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There is a torpor associated with productions of Chekhov. When the director, Howard Davies, and I met for auditions in October 2004 he was adamant that torpor, languor and any of the other blandnesses conjured by uneventful, hot afternoons should be hounded out. He wanted people who were in the thick of it: cruel, funny, loud, stupid, lazy, industrious. Whatever. They were full-blooded and meant what they did... or were trying to do. Or were failing but wanted to do. Or.
Full-blooded at any rate.
Formally each act is remarkably self-contained. This is the second most radical thing about the play. It is as if each were a separate type of story about the same group of characters chronologically a little further along in their common journey. Act One has a dream-like incongruity. Act Two feels reminiscent of a Shakespearian pastoral comedy. Act Three is a thundering farcical disaster and Act Four has a haunting absurdist quality.
As audience we are kept interested by the simple question: "what will happen now?" Such vast territory is potentially dangerous for any writer. How will this finally be all of a piece? What is the magic that makes this disparate, constantly shifting thing into a whole? My feeling is that it is not held together by the classic bricks and mortar of 'Character' and 'Story' at all. It is in fact woven and interwoven in intricate layers of resonance, harmony and dischord...
And that's the most radical thing about this play: it is a piece of music.
© The Sydney Theatre Company
Huge thanks to Diane for providing the programme.
