The Electric Forest — Tanith Lee
★★★☆☆ (3) — spoilers
Tanith Lee’s The Electric Forest starts with a premise that feels both elegantly pulpy and psychologically nasty: a girl known as “Ugly,” trapped in a miserable, stigmatized body, is given access to a beautiful “avatar” body. The catch is the old body does not go away. It’s preserved in a capsule, tethered to machinery, and she has to return to it on a strict schedule. That rule is the book’s best invention, because it turns transformation into custody. You can upgrade the surface, but you still have to maintain the discarded self.
For the first stretch, the novel seems aimed at a theme that feels modern and emotionally sharp: what happens when someone with a hard, degrading life is suddenly allowed to inhabit privilege. Not just “pretty body” wish fulfillment, but the moral and psychic whiplash of crossing social strata in your own skin. Lee keeps dropping good lines about fear and selfhood, and the capsule tether functions like a literalized version of the thing you cannot escape, your origin story, your shame, your old life as ballast.
Then the book pulls its twist, and the thematic center of gravity shifts. The late reveal reframes much of what you’ve read as an engineered scenario rather than a straightforward liberation story. The “Ugly” history is manipulated, the environment is staged, and the goal is essentially to test how far the subject can be pushed under controlled conditions. The effect is to recast the novel into something closer to a parable about dangerous technologies and “releasing them into the wild” with supposed safeguards: a story about oversight, experimentation, coercive containment, and the cost of treating a human being as a field trial.
That pivot is intellectually interesting, and it gives the ending a cold, schematic snap. But it also blunts the most powerful thematic pressure the opening sets up. By revealing that the protagonist is not, in the most meaningful sense, a permanently “discarded” person being brought into privilege, the book steps away from the disability and deprivation angle that made the early chapters bite. The twist lands as a kind of technological cautionary tale, almost Cold War in spirit, a fable of controlled experiments and moral hazard. What it loses in the process is the more visceral question the first half seemed ready to interrogate: how identity changes when you move between bodies and classes, and whether the “old self” ever stops dictating the terms.
So I ended up admiring it more than loving it. The setup is terrific, the leash mechanics are smart, and the ending is clever in a way that explains why it sticks in “explainer” corners of the internet. But the story I wanted most was the one the twist partially displaces, the one that keeps disability and the lived experience of being “Ugly” central rather than revealing it as an engineered narrative layer.