REAL estate dealings between has-been American owners and Northern Ireland upstarts against a background of picaresque lovers, stumbling slapstick and magic tricks – this bizarre production is somehow still recognisably Chekhov.
The Russian maestro’s lengthy musings on the meaning and purpose of many disenfranchised ordinary lives has been a staple of the theatre all its life and seems content to suffer any indignity heaped on it with grace and resilience.
Chekhov’s enduring popularity though is not the main reason this production could put up the ‘sold out’ signs a long time before it opened. One Knight of the British stage and two stars of American cinema have proved quite a draw and on balance they don’t disappoint.
Keneth Branagh, relocating Lopakhin as a Northern Irish chancer, is in fine form. Combining a ruthless, chip-on-the-shoulder streak with genuine charm and abundant humour, this is a performance which tangibly lifts the energy and pace with every appearance. His eventual drunken conquest of the society which sought to keep him firmly outside is suitably brash with a slightly brittle arrogance.
As Ranyevskaya Helen Hunt brings a quality of detail which, sad to say, is not apparent in all quarters of the company. There can be a tendency to pitch this fading lady-of-the-manor a bit too despairing and ethereal but in these hands the character has a much more grounded, human register.
Third of the big name trio Bill Pullman as her brother Gaev is the least successful. Too much given to mumbling and nervous gesture, it’s a performance that will improve if he can look decidedly less ill at ease throughout.
In a decent company perhaps the refreshingly nuanced Alfred Enoch as Trofimov and Guy Henry’s comically-observed Pishchik deserve credit but it’s not in individual contributions that this productions principal failings lie.
Laura Wade’s adaptation provides great moments of comedy and these shine. There are some nice updates and some sensitively-pitched long speeches, and the anachronisms amuse much more than they jar. But when things get more meaningful a distinct dullness descends and whole sections seem ponderous and stodgy.
Director Tamara Harvey throws plenty of movement at the piece together with some odd mismatched moments. There’s a toe-curling sex scene which seems to hint at darker areas to come without then being developed. Business and a constantly shifting traffic distract without really settling on any overarching message.
The largest fault of all is, as is so often the case with the RSC, an insistence on removing any semblance of stage subtlety by having every line shouted as if the whole show was being performed in a howling gale. One character bellows to another a warning that someone might overhear them, love is expressed at the same red-faced volume as anger and so on.
It’s poor, it’s unnecessary in a theatre as intimate and well-designed as the Swan and it is at times almost laughably absurd. There are few who are not complicit in this abject stupidity least of all whoever makes the decision to underscore the bawling with music.
This production, with its famous faces and knockabout visual comedy will send the packed audiences home delighted to have been there. It’s a success in these terms, but is by no means the great piece of theatre its resources and opportunity may have promised.
