1984 ★★★☆☆
Let’s be honest—watching 1984 is about as cheerful as receiving a tax audit notice from Big Brother himself. Michael Radford’s adaptation of George Orwell’s novel is relentlessly bleak, which isn’t surprising given the source material, but the film seems to go out of its way to leave viewers suffocating under the weight of its dystopian drudgery.
Set in a totalitarian future where surveillance is omnipresent, and thinking independently is considered a capital offense, the film follows Winston Smith (John Hurt), a sad, gray cog in the Party’s soul-crushing machine. He’s a minor worker in the Ministry of Truth, where he spends his days rewriting history to fit the regime’s ever-changing narrative. His crime? Attempting a small rebellion by falling in love with Julia (Suzanna Hamilton), an act so illegal it makes robbing a bank seem like jaywalking. Their affair becomes an act of defiance, but as expected, resistance is futile in this world of two-minute hates and thoughtcrime.
While Orwell’s novel is a sharp critique of totalitarianism, the film leans into the story’s depressing inevitability like it’s the cinematic equivalent of gloomy weather. The message is clear: individualism is dead, crushed beneath the heavy boot of Big Brother. But the movie doesn’t just dwell on political oppression—it’s also a meditation on the erosion of truth, a society where reality itself is warped by propaganda. The idea of controlling language to control thought (hello, “Newspeak”) feels eerily prescient in today’s landscape of misinformation and spin.
Radford doesn’t so much direct this movie as he carefully curates a museum of despair. His vision of Orwell’s Oceania is grim to the point of being ashy, thanks to the chilling cinematography of Roger Deakins, who paints the world in desaturated tones that make London’s gray skies look positively tropical by comparison. The production design is meticulous, with crumbling buildings and rotting infrastructure that perfectly mirror the state of the society. If there’s beauty to be found here, it’s in the meticulous recreation of a world where joy and color have been eradicated.
John Hurt’s portrayal of Winston Smith is a masterclass in weariness—he doesn’t just act like a broken man; he looks like someone who hasn’t smiled since the invention of the telescreen. Hurt’s gaunt face and sunken eyes carry the burden of the film’s weighty themes, making Winston a compelling, if thoroughly miserable, protagonist. Richard Burton, in one of his final roles, gives a quietly menacing performance as O’Brien, the Party official who manipulates Winston into betraying himself. Meanwhile, Suzanna Hamilton’s Julia is more of an ideal than a fully fleshed-out character—a symbol of fleeting hope, snuffed out by the regime.
This is where 1984 tends to divide its audience. Radford is clearly more interested in atmosphere than action, which means the film moves at a glacial pace. For some, the slow unraveling of Winston’s spirit is an appropriately torturous experience. For others, it might feel like watching paint dry in a prison cell—oppressive and claustrophobic, but also a bit of a slog. The film doesn’t offer much respite; it drags the viewer through every bleak corridor of Winston’s defeat.
Watching 1984 in today’s world feels disturbingly relevant. Orwell’s warnings about surveillance and truth manipulation seem less like science fiction and more like the evening news. Sure, we may not live under the direct gaze of Big Brother (yet), but with social media tracking our every like, and misinformation swirling around us, it’s hard not to feel a little déjà vu. There’s something timeless—and therefore terrifying—about this story, which might be why the film’s message still resonates, even if its pacing feels stuck in 1984.
1984 is not a film for everyone. It’s like Orwell’s nightmare has been transferred, almost too faithfully, onto the screen, making it both a commendable adaptation and an exhausting experience. If you’re in the mood for something cheerful, this isn’t it. But if you want to feel the crushing weight of totalitarianism for two hours, well, strap in. This is for the Orwell enthusiasts, the lovers of dark, dystopian fare, and those who can appreciate art even when it feels like punishment.
