Chekhov on Stage

Successful drama blends theater, stage, and actors in a special atmosphere—an air of mystery—that arouses new feeling and perceptions. You are changed, at least temporarily, by the magic that keeps drawing you back with wonder and anticipation.

But today, in front of a bare, curtainless stage at the College of Charleston’s production of The Seagull by Anton Chekhov, I was discouraged. The sound of dissonant cello music was more agitating than mysterious. And my wife, who is Russian, sighed wistfully, “There is absolutely no smell of nineteenth-century Russia.”

The College of Charleston stage set

The director’s program notes proffered an explanation of how the minimalist set and costumes “permit the actors a wide range of motion without any of the limits that might come with a known fashion era.” Yet, there would be no wide range of motion on stage. And overlooked was the recognition of how set and costumes create not just historical context, but human interest. Life is not lived against a neutral backdrop, nor does it derive meaning just from itself. All the surrounds give it dimension, depth, charm. And that thick velvet curtain—rarely as you see it these days—serves like nothing else can as a guardian of suspense and a gateway to the unknown. When it goes up, it should at least for a second take your breath away with it.

Unfortunately, modern drama—its many merits notwithstanding—is too often a sterile, matter-of-fact dissection with over emphasis on actor and acting. It is an imitative attempt at new form, exactly as Chekhov was trying to do with his play. And in this sense, today’s stage set was fitting. Nevertheless, the effect failed to combust. But not because of the cast, who were impressive and fun to watch, and who were admirably led by Kaitlin Winslow in a captivating performance as Nina Zarechnaya.

No, the trouble was a lack of theatrical magic. The story was told, the characters were interesting, and the psychological tension was palpable. It was partly Chekhov himself who did not reach culmination—which you could feel as the end of the play grew gradually more languorous before dissipating inconclusively. At the same time, the empty stage never provided enough contrast to the void into which the main characters slowly fell. It was already void. But most importantly, the deep sense of tragic—so embedded in Russian history—was not fully conveyed.

Checkhov and cast reading the script

These characters are prisoners hemmed in by an overbearing culture that drives each of them to extremes of aspiration, anguish, and despair. It is not a pretty picture, and Chekhov was no doubt trying to get at that. But I don’t think he made it all the way. As perceptive as he was, and notwithstanding his long, admirable bout with tuberculosis, The Seagull is an interesting cross-section of Russian history, but not a masterpiece; a clear profile, but not a legendary statement of truth. As with so many of his short stories, the characters and events are intriguing, but without imbuing in the reader (or audience) any sense of finality.

It makes you wonder in this photo (with Chekhov reading, his actress wife on his left, renowned actor/teacher Stanislavsky on his right, and The Seagull cast around) to what extent they felt they understood the full meaning behind his play. ¶