THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
By Anton Chekhov
Harold Pinter Theatre, Panton St, London SW1Y 4DN until January 9, 2027
www.thecherryorchardplay.co.uk
Hot on the heels of Helen Hunt’s starry but sadly misfired Cherry Orchard for the RSC in Stratford this summer, comes the much anticipated reunion of Dame Kristin Scott Thomas and director Ian Rickson. Their take on Chekhov’s last masterpiece follows their own much acclaimed Seagull which conquered the London and New York stage and won her an Olivier. Rickson is a ‘go to’ stage director for her and he also has an impressive history with Conor McPherson who has done the adaptation here; they both worked on an acclaimed Uncle Vanya and McPherson’s own The Weir.
So, this is packed with talented collaborators with a shorthand, and it shows. Unlike Hunt, Scott Thomas has found a key to unlock Madame Ranevskaya in all her infuriating inertia and carelessness. She embodies F Scott Fitzgerald’s line that “the rich are careless”, the trouble with her though is that all the money is gone, frittered away in a life of luxury abroad. Dumped by a lover in Paris she’s fled back to her childhood home, the estate with the eponymous orchard, where she receives a royal welcome from family, neighbours, and devoted servants.
Waiting for her is her equally hopeless brother Gaev (the great Peter Wight, unusually playing a toff) who is also in denial about the impending sale of their beloved estate to pay off their debts and, like her, is living in a world of illusion. Trying in vain to help them is Lopakhin (Stephen Mangan in great form), son of a serf on the estate, who bettered himself and is now the ‘new money’ in town and deeply resented for it. Gaev’s lofty and snobbish disdain for him is wonderfully portrayed by Wight. As for Ranevskaya, you know she knows she’s done for but can’t curtail her spendthrift habits and won’t change. She plots a return to Paris.
Scott Thomas is brilliant at conveying this duality and nobody can do jaded ennui like her. She’s got a cocksure ‘valet’ Yasha (Noof Ousellam) in tow to fool with who, typical in Chekhov, is also the object of affection of the house maid Dunyasha (Megan Cusack), but he’s a grifter you know will let her down. Also as usual in Chekhov, there is a large colourful supporting cast of characters - multiple hangers-on like Pishchik (Jeff Rawle) always cadging the next rouble, or the eternal student revolutionary Trofimov (an impressive Jack Riddiford) who has a complex history with the Madame.
Vinette Robinson brings melancholic layers to Ranevskaya’s sensible, adopted daughter Varya, who has kept the estate going. The scene where’s she’s engineered Lopakhin to go through with proposing to Varya only for it all to crumble in the moment in front of them all is unbearably poignant. Mangan’s affability plays well here, the type who thinks he can’t hurt anyone because he’s always ‘nice’.
McPherson of course is the poetic master of loneliness, exile, and blinkered nostalgia for the home place and totally understands the poetic depths you must mine to make this play really work. It’s a perfect marriage and his dialogue too manages to be modern without ever grating or seeming hip. It is always true to discordant harmonies in all of Chekhov’s writing.
Much more than the other three big Chekhovs, this one depends on mood more than plot and this is where Rickson’s experience and delicate touch as a director comes in. He’s great on intricate details, and carefully blocked crowded scenes appear natural. Everyone is mostly self-absorbed.
There are no ‘small parts’ in this play and Karl Johnson’s Firs is a fitting example. Usually presented as a pathetic old retainer Johnson gives him spunk and bursts of energy and vitriol that remind us that he would once have been a force in that grand house, before senility and deafness caught up with him.
Chloe Lamford’s large set for the dilapidated house is well judged, a closed-up room with walls so damp you can feel the cold. The one sore point is Sussie Juhlin-Wallén’s dowdy costumes which are period-less. This is now an unfortunate trend in period plays and makes no sense when the setting isn’t specifically today. It’s like the cast are dressed for comfort rather than character or period. Is it because ‘the young’ can’t “relate” to gowns? That underestimates them.
