This play is Michael Gene Sullivan's adaptation of the George Orwell book, and throughout four of the actors — Adam Workman, Jennifer Casler, Nicu Brouillette and Derrick Phillips — rotate through various personas, as taken from Winston's (played with complete and total commitment to the character by Giles Davis) diary. O'Brien — played by David Jenkins in voice only for the majority of the show — materializes at the end, and if you've ever wondered what the devil himself looks like, it's Jenkins in this role, affirming all the horrid stereotypes about that whole redhead/spawn-of-Satan thing.
But this is not a review of a show that will make you bolt upright in bed days later, thinking, "holy shit." No, this is a commentary on how Jobsite — and other local theaters — have stepped up to offer a calculated yet emotionally sincere look at America.
The beauty and magic of theater is its escapism; a well-crafted show allows you to forget that you're fighting with your partner, forget that your dog just died, forget that you truly fear for the future of our nation and our liberty, and travel to another world, where Dorothy goes over the rainbow, where four Dominican women unwittingly lead a revolution, where O'Brien betrays someone who called him friend.
Jobsite's production of 1984 certainly allows that escape. Nothing in the show outright evokes imagery of what America looks like right now. Had Jobsite mounted this production in the days following 9/11, yes, audiences would have had a more immediate, more visceral reaction to it, because the idea of cameras in every home watching you for signs of disloyalty, of thought police who want to prosecute you for what's in your heart and mind — I'll be the first to admit I feared that's the road we would be traveling.
Eight years of President Barack Obama allowed that road to appear to fall off our maps, at least for the time being. And with our new leader, well, we have other, more pressing concerns, don't we?
1984 has no a-ha moments, no "ohmygodthisistrump!" bits of theater (by contrast, Stageworks' In the Time of the Butterflies definitely had creepy parallels with men taking what they want from women and Jobsite's HIR totally evoked images of Trump with talk about how Arnie was pissed off that being a straight white male no longer guaranteed success and supremacy); what it has instead is divinely performed scenes on a thoughtfully crafted set that offers you a perfect theatrical experience. The show allows for escapism at the moment you're sitting in the black theater, but what it also does — and this is where Jobsite gets you — is make you wonder how far we are from that reality, really. And that's not simply something you think on the drive home, then forget as you tune into reruns of Fraser and Friends for the nine millionth time; it's a thought that becomes a cancer, spreading through your brain and rattling your thoughts at odd moments.
What's noteworthy (and encouraging) too, is how every show in production these past few months has felt like a politically charged decision: In the Time of the Butterflies has a creepy dictator who likes to pretty much grab them by the pussy; HIR celebrated the end of the cisgender, white-male-driven abuse of power; even American Stage's The Producers, in flying Nazi flags, has an undercurrent of "wait, this is funny, but also not funny, because people are actually flying these flags."
So, be prepared: When you go see 1984, yes, you're going to find it unnerving and yes, it's going to send shivers up your spine and make your palms get cold and clammy — not only in the theater, but days later, when you're checking the news on Twitter or listening to that old guy at the end of the bar talk about how he doesn't trust that Muslim on his block and certainly we should be able to watch "those people" more closely because America's safety depends on it.
And then think about what every local professional theater in Tampa Bay is saying with their choices of plays.
1984 is not reality.
As I said, not yet.
Cathy Salustri is the arts and entertainment editor for Creative Loafing. Contact her here.
This article appears in May 3-10, 2018.
