‘The Power’ review: Naomi Alderman novel an alternating current of horror and wit

Excitement about Naomi Alderman’s dystopian novel “The Power” has been arcing across the Atlantic since it won the Baileys Prize for Women’s Fiction earlier this year in England. Now, finally, Americans can feel the jolt of this extraordinary book for themselves. Alderman has written our era’s “Handmaid’s Tale,” and, like that Margaret Atwood classic, “The Power” is one of those essential feminist works that terrifies and illuminates, enrages and encourages.

Alderman’s premise is simple; her execution endlessly inventive: Teenage girls everywhere suddenly discover that their bodies can produce a deadly electrical charge. She describes “a strip of striated muscle across the girls’ collarbones which they name the organ of electricity, or the skein for its twisted strands.” Perhaps environmental pollution has triggered this bioelectrogenetic organ in girls, or maybe it’s a physiological ability reasserting itself after millennia of latency. But whatever the cause, the capacity of women to shock and awe quickly disrupts the structure of civilization. “Already,” Alderman writes, “there are parents telling their boys not to go out alone, not to stray too far.”

The whole novel is powered by an alternating current of horror and wit. The narrative moves from an American girl’s bedroom to a British gang’s hangout, to a European forest and beyond, tracing the way this new power surges through families and governments, singeing male pride, inflaming chauvinism and burning the patriarchy to a crisp.

That globe-spanning ambition could easily have dissipated the novel’s focus, but Alderman keeps her story grounded in the lives of four characters who are usually sympathetic, sometimes reprehensible:

• The daughter of a London crime boss discovers she has an extraordinarily potent charge.
• An ambitious U.S. politician struggles to manage her power and win over a skittish electorate.
• An abused foster child feels inspired to be the voice of a goddess on Earth.
• A young Nigerian dedicates his life to reporting on the world’s gender revolutions.

Chapter by chapter, Alderman rotates among these characters, following their adventures through societies in radical transformation. In India, Saudi Arabia and Moldova, women riot with lightning shooting out of their hands, and men counterattack with bullets and bombs. In liberal Western countries, the transition is more measured; women are counseled to control their power and channel it in positive ways. Schools teach classes in abstinence: “Just Don’t Do It.”

The novel’s most fascinating elements concern the reconstruction of sexuality and theology. We see glimpses of internet porn reconceived when pleasure and pain are spliced in new ways. Even in polite society, courtship is rewired: While making out, a nice young woman hopes she doesn’t lose control and zap her date to death.

The revolution courses through religious organizations, too. The Gospels must be re-imagined. A church founded on the Father and the Son must adapt, willingly or unwillingly, to the new supremacy of the Mother. “She has overturned heaven and earth for us,” a young prophetess announces. Oh, there’ll still be room for men to serve, of course, but only in the subordinate roles appropriate for their lesser agency.

In her acknowledgments, Alderman thanks Margaret Atwood, Karen Joy Fowler and Ursula Le Guin — possibly the most brilliant triumvirate of grandmothers any novel has ever had. That lineage shows in this endlessly surprising and provocative story that deconstructs not just the obvious expressions of sexism but the internal ribs of power that we have tolerated, honored and romanticized for centuries.

So many books — even great ones — so quickly go dim that picking one that might stay lit for decades is a fool’s errand. But in this case, I’m eager to be that fool.