The Pushkin Drama Theatre of Moscow pays a week-long flying visit to London, with two performances of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, two of Brecht’s The Good Person Of Szechwan and one of Mother’s Field by Chinghiz Aitmatov. One response to this event would be to admire the adventurousness of all concerned and the readiness to give London audiences (on the basis of the evening I attended, I won’t say “British audiences”) a taste of Russian theatre. Another response might be that Russian theatrical visits have hardly been rare these last 20 years or more and to wonder what is to be gained by giving such fleeting exposure to a portfolio from what is not, after all, one of the Russian capital’s élite houses. One might infer that this visit confers prestige upon the theatre but also invites praise for the organiser or bankroller. The ArtsBridge organisation has produced the visit with significant financial support from billionaire oligarch and Chelsea FC proprietor Roman Abramovich. At this point, one might be tempted to use the term “vanity exercise”.

It would be particularly tempting if the shows weren’t much cop. I have seen only the first of them, and it isn’t. Canadian-based director Vladimir Mirzoev stages Chekhov’s play in a manner that is not absurdist so much as meaningless. At least, devoid of any fresh meaning. The cast may frug around in brief Lycra sweats, gather in choric formations, and shriek in unison; Lopakhin may begin the evening in bed with Dunyasha; Anya may seem at one point to be eating cherries out of her intimate regions... but none of it challenges or subverts the familiar interpretation that these are people whose downfall is an inevitable result, rightly or wrongly (and Chekhov seems to suggest it’s both), of their complacent, semi-wilful ignorance of the changing world they live in. Mirzoev’s production offers no new perspective except that, with often unnatural delivery styles straight out to the audience, the company seem to be under the illusion that they are conveying some kind of profundity. The entire evening seems to regard itself much in the light of Alexander Dmitriev’s Trofimov, as a force to be reckoned with rather than just someone banging on a bit.

Alexander Liyansky’s set consists of a steep rake made to seem constructed of old doors and other items of wooden panelling. Once or twice a large, square-sectioned wooden beam flies in, but unfortunately never brains anyone. A trio of musicians accompany the action on a selection of instruments, tending more towards fiddle and dulcimer. It sounds petty, but it can have a disproportionate impact when the timing of the surtitling is erratic, and you’re left wondering whether some exchanges are going to be translated at all whilst others fly past.

There is better Chekhov to be seen. There is better Russian Chekhov to be seen. There is, reasonably often, better Russian Chekhov to be seen in Britain. Just, possibly, not on the pitch at Stamford Bridge.

Written for the Financial Times.