‘Animal Farm’ at the Everyman

The original target of George Orwell’s 1945 satirical novella – Stalin’s Russia – may seem a world away from the UK in 2020.

But given the post-truth, post-Brexit (sort of), post-Veganuary crossroads at which we find ourselves, ‘Animal Farm’ is proving a very timely choice for production by Young Everyman Playhouse (YEP).

The play follows the fortunes of a plucky band of critters who decide they’re unwilling to live out their ‘miserable, laborious and short’ lives under the cosh of Mr Jones, feckless proprietor of the Manor Farm.

Led by the pigs, the self-professed brains of the outfit, the animals aspire to overthrow their human overlords and run the farm themselves. Which works out well – for a little while.

Like any communist regime worth its salt, ‘Animal Farm’ is a truly ensemble effort, richly showcasing the ample talents of the YEP cast and crew. An onstage company of 15 vividly brings to life the full farmyard menagerie – from the power-corrupted pigs, to the trusty but credulous workhorses, to a squawking chorus of proletarian hens.

If the play at times feels lacking in subtlety, then, make no mistake, it’s because Orwell’s book is, too: Animal Farm is an unabashedly polemical fable, aiming its ire squarely at those who would seize power ostensibly for the good of the working classes, then promptly abuse it by trampling all over them.

Porcine despot-in-waiting Napoleon is modelled on Joseph Stalin; soon-to-be exiled strategist Snowball is Leon Trotsky; and the impromptu change of management at the Manor Farm is the Bolshevik Revolution. But one need not be familiar with Russian history to find political parallels in the animals’ plight; this tale has far wider resonance.

The milk-and-honey motif of the windmill – forever delayed and obstructed, and the questionable source of the animals’ frequently promised liberation from poverty – can’t help but be redolent of Brexit, for instance (and maybe the Northern Powerhouse, too).

Their depleting rations and ever-shifting statutory retirement age certainly have the whiff of austerity Britain. Squealer – Napoleon’s secretary of state for propaganda, and historical revisionist-in-chief – wouldn’t feel wholly out of place on the panel of ‘Question Time’, earnestly insisting that black is white.

Laurence Wilson’s adaptation is a faithful one, and therefore no mean feat to achieve on stage; aside from the challenges inherent for any actor in depicting a different species for two hours, the inevitability of the parable formula means dramatic tension is hard-earned.

But the cast all commit to and excel in their individual roles, each carving out a lively and distinctive personality, while also forging a strong comradely group dynamic, at its best during energetic renditions of revolutionary anthem ‘Beasts of England’.

There are some well-observed two-handed vignettes, too – Squealer and the farm cat hiding from battle together in a knowing moment of shared amorality, for example.

The bestial grunts and whinnies are a great deal of fun – albeit occasionally distracting at significant moments – and combine with simple headwear and colour-appropriate clothing to create as close to a genuine farmyard ambience as is likely to be achieved in a theatre.

A well-designed barnyard set, complete with hay bales and soapboxes for the aspiring piggy politicians to preach from, proves flexible and effective. Above the barn, a screen behind which actors are silhouetted represents the farmhouse, offering occasional and sometimes alarming glimpses of action behind closed doors.

This provides a useful visual means of contrasting public proclamations and private intent, and emphasising the divide between the haves and the have-nots.

The plot is ably distilled to its key beats, although the play has a tendency to skip very quickly from one short scene to the next, with regular lighting fades deployed for the purpose. As such, it sometimes feels as if a connecting presence is lacking – not necessarily one that would ape Orwell’s omniscient narrator, but serve a similar function: perhaps some form of framing device.

The production is at its most engaging when it develops the source material to explore some of its key ideas in more depth, including where references are built upon for a twenty-first century audience.

The duplicitous raven Moses, for example, is cleverly reimagined as a US televangelist, as he caws soothing, obedience-inspiring tales of Sugarcandy Mountain – a heaven-equivalent purportedly awaiting all the animals – while perching ominously at the periphery of the action like a beaked Grim Reaper.

Napoleon, meanwhile, is fleshed out considerably, as we glimpse a nihilistic ideology behind his actions that’s far less easily discerned from the book. His cynical treatise on what he sees as the inefficiency of humanity – whose homeless and benefits-claiming masses, he argues, fail to fulfil any purpose – proves uncomfortable listening for the right reasons.

Meanwhile, the recurring motif of the slaughterhouse stands in striking contrast to Moses’ promised afterlife, and echoes Napoleon’s take on the brevity and futility of life – underlined by his exposure of fawning pig-minstrel Minimus to the carcasses hanging in the cellar.

But it also highlights a very literal concern raised by Orwell’s tale, aside from all the allegory: the way we treat our animals. In this respect, among many others, audiences are left with much food for thought.

‘Animal Farm’ is at the Everyman until Saturday 15 February.

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