FringeReview UK 2024

Uncle Vanya

Orange Tree Theatre

Genre: Adaptation, Classical and Shakespeare, Comedic, Drama, Live Music, Mainstream Theatre, Theatre, Translation

Venue: Orange Tree Theatre Richmond

Festival: FringeReview UK

Low Down

Review

Occasionally, the traditional seems truly radical. Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya adapted and directed by Trevor Nunn runs at the Orange Tree till April 13^th. Its two hours 40 is fast, comic to the point of riotous, profoundly tragic and flips on these in the way you could only imagine till now. Set in its period (1897), it’s an outstanding revival.

There are moments of stillness, repose surrounded by a naturalistic pace that can end up furious and exhilarating.  Which allows a lot of Chekhov and not too much of auto-Chekhov melancholy. That’s all there but often guyed by the absurd.

In a moment a sodden Vanya expresses his misery and in a flash he and Astrov whirl each other round in a drunken folk-dance, baying to wake the professor. And Sonya’s look when Astrov emerges with his shirt half-off is an exquisite mix of disgust and arousal. Every look in this production telegraphs all you need to know of a character’s conflict: the cast are so connected they’re like a bunch of psychic Chrysalids out of John Wyndham.

Nunn’s adaptation is closely faithful with mildly updated dialogue. So “big fat nothing” not “zero” when Vanya pronounces on the Professor, and Dr Astrov’s “Is it weird to be feeling like this?” allows the kick of freshness to overlay strict accuracy, down to when the nurse offers Sonya lime or raspberry tea after the gun goes off. Or Astrov’s frustrated sparrow-and-weasel-teasing-out of Elena.

Nunn’s flawless cast is fresh too, and full of discovery. I’ve rarely, perhaps never seen a Chekhov this well-chosen. It’s headed by a visceral, even repellent Vanya (James Lance best known for Trent Crimm in Ted Lasso) with an unkept mop of hair at once like an ageing rock star streaked with a widow’s peak of grey, and a lurch out of Dostoevsky. But it’s wholly in keeping with a man gone to drink: staggeringly so even at the start. Self-pitying, he’s completely let himself go.

But Lance’s Vanya is mercurial, skirling, quick-witted, you see the ruins of potential if not the Dostoevsky or Schopenhauer he dreams of, then states is madness. But what Lance brings out is a seedy coarseness mixed with self-pity, an authentic Russian drunk who won’t make 60.

Everything in this young Sonya (Madeleine Gray A Murder Has Been Arranged, Windsor) is as quick, and more heart-rending. Gray more than anyone speaks with her eyes and possesses the Chekhovian gift of mixed delight, fear, outrage, sorrow and stoicism. Hair tied, deliberately unglamorous, a shivering foil to beauteous Elena, her every response to Astrov’s presence, even imminence speaks of a woman whom the whole household knows is in love.

Sonya’s 22, and Gray lets you know this with a quicksilver giddiness countered by Sonya’s firmness scolding her father, Astrov, Vayna by turns. Sonya’s sheer intelligence juggling others’ needs with her own desires is countered too with moments of repose with Elena – the sudden release of feeling between them is magical. And her consolatory speech to Vanya at the end, the one point this production slows. A Sonya to make you weep and laugh. Like Lance, outstanding, and even more the heart of this production.

Astrov (Andrew Richardson, Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls at the Bridge) is another triumph. Richardson’s voice too shows exactly why people hear him after he’s gone. Richardson though is both dominating when in his stride, explaining forests or ordering Vanya to hand over the bottle. You can see why Astrov commands respect, but also with Nurse his guard down, his sense of life having slipped over ten years. Self-awareness in Richardson’s hands plays well against self-shaming, when Astrov’s drunk. Richardson’s the most physically exhilarating on stage.

It’s good to see Lily Sacofsky (Three Days in the Country, National) back on stage. Her Elena isn’t the spoilt adamantine and impossibly bored receiver of compliments she can be. Sacofsky throws herself on her back in sheer boredom but erotic frustration – everything in this production is just that bit more wildly expressive, indeed Russian.

Sacofsky’s quick attraction – mesmerising with Lance – is also most active when with Gray. Their chemistry and sudden confiding is heartwarming and produces in Sacofsky an agony of self-recrimination when Elena tasks herself with Sonya’s hopeless love. It’s clear this Elena bursts with potential to love and express herself, and with people near her own age she can. It makes her entombed marriage all the more absurd. Sacofsky conveys exasperated threads of tenderness for a husband she loved once superficially, and can’t hide her repulsion. This mixes with guilty concern: again detail compels.

This Professor Serebryakov (William Chubb This House, The History Boys, National) is a pure fud of fussiness, hypochondria but also, here, shrewd self-awareness. Chekhov’s scripts are often pared but not here: Serebryakov knows he’s repellent, apologises for it but also accuses as Elena points out. And shudders with knowledge his beautiful wife won’t touch him;  desiccated as he is, he mourns and accepts it. No detail of hypochondria’s lost, but Chubb won’t guy him. He literally hangs him out to dry like shrivelled fruit.

Maria’s never given much agency but here in her radiant, proud devotion and the shards of intellectual endeavour she exalts in her son-in-law (whom obviously she should have married).

Susan Tracy (A Chorus of Disapproval, Harold Pinter) also lands fusty jokes. “The Government Inspector” she quips. “Gogol” she adds with scorn when others don’t pick up on it. Serebryakov’s already compared his gout to Tugenev’s angina and Nunn has cut little of this Russian literariness out. Tracy hovers round like an older muse, suddenly scorning her son Vanya’s scorn.

Juliet Garricks’ Marina (last seen in The Doctor) contrasts with everyone in repose, and purpose: to keep peace, exude love for Sonya and Astrov above all, stabilise routine. Garricks draws the space to herself, commands her corner and alters pitch and rhythm whenever she intervenes.

There’s much detail in the twittering peace-loving Telegin (David Ahmad The Crucible, National), easily upset and desperately wanting even scraps of acknowledgment. Delighted when told to play on his guitar he’s terrified of rows and Ahmad’s mix of dog-like-devotion to an ex-wife and self-defeating morals render his portrayal squirmingly exquisite.

The Orange Tree’s intimacy intensifies all this, and Simon Daw’s period set is a brilliant scribble of props: all samovar (raising surprised murmurs from an audience long-parched of one) and table with benches for the first two acts; writing desk, chairs, a be-mapped table and a time-travelling but period-looking bean-bag for the last two.

Costumes are exquisite: particularly Sacofsky’s who alone – and significantly – changes at least three times to gorgeous effect.

Johanna Town’s lighting delights in virtually occluded moonlight and pitch dark, as much as light in August. Max Pappenheim’s alarmingly close bird-sounds and actors conversations with actors offstage turn the set into a brief sound-installation.

This production’s both notably close to the text, even traditional, and radically expressive, blowing far more cobwebs off than some productions that cover whatever concept with a moth-eaten melancholic blanket from the professor’s lap. Hilarious, devastating, outstanding.

Published March 8, 2024March 9, 2024 by Simon Jenner