THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
Christopher Durang's play, which amazingly won the 2013 Tony, finally makes it to the West End, via Bath, where it had a short run before Covid lockdowns intervened.
It's like a mid-range Neil Simon, of the kind he ploughed out annually in the '70s, but sadly missing his zinger one-liners. It is of course fused with a strong gay sensibility, de rigueur for Broadway comedies, so we get knowing in-jokes, camp cultural references, a bitchy diva and hunk who can't keep his clothes on.
A great cast, led by double Olivier winner Janie Dee and RSC veteran Michael Maloney, elevate it all and Tony-winning director Walter Bobbie invests it with great energy but it's more an amuse bouche than a satisfying meal.
The central idea is a clever one. Middle-aged Vanya (Maloney) and his sister Sonia (Rebecca Lacey) live a quiet life in the Pennsylvania farmhouse where they grew up. They stayed on to care for now-deceased parents (Chekhov fans) while sister Masha (Dee) escaped to the big city where she eventually became a star of dubious action films, the proceeds of which she used to keep the old homestead going. One weekend she arrives unannounced with her ripped, twenty-something, toy boy Spike (Charlie Maher) in tow.
Durang very deftly weaves Chekhov's characters and plot points from The Cherry Orchard and Uncle Vanya and The Seagull into the contemporary story. There's even a precocious young neighbour called Nina (Lukwesa Mwamba), whose youthful charms, immediately latched onto by Spike, pose a terrifying threat to Masha.
Oozing New York sophistication, Dee lights up the stage as Masha. She's all fashionable obsessions and channels Christine Baranski, with that mix of bitchy put-downs and utter self-absorption: “I have a splitting headache, but I do want to be supportive”. She announces she needs to sell the house from under her brother and sister, while pleading they all join her at a costume party that evening at a neighbouring property. Her plan backfires badly. Also in the mix is a hysterical cleaner (Sara Powell) - a medium with a side-line in voodoo who foresees all and is named Cassandra.
Maloney and Lacey get their characters' sense of Chekhovian ennui down, but they're set adrift by the writing which doesn't really give them anything on which to anchor any emotional truths. Coward made flippancy an art, but his quips were always grounded in some real emotion, or in the avoidance of it. Chekhov's characters are not funny to themselves, whereas here they all have the self-awareness of perky sitcom stars who can't resist the quick riposte. Lacey has a wailing scene which totally unbalances her character. For the fancy dress she chooses to go as an evil queen as played by Maggie Smith, but again that impression just isn't sharp enough. Maher brings great energy to Spike and, hilariously, is always preening.
Maloney has great charm and gets to have his big Uncle Vanya speech at the end when the world-weary, neglected brother finally flips. However, instead of an explosion of pent-up frustration at being taken for granted all his life, what we get here is an old geezer's contrarian outbursts about new-fangled things and how even the TV was better in the '50s. It's not exactly fundamental and yet everyone sits rapt, when you'd expect any real family to have switched off, having heard that long-playing record once too often.
