Patriot Acting

In the Actors’ Gang’s 1984, Orwell’s Big Brother seems too close for comfort.
by Lake Sharp
Rating: 4 out of 5 masks

You have to be in a certain mood to wanna go to the theater. You don’t really spontaneously decide; you usually plan ahead, make reservations and have at least a day to prepare yourself. In my case, I had a reservation last Saturday night for the Actor’s Gang production of 1984. I ceremoniously prepared myself for the show, knowing the Orwell classic by reputation but otherwise a virgin to the text (a point I found provocative). But in a manner most uncharacteristic, I found my Eastside-self running 10 minutes late because I got off at the wrong fucking Washington Blvd. exit. By the time I rushed into the theater, the show had already started. So I returned the following Sunday afternoon, bleary eyed, unkempt and hung over, but perhaps somehow more adequately prepared for the show. The self-torture of a mean hangover blends well with the State’s torture of Winston, our protagonist and deviant citizen of Oceana.

Winston (portrayed in this show by alternate actor P. Adam Walsh; usually played by Brent Hinkly) experiences both physical and psychological torture as four party members and the omnipresent voice of Big Brother interrogate him. Michael Gene Sullivan’s adaptation subtly infuses the work with modern political rhetoric and smart dialogue. Through some very clever staging and a kick-ass set, the party members reenact Winston’s betrayal of the State. Robbins’ direction is sharp while avoiding the ol’ “dead horse” scenario. The party members act as Shakespearian players masochistically rubbing up (and roughing down) Winston with the masturbatory desire to make Big Brother happy. Exemplary of this is the third party member’s (VJ Foster) performance of a little boy unconsciously rubbing his crotch as he accuses Winston of terrorism a la the Salem witch trials. Infantile sado-sexual authority and Evangelical zeal for the GodState send electric shudders through Winston and subsequently through the audience in that perverted, orgasmic mimicry that makes the hung-over stomach double turn.

The play is complex, but very well thought out, and it shines through in all of the performances. Walsh is painfully convincing as he sputters lines through a foaming mouth and bulging eyes, convulsing with pain and pleasure as thestory arcs. The party members-Brian T Finney, VJ Foster, Steven M. Porter, and sole femme Kaili Hollister-carry the show with uneven yet strong storytelling. And Keythe Farley (who bares an ironically striking resemblance to “Big” from Sex and the City) plays a dashing O’Brien, the voice/face of the State. One needn’t worry about missing anything, as the program is a nifty reference packet resembling the Samizdat papers pressed on you at the Hollywood Farmer’s Market. In it you’ll find the foreword from the book, several Orwell quotes, a Newspeak dictionary highlighting important Oceana vocabulary and excerpts from an Edward S. Herman essay, among other things.

The aesthetic presentation of the program, costumes and set speak for the attention to detail and nuance that makes this show something new, though obviously born of something old. Richard Hoover and Sibyl Wickersheimer’s stark set is decidedly modern, angular and visually illusive with objects appearing and disappearing through hidden slots, mirrors and sometimes see-through walls propped up with Bosco Flanagan’s mean lighting. The party members are clad in matching uniforms while O’Brien struts in his own handsome suit. This choice isn’t all that surprising except that they all wear matching pins that you can’t help but feel are really little telescreens recording your every move. There’s a noticeable, reocurring theme of things not exactly being what they appear. What looks hard is fallible, what seams safe is dangerous, what seems violent is sexy, and nothing is really in opposition with itself-which ultimately keeps this production in healthy stallion form. Well, that and large donations from famous people. The Gang’s own little piece of propaganda is a list of all their famous donors on the back of the program and blown up to a 3 foot by 4 foot poster in the lobby, but at least they are spending their money well. I would gladly take this over War on Terror: The Musical any day, but I can’t help pining a bit for the little theaters that often do more with less.

The real winner here is Orwell himself. His foresight and uncanny ability to predict a future that was a frightening possibility, and to us is shamefully quotidian, is deeply resonant. Frankly, it’s scary that his once radical projections seem almost normal in our Abu Ghraib, torture sanctioning, wiretapping “Partnership for Peace.”  The writing speaks for itself, carrying with it the weight of the world and showing who the real losers are.

So next weekend, make sure you plan ahead right. Pop some vicodin and slam some beers the night before so that you’ll be ready body and soul for a pretty good mindfuck. And get some Nine Inch Nails to play on your post-coital ride of shame home.   LAA

1984 runs through May 20 at The Ivy Substation, 9070 Venice Blvd (The SECOND Washington Blvd. exit off the 10), Culver City. You can call (310) 838-GANG to make reservations, and the box office is really nice.