Ratched is the kindest, sweetest, the most benevolent Stops.
Begins to laugh. Oh, the bitch. The bitch. At length. You're right. About all of it. Okay, why'ntcha do something? Because the world belongs to the strong, my friend. The rabbit recognizes the strength of the wolf, so he digs holes and hides when the wolf is about.
He doesn't challenge the wolf to combat.