A Movable Feast In The Dystopic The Platform

Reviewed by Kristy Puchko

Imagine: you awake in a cold, concrete prison cell. There are no windows, no doors, one cellmate, and a big, square hole in the center of the floor. Should you peek down into it, you’d see a cell below the same as yours. And beneath that lie so many more that you can’t estimate their number. Should you look up, you’ll see the same. This hole holds the place for the platform, a large concrete table that descends daily packed with delectable delicacies. But what you get — if anything — depends on how far down you are in this…