September 8th, 2006
The Seagull is one of four key plays that Russian playwright Anton Chekhov wrote in his lifetime, the other three being: “Uncle Vanya”, “Three Sisters” and “The Cherry Orchard”. I jumped at the chance to see it at the National Theatre when I was in London last week, as I found The Cherry Orchard so interesting to study last year in college.
Chekhov insisted that The Cherry Orchard was a comedy, but others could not always see the dark humour that floated atop his astute social commentary. Even Stanislavsky, the famed naturalistic director Chekhov worked with, saw the The Cherry Orchard as a tragedy. Perhaps the more poignant aspects of the play were more apparent at that time; the issues raised by “The Communist Manifesto” (published roughly 20 years before Chekhov’s birth) were probably still creating a sense of unease among the socially conscious. Nowadays without the context of current social injustice–well at least not as much–it is perhaps easier to see the humorous side to things, as Chekhov originally intended.
His intentions for The Cherry Orchard I think were right all along, as the juxtaposition between comedy and absolute frustration served to heighten both facets. Just because you were laughing at Gayev’s preoccupation with billiards, didn’t mean you were equally frustrated knowing that his preoccupations prevented him from saving his sister’s estate.
The Seagull shares this uneasy relationship between the two emotions from the outset. It opens with Konstantin (Ben Whishaw) and his girlfriend Nina (Hattie Morahan) rushing around getting things ready for Konstantin’s new play, which is making a debut to friends and family. Though Konstantin makes admirable attempts in creating a heightened atmosphere: twanging the strings of a grand piano and starting the play precisely when the moon is high above the lake outside their house, it quickly degrades into a farce. Juliet Stevenson as the narcissistic Arkadina takes great delight in criticising her son’s opaque attempt at progressive theatre.
It must have been wonderful for Chekhov to afford himself the luxury of writing the highly symbolist miniature play-within-a-play, then perhaps equally as wonderful to shoot it down, as the critics at the time may have done to Chekhov if it was a standalone piece. Though it was amusing to see Konstantin so highly strung (like his piano strings) there was some reticence in seeing a teenager trying to do new things in the adversity of conventional thought. Perhaps he was seeking approval from the wrong people in the first place; that new ideas can’t work if you don’t have open minds to appreciate them, and especially can’t work if you succumb to the criticism of the sceptical as Konstantin did.
Chekhov’s dictum soon comes into play when Konstantin brings in his gun and a dead seagull to try and frighten Nina, who he has just discovered is intimately involved with Trigorin, the successful author who in turn is supposed to be involved with Arkadina. From then on things spiral out of control, with each character slowly growing more desperate to gain the affection of the one they love: at one point Arkadina literally gives her blessing for Trigorin to sleep with Nina, which sounds unbelievable written down, but entirely plausible on stage and a testament to Chekhov’s mastery of psychological writing.
The staging was impressive, and the copious sound effects would have pleased even Stanislavsky, who used them at every opportunity. Other touches like the wind suddenly blasting all the windows open were also well received. Personally I found the National Theatre had the ugly look of an industrial complex–especially from the outside–about it, but the all important stage was one of the biggest I have ever seen.
The space was well utilised with every scene having a different angle on the primary garden, conservatory, front room configuration. The amount of ground you had to cover to get from one side to the other was shown when the servants “naturally” interupted dialogue to walk from one door to the other, presumably busying themselves with daily chores. Due to the distance after a while the interruptions did get a bit annoying: I could have sworn one of the servants was carrying a baton for an impromptu 400m relay.
The inevitable pitfall of having such impressive scenery was that it took a while to change in-between acts; understandably so, but the too loud “eerie music!” pumping through the speakers I felt was a little unnecessary. Those were the only gripes I had about the whole performance.
It is remarkable how well The Seagull continues to be applicable to modern times. If you’ve ever been on an uphill struggle against the popular consensus, or have wondered what costs are worth paying to be with someone, or do something, then you’ll certainly recognise moments in the play. The one point that struck me personally was in Trigorin’s monologue about not being able to enjoy life without constantly looking for a story behind it:
Pretty words, if I may say so, are just like marmalade, which I never eat.
I think the themes the play deals with will last as long as there are contemporary, sophisticated, productions such as this one.