The Arcola has now become a fully
producing theatre. This increased autonomy is partly bought by a number
of occasional “banker” productions such as this Chekhov classic, in –
amazingly – the first London production of Trevor Griffiths’ 1977
version.
As a left-wing playwright, Griffiths can be relied upon not to succumb
to – indeed, his avowed intent is precisely to combat – putting an
elegiac spin on Chekhov’s account of the decline of the old
pre-revolutionary Russian gentry, as their estate is sold from under
them without their ever seeming to grasp the urgency of the situation.
Nor does director Mehmet Ergen, although I am in two minds about his
method here. He has struck a melodramatic note: not hugely so, but the
performances are often palpably larger than the Arcola’s space
warrants. The exemplar is Jack Klaff as Gayev: contrary to his
predilections throughout his long career, he here waxes consistently
orotund. This may be a deliberate characterisation of how staggeringly
wrong these smug nobs get their priorities, but I’m unconvinced that it
works. Likewise, although Ergen’s blocking is fluid and lucid, I could
happily see a variant in which not one of the actors ever falls to
their knees at any point.
Nevertheless, the balance of evidence is on the positive side. Sian
Thomas as Mme Ranevsky rightly refuses to let her warmth forgive her
complacency; Jude Akuwudike’s Lopakhin, too, is sympathetic to the
family without being merciful and forgoing his opportunity to buy the
estate. Jim Bywater is a massively underrated actor by whom it is
impossible not to be captivated even when he is merely the comic-relief
neighbour Pischick. I have a tendency to put a stopwatch on the final
act of this play, based on Chekhov’s exaggerated exhortation that it
should last 12 minutes rather than the 40 of Stanislavski’s first
production. Ergen here strikes the common midpoint at 25 minutes for
the family’s leavetaking as the first axes are heard on the orchard
offstage; there is much hesitation as various plot strands are not
resolved, but our response to the pauses is not pity but frustration,
in common with Griffiths’ unblinking view.
Written for the Financial
Times.