atrons arriving at the Connelly Theater for the
Synapse Productions staging of George Orwell's "Nineteen
Eighty-Four" are greeted at the door by a flashbulb going off. A
sign in the lobby explains that taking the photos is necessary "for
your own security." It is a disconcerting experience intended to
usher the audience into the land of Oceania and introduce it to Big
Brother.
Synapse, an eight-year-old company dedicated to presenting
"socially relevant dramatic works," is currently offering what it
calls the Orwell Project, performing in repertory a stage adaptation
of "Nineteen Eighty-Four" and Peter Hall's musical version of
"Animal Farm." Both are first-rate productions, and there is nothing
more socially relevant on the boards in New York.
Orwell began his novel "Nineteen Eighty-Four" just as World War
II ended, and the year 1984 seemed far in the future. Today it seems
long ago. But in a time when you can't window shop in the mall, walk
in Manhattan or drive into London or Rome without possibly being
recorded by surveillance cameras, one can ask: Is Orwell's
telescreen such a fantasy? When zipper headlines running across the
bottom of a television screen are the main source of information,
can Newspeak be far behind?
The Orwell Project uses Alan Lyddiard's adaptation of "Nineteen
Eighty-Four." It begins with Winston, the hero of Orwell's novel,
coming home from his job at the Ministry of Truth, or Minitrue as
it's called in Newspeak, pouring himself a glass of Victory Gin,
lighting a Victory cigarette and crawling under a table to escape
the telescreen eye before taking a pen and paper and starting a
diary he knows will get him shot once it is discovered: "April 4,
1984 . . . Down With Big Brother."
The stage version is a condensation of Winston's story,
concentrating mainly on his liaison with Julia, the Junior Anti-Sex
League worker with whom he has an affair, and on his brainwashing at
the Ministry of Love. If there is a weakness in Mr. Lyddiard's play,
it is that it is too abbreviated.
The characters of Charrington and O'Brien, for example, are
underdeveloped. The former, an antiques dealer who gives Winston and
Julia a room to meet in, and the latter, a top party official who
leads Winston into believing he is part of an underground movement
known as the Brotherhood, both betray him. Betrayal is a central
theme of the book. But the play introduces the Brotherhood and its
leader, Goldstein, in passing, almost assuming the audience knows
about them. For anyone unfamiliar with the novel, it could be
confusing.
Ginevra Bull, the "Nineteen Eighty-Four" director, has mounted a
taut production, using still photos and videos projected against the
back of the stage to open up the scenes of Winston and Julia in the
countryside and to telescope the small intimacies and stolen glances
they share and think are unseen by telescreens.
An able cast creates an unsettling sense of life in Oceania.
Clayton Dean Smith gives a gripping performance as Winston,
capturing his initial defiance and ultimate surrender, and his
torture scene with the rat cage in Room 101 is truly frightening.
Chris Campbell is convincing as Julia, and Kurt Elftmann delivers an
excellent turn as Syme, the editor working to obliterate the
language. "It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words," Syme
says, joyously contemplating the day when Chaucer, Milton and
Shakespeare will be reduced to Newspeak editions.
If the nationalistic fervor of Oceania more readily recalls
fascistic totalitarianism, "Animal Farm" takes on the tyranny of
Stalin's Soviet Union. The novel was first rejected by publishers in
Britain who didn't want to offend the country's wartime ally, and as
late as 1986 Sir Peter's musical version was withdrawn from a
theater festival in Baltimore after the Soviet Union protested.
The Synapse's staging, under the expert direction of David
Travis, uses delightful life-size puppets designed by Emily DeCola
and Eric Wright in a faithful rendition of Orwell's account of the
Bolshevik Revolution, except it is the animals at Manor Farm that
revolt against Farmer Jones rather than the Russian peasantry
overthrowing the Romanovs.
In songs ranging from anthems to music hall ditties — and
accompanied by a talented trio of piano, brass and reeds — the cows,
horses, chickens and sheep tell the saga of how they took over the
farm only to have the pigs betray the revolution. In the stage
version, the tale is narrated by a rat, wonderfully played by Aaron
Mostkoff Unger.
It is Old Major, the farm's prize boar, who convinces the animals
to revolt. But Farmer Jones (read Czar Nicholas II) is no sooner
chased away than Old Major (read Lenin) dies. He is succeeded by a
troika of pigs: Snowball (Trotsky), Squealer (Molotov) and Napoleon
(Stalin). You don't have to be a student of Soviet history to know
who finally emerges as the first among equals and what happens to
the rest of the barnyard.
After adopting a horn-and-hoof flag resembling a hammer and
sickle and issuing a list of seven commandments, the new owners of
the renamed Animal Farm begin to prosper. It's not long, however,
before dissension arises and Napoleon brings in dogs (read the
K.G.B.) to maintain order.
The entire cast of a dozen is adroit with the life-size puppets,
turning the animals into fully-developed characters. There's not a
weak link in the entire barn. Darius Stone is fearsome as Napoleon,
and Ben Masur oily as Squealer. Kelly McAllister is touching as
Boxer, the plow horse who finally gets shipped off to the glue
factory, and Ceili Clemens, as a pair of milk cows, and Francis
Kelly, as Benjamin the donkey, are especially good.
Performances will continue at the Connelly Theater, 220 East
Fourth Street, East Village, through Sunday.
As theater the Orwell Project can be fun for the whole family,
from horror story to live animation. It is also a red-alert warning
not to let Orwell's stories turn to prophecies.
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