It’s rare to see a production criticised
for leaving the fourth wall in place, but when that production is
staged at the home of the Berliner Ensemble, such an approach can seem
a betrayal of the Brechtian attitudes which are almost baked into the
stones of the building. However, Leander Haußmann’s revival is faithful
to the spirit of Chekhov rather than Brecht. The naturalism of its
staging is beautifully detailed (so much so that the show runs at
upwards of three and a half hours including interval).
This is not by any means to say that it is a relentlessly sombre
affair; on the contrary, tiny touches of slapstick abound. Baron
Tusenbach leans in romantically towards Irina on the sofa, nonchalantly
crosses his legs… and kicks away the candelabra. His military comrade
Soljony is largely a figure of fun throughout (albeit a sometimes
reluctant one), until his own advances towards Irina are rejected, at
which point he becomes the malcontent more familiar to Anglophone
audiences.
Lothar Holler’s dilapidated-townhouse set is opulent in theatrical
terms; one might only realise how much so when all is thrown into chaos
in the third act, as the fire ravaging nearby parts of the town seems
to threaten the Prosorows’ house itself. The fourth act, set in front
of the house as the garrison quit the town, is dominated by a
playground roundabout on which the sisters, especially Irina the
youngest, compulsively ride as a kind of consolation.
The performances do not always match the thoughtfulness of the staging:
Karla Sengteller, for instance, shows Irina’s youth with a callow
declamatoriness. If I say nothing about the central love affair,
between Antonia Bill’s Mascha and the garrison’s new colonel
Werschinin, this is because it would be unfair in the circumstances: at
the performance I saw, the latter role was taken at extremely short
notice by director Haußmann. Periodic gusts of wind and flurries of
snow through every door also over-emphasise the wintriness of the
sisters’ expectations. Nevertheless, this remains an excellent staging,
on the assumption that it’s Chekhov that you’re actually looking for.
Written for the Financial
Times.