This is one of my all-time favourite books, and I think it's hard to add to perpetual praise for its existence, especially since its inception was barely beyond WWII.
Its bleakness and desolation has not left me since I first read it, and each time I revisit it it seems more and more astonishing. Reviews about blandness of character are certainly correct on one level - is a dystopic novel about the removal of humanity's connection to each other and our history. Where do you get vibrancy of personality with nothing to feed off? A tiny shimmer of emotion in that world comes out as "I love you". Orwell knew very well what he was doing.
It is that layer which gives 1984 such bleakness. Any thought of hope or love or anything else outlawed is only allowed to exist because Big Brother allows it. There is no beating the system, there is no possible rebellion, and ultimately, though it feels like it, to me the book isn't about a man yearning to fight his way to a glimmer of freedom and almost touching it, but more a man learning it does not exist, and it never did. There are no happy endings. Happiness has been deleted. Disney be damned!