I confess. I don’t get Chekov. Certainly not based in this seemingly interminable production by Trevor Nunn for the RSC at the New London theatre. It’s a bit like watching paint dry on cardboard for 195 minutes. They should strike medals.

OK, Russia 1896: the world and the theatre on the cusp of a literally revolutionary century. But this is a play with about a dozen characters of which not one of them has any – character that is. All the women are variously manipulative, emotionally half-witted, masochistic victims or just plain stupid. The men are about what you’d expect surrounded by such women: weak, self-indulgent, emotionally retarded or just plain pissed off that they don’t have any money, can’t get a woman to give them any, or just totally self-obsessed. In modern terms this is a chamber piece of co-dependency. It really does remain a matter of indifference which gender screwed up the other first.

I know, we dumblings don’t get that Chekov is meant to be funny. Well Chekov’s own description does offer a tiny clue for even the non-cognoscenti – “A Comedy in Four Acts.” Of this I can only say that the biggest criticism is not that it isn’t funny, which it isn’t; but that given the context of unrequited love, destructive passion, fatuous literary aspiration – then if it were funny it would be a deeply mean-spirited comedic vision. Besotted young woman (Masha) becomes snuff-taking alcoholic, shrewish wife and indifferent mother – what a hoot. Innocent, half-witted aspirant actress (Nina) gets humped and dumped with dead baby to remember – boom, boom. Witless mother’s boy (Konstantin) terminally emotionally retarded eventually takes two shots – literally and 2 years apart – to kill himself because his one time love, the aforementioned bad actress, still loves her humper and dumper – black-hearted but silver-penned Boris Trigorin.

It really is hard to take any of this stuff seriously even allowing for the period and the different mores of the time. Surely there were men and even women, dare we say, of strength of character, emotional maturity and moral courage, even in 1896? The sheer unrelieved fecklessness of all the characters in The Seagull desperately needs the dramatic tension of a solid morally stable character to provide the contrast that might make their self-imposed plights touching or even in a laugh-at not laugh-with kind of way, mildly amusing. Even Eugene, the Doctor, usually a role that’s a safe bet for a bit of genuine human insight, is jarred off about only having been able to save 2,000 roubles from a lifetime of medical practice. Which assiduous accumulation he then apparently blew on a two week holiday.

This constellation of characters supposedly revolves around ‘famous’ actress Irena Arkadina (Frances Barber) but it is almost impossible to believe that this strident, self-indulgent woman is any kind of convincing actress. It is hard to criticise the obviously talented cast, as they really to have to try, and largely fail to breathe some semblance of credibility into cardboard people frequently speaking cardboard words. Ian McKellen as you might expect wrings some wry and acerbic humour out of city-loving Peter Sorin, Irina’s brother, consigned unhappily and mysteriously, money again perhaps, to the country to atrophy to death. A fate I was beginning to wonder whether as the fourth Act began, I might be sharing.

All the professional skills of costume, set design, and yes acting were well up to the standard you would expect of the RSC. Not sure though about the stuffed-bird-on-a-stick carried around the stage way of representing the deep symbolism of the Seagull 'motif'. Seems a bit 'realistic', or even 'naturalistic' to me to summon up much 'symbolic resonance'. I just really don’t see the point of reviving a play that seems to me not to offer any serious, challenging ideas; a single believable, or even likeable character; that despite its claims, is ponderously and lethargically unfunny; and has for this willing-to-be-convinced member of the audience not a shred of contemporary relevance.

Not you will have gathered my most enjoyable night out, And just to add insult to injury, please be warned never sit in the Circle at the New London Theatre, with arcs of about 40-50 seats unbroken by a single gangway, avoid this area unless you want either to abseil from the roof straight into your seat; or constantly practice your Mexican wave as the endless stream of latecomers, ice-creamers, need-the-looers, didn’t-you-get-me-a-programmers, file back and forth, and back and forth…..

Zettel, the press nights for the two plays at the New Theatre were one after the other. As I was to go on holiday a few days later I decided I wouldn't have time to do justice to both.I was of a mind to see The Seagull as the less familiar - it's never a set text - but in the end, King Lear was more convenient. It's far from my favourite Shakespeare but after reading your excellent descrption I feel I made the right choice. It also seems I was lucky in getting a seat near the front.

The space worked well for Lear, and the technical equipment did the best storm scene I've ever seen, not to mention the battle explosions. I can't say the front of house works well at all, and for someone as elderly and as easily confused as myself all those different levels made me wish I could leave a paper trail when I went to the loo.

Time was they wouldn't let you in if you were late for an RSC production - you watched it on a monitor in the lobby
until the interval or a long scene-change.

Its always an effort not to be alienated by these big places, especially when they are so lacking in character. I thought the Barbican was bad enough - a poor substitute for the Aldwych when the RSC moved its London home. Fancy having an escalator in the cramped ill-signed space they call a foyer at the New Theatre - more like the tube station at Canary Wharf than a theatre.

Sheila