I can’t think that Tate’s new Turbine Hall commission will inspire anything much – except maybe a growing desire to make a trip to the loo. The sound of running rainwater will no doubt have a deleterious effect on a few bladders.

But apart from that, Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster’s scenario for a futuristic fantasy – imagine The Day of the Triffids meets Henry Moore – feels like nothing more than the cobbled-together pastiche that, in fact, it is.

It may be supposed to have the immersive feel of some vast theatrical set but, if it does, think of a terrible end-of-term play rather than a Steven Spielberg production.

Lying about like bits of lumber in the prop room are a few faked copies of familiar artworks, from Claes Oldenburg’s oversized apple core to a Louise Bourgeois giant spider that pops up as if through the plughole of memory. Perhaps it has been washed out of the plumbing by all that damned rain.

They are all 25 per cent bigger than the originals apparently – not that you would notice. In a space as capacious as the Turbine Hall, you have to play about far more bravely with scale if you want to create a dramatic effect.

The installation is probably best appreciated at night (when at least the darkness might fill some of the emptiness and create a bit of atmosphere) and from along the starkly stretching perspectives created by rows of bunk beds for the spectator to lie down on. These are scattered with science fiction novels.

Apparently you are supposed to consider the piece in the context of the novels, as well as through that of the film fragments that are flickering across the television set at the end.

The spectator will quickly spot a plethora of obvious inter-references. But what next? Where do they lead you?

Don’t even bother to bring your pillow. I doubt it will be the discomfort of the sleeping arrangements that will stop the capital’s hobos coming in for a kip. They’ll be more put off by the sheer emptiness.

If you really want a glimpse of postapocalyptic culture, you could do better outside: tuck yourself up in a cosy cardboard box under a South Bank bridge.

TH.2058 is the most disappointing Turbine Hall commission to date. It lacks the scale of the giant trumpet, the drama of the crack, the atmosphere of the Sun, the fun of the slides.

If I were you, I would head straight to the fourth floor of Tate Modern, where Cildo Meireles, a Brazilian artist, creates immersive installations which provide far more politically telling, thought-provoking and pleasurable experiences. It is his work which should be in the Turbine Hall.

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