It seems that I simply cannot tune into
Helena Kaut-Howson’s Chekhovian vision. A couple of years ago mine was
a dissenting voice when she directed her own adaptation of Chekhov’s
Uncle Vanya; now, for the same
co-producers (Coventry’s Belgrade Theatre and the Arcola in London),
she has tackled the sprawling piece of juvenilia usually known in
English by the name of its protagonist Platonov, and although I can see
what she is doing with it, I remain ungripped.
What she has done firstly is grapple the work down from a nominal
seven-hour playing time uncut to barely three, which is still on the
protracted side for Chekhov. Next, she has retained a focus on what the
playwright himself considered his principal theme; he entitled the play
Fatherlessness, and Platonov
is only one of several youngish men who flap about (often into bottles
of vodka), bereft of a sense of continuity or personal heritage. By
setting her version in the modern day, Kaut-Howson astutely dovetails
this individual impression into a corresponding suggestion that Russia
itself has lost its sense of parentage and is trying, with more passion
than judgement, to find its own way in the world.
Intellectually, it is all quite admirable. In practice, though, what a
generation prone to bewildered, indulgent rambling does is to ramble
with bewilderment and indulgence. To be sure, there are a clutch of
fine performances here, not just by Jack Laskey in the no-longer-title
role but the likes of Simon Scardifield as the self-lacerating doctor
Triletzky, Susie Trayling as an unexpectedly predatory widow and Amy
McAllister as the long-suffering wife. But, amused and admiring though
we may be, even when characters gather momentum they do not take us
with them. The second act is occupied largely by Laskey’s Platonov
being propositioned by every woman in the vicinity; as he puts it to
himself, “Other men wrestle with questions of Earth-shattering
importance, I am exercised by the question which skirt to chase.” He is
informed by a bitter, despairing self-knowledge, but none of it is
enough to give the act any more shape than a succession of shouted
exchanges and sweaty fumbles. As a collective portrait of Generation
Y-Chromosome, it hangs together, but at the risk of sounding like one
of those missing fathers, hanging isn’t good enough.
Written for the Financial
Times.