1984

A review for The Cambridge Student. I never really liked reviewing other students. Our constraints on time and general quality were obviously far more restricted than in other theatrical environments. But as I had also seen some awe inspiring theatre at University there was some kind of yardstick that I assumed would warrant me the use of horrible words like 'chemistry' or 'failure.' We all have to cut our teeth somewhere.


1984
ADC Theatre, 2008


It’s a shame that last week’s Motortown didn’t have an audience as large as this one. Enthusiasm for the opening night of 1984 at the ADC is testament to the inevitable nostalgia that swells through any intelligent mind, fresh from adolescence, whenever George Orwell’s masterpiece of dystopian horror is mentioned. As Winston Smith slurps his ‘Victory Coffee’ on stage, US troops are being served their ‘Victory Fries’ in Iraq. Orwell’s prophetic imagination never ceases to find itself frighteningly relevant to the world of today. This obviously poses a challenge to those who want to resurface this familiar text on the stage, a challenge which, as Emily Cook recognises in her programme notes, should avoid clichés and the obvious (i.e. CCTV cameras) whilst engaging its audience by making it “think” and “feel”. Unfortunately, the production, despite its inspired aesthetic, failed to grip the audience enough to do justice to Orwell’s important novel.

Becky Homer’s design was unmistakably the star of the show. 1984’s theme of the repetitive ‘branding’ of the mind through doublespeak is cleverly employed through the simple and effective colour scheme of red and white, a ‘brand’ of design that creeps into the audience’s consciousness from the publicity posters to the haunting minimalism of Room 101. As a large screen informs us that “Big Brother is watching”, the characters below recall the dictums, “War is Peace” or “Freedom is Slavery”, which are draped in red and white above them, we can’t shake off the feeling that no one on stage is safe to think freely. Winston and Julia’s secret hideout is assembled without a blackout which presents it as a dangerously exposed and easily destructible space physically mirroring the fragile optimism of their illegal affair. It was a pity that Ed Rice and Jenny Kenyon, promising in their individual performances, were unable to provide these scenes with enough of a convincing chemistry for us to care. Dan Martin brought some welcome humour to his snotty and foppish portrayal of Parsons. Rice’s Winston Smith contained flashes of inspiration with a characteristic hunch and effortlessly aged expression, as did Dave Walton who brought a sober and chilling menace to his O’Brian. But as a group there was an evident lack of tenacity and variation which dragged the production down to a generally sluggish and laboured level of performance.

In spite of the inventive staging, which certainly helped us to “think”, the execution of the piece failed to stir our emotions enough for us to care about the protagonists. We might as well just read the newspapers if we want a chilling portrait of our times.