1984 at Hackney Town Hall

★★★

“thumpingly well executed and fervently pursued”

“The enemy within.” Has a ring to it, no? Or what about this? “See It. Say It. Sorted.” Another hoary command broadcast by The Party and also by TfL on the way home. That’s immersive for you.

The relevance of George Orwell’s dystopian how-to guide 1984 rarely has to be overworked. There’s always a poisonous little despot in some benighted land somewhere trying to expunge disloyal thoughts by means of semantic trickery or a bag of rats.

For the purposes of this site specific interpretation of Orwell’s evergreen nightmare, Hackney Town Hall doubled as the Ministry of Truth. A great choice. With its restored art deco panels, plush carpeting and infusion of civic duty, the council chamber supplied the architecture of grand coercion.

Soon you’re believing – as mandated – that our beloved Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia even though someone sidled up to you in the atrium over pre-show drinks and told you that was a lie. A few minutes later he was carted off by party apparatchiks only to return to the production later, bloodied, bruised but presumably purified.

That was also the fate awaiting 6079 Winston Smith (an effective Joe Anderson) who indulged in rebellious pleasures with 2374 Julia (a bewitching Neetika Knight) bringing him to the attention of steel-eyed party enforcer O’Brien (a chillingly smooth Dominic Carter).

O’Brien had earlier occupied the council chamber exhorting us to give ourselves fully to the Party and this production was, in conceit, an assessment of our suitability to work for the Ministry. To that end, perma-smiling cultists greeted us with the disturbing vacancy of the true believer. Later they would brandish the lights, mics and cams of Big Brotherly voyeurism. And later still they would clutch the instruments of blissful torture. Made no difference to them as long as they were serving the Party.

We were numbered, divided and drilled around Hackney Town Hall like the sheeple that we were. The interactive immersion of the prelude gave way to a more conventional, if a tad duller, dichotomy of entertainers and entertained.

That’s the flaw in this immersive process. There’s always a lingering sense of confusion – are we supposed to be saying something? Or simply enjoying the show as docile recipients? Is that the point? The complicity?

That’s not to criticise director Jack Reardon’s snappy production which was thumpingly well executed and fervently pursued. The sound and lighting (Munotida Chinyanga and Ben Jacobs) were mightily impressive. The back projections on a vast wall (Dan Light) were particularly effective in emulating the real-time myth-making so beloved of dictators.

Full credit to the creative team for staging something so steeped in familiar iconography but in a fresh and stimulating way.

However, for all the logistical wizardry and lurid fascistic paraphernalia, the production was at its most engaging when depicting the simple story of two people falling in love against the odds. Despite the eye-catching techno trappings and bleak tarpaulin torture scenes, it was the indomitable need for human connection that made most impact. That was the thoughtcrime we successfully smuggled out into the London evening, right under the watchful eye of Big Brother.