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September 18, 2008 |
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Venue |
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The Walter Kerr Theater, 219 W 48
Street, NYC |
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It’s night in a forest in
Russia. There are candles burning on tree stumps and roughhewn
benches. Amidst a stand of trees, there’s a young man, as slender
as the bare trees around him. The mood is elegiac, and yet, with
the sound of animated voices approaching through the woods, also
anticipatory. Such is Chekhov: rueful, though not without hope, as
if to say: This is life; we must endure with humor. And make
no mistake; there is much amusement to be found in the Royal Court’s
critically acclaimed production of The Seagull, now
transferred to the Walter Kerr.
In Chekhov’s world, there are those who
suffer—and those who suffer more. Everyone in The Seagull is
so caught up in the drama of his/her own life, seeking an ear
wherever one can be found—to unload, to complain, to
self-aggrandize. For the truth is, everyone in The Seagull
is an actor, nearly always performing on a stage of his or her own
imagining. These are characters who seem possessed of an unwavering
belief that every life merits a full-length play. And the marvel of
Chekhov’s tragicomedy (and for this production, Christopher
Hampton’s new version) is how even the supporting characters are
rendered fully imagined—and fully desirous of their own center stage
monologue.
But then that’s to be expected, given that every character in The
Seagull orbits in the incandescence that is the actress Arkadina.
And while it’s likely that Kristin Scott-Thomas is the draw for a
significant part of the audience, her Arkadina does not monopolize a
viewer’s attention at the expense of the other players.
Scott-Thomas’s portrayal offers a woman in poignant denial of her
imminent eclipse, as she rallies her wiles and talents in an effort
to stave off the inevitable. For as the once-illustrious Arkadina
knows all too well, the light changes—and adjustments must be made.
Skillfully directed by Ian Rickson, this Seagull has flown
almost completely intact from its
London
run, thereby lending an additional layer of camaraderie amongst the
actors—that is, save for new-to-the-family Peter Sarsgaard who plays
the outsider, Trigorin. Perhaps then it’s fitting that Sarsgaard
employs a broad American accent, whilst everyone around him sounds a
product of Rugby and Eton—yet it proves to be a discomfiting choice
for some in the audience, several of whom spent the entirety of
intermission unable to speak of anything else.
The truth is, as played by Sarsgaard, Trigorin hardly seems to
possess the attributes ascribed to him by both Arkadina and Nina—a
situation that leaves a large hole in this production, and one is
grateful for the scenes where Trigorin is offstage. For it’s then
that one sees a Seagull that beautifully mines the humor in
the inherent promise of life’s dreams—and the poignancy in their
passing.
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