He portrays Winston as a wounded bird from the get-go, fragile and teetering on the edge of breakdown. His shorn-sided haircut and stricken expression mark him as someone Big Brother would surely have put out of circulation already. This feeble creature also keeps hearing a voice (audible to us, too), asking, “Winston, do you know where you are?”

Excellent question. For its Broadway incarnation, “1984” has been transplanted from what was once London to, apparently, what was once New York, where even British actors speak with American accents. Chloe Lamford’s central set — lighted to chill by Natasha Chivers, with nerve-shredding sound effects by Tom Gibbons — is much the same as when I saw it in London.

Thus we find ourselves in a drab room with a sliding window panel and tired furniture evoking bureaucratic interiors of the mid-20th century. The performers we have previously met as our book group of the future return in early-21st-century street clothes as Winston’s colleagues, a bland and hearty group who nonetheless foster an atmosphere of sustained paranoia.

The technology is of today and tomorrow. Winston plies his trade at the Ministry of Truth, with the aid of an Alexa-like voice and outsize computer graphics. Projected images of enemies of the state are deployed to muster the ministry employees into a Pavlovian rage in “two-minute hate” sessions. (Tim Reid is the video designer.)

So once again, do we know where we are? Why, yes, we’re in that post-postmodern landscape, so fashionable in theater today (it is a framework used, most effectively, in Lucas Hnath’s “A Doll’s House, Part 2”), where anachronisms meet and merge into a universal whole. Those last-century walls come tumbling down eventually, anyway, to reveal the sci-fi palace of horrors in which renegades like Winston meet gruesome fates.