There are not many that can integrate a quad bike to the opening scene of a Chekhov play, but Thomas Ostermeier somehow manages it with his radical, star-studded adaptation of The Seagull.
Thomas Ostermeier first directed a production of The Seagull over a decade ago for the International Theatre Amsterdam; it is clear that for a theatre production to be considered truly great these days (Eline Arbo's The Years, Robert Icke's Oedipus, Ivo van Hove's A little Life) Dutch origins are a prerequisite. Now being performed at the Barbican, Ostermeier has refined the production, with a script adapted by Duncan Macmillan and a changed set courtesy of Magda Willi, but its deck chairs, microphones, and fourth-wall-breaks persist.
A quad-bike-riding, Telecaster-wielding, Billy-Brag-belting Zachary Heart (playing the role of Simon Medvedenko) acts as the show's hype man, as charismatic as he is multitalented. In the particular production I had the pleasure of seeing, the actor's mother was in attendance. She, along with other audience members formed part of the conversational, comic ad-libs strewn throughout the show. This set the tone for a modern, teenage, rambunctious, and dare I say oh so Barbican kind of production.
The Seagull largely does away with its tragic roots here, opting for a witty approach which completely changes the mood, but does not necessarily undermine the play's core messaging. Ostermeier's Seagull is a play which makes fun of itself as much as it does it’s own audience. A play which makes fun of its theatrical contemporaries as much as it emulates them: with stripped back set, concert-style microphones, and modern costuming evoking parallels with the work of both Fish and Lloyd.
Self-aware and self-deprecating in its artsy clichés and melodrama, this is a suitably contemporary take on The Seagull, which perhaps strives to highlight the tragedy of the world we inhabit rather than that of the art we consume. The "real" tragedy.
Cate Blanchett’s Irina Arkadina presents as a glamorous, outrageous, over-sensationalised self-parody; prone to histrionic outbursts in the face of conflict. She tap-dances and split-drops her way to audience captivation, with mating-ritual-like excess. Kodi Smit-McPhee's Konstantin "Kostya" Treplev is rather brilliant, albeit less melancholic than we may have become used to. The same can be said for Tanya Reynolds' Marsha. They are both painfully adolescent, dark-humoured and defiant, with Marsha rarely seen without a vape or can of booze in hand. A suitably type cast Jason Watkins brings a version of Peter Sorin with a quintessential charming awkwardness.
For someone who has previously provided some transformational acting, Emma Corrin's performance here seems lacking. We only truly see her flourish during her first encounter with Tom Burke's Alexander Trigorin. Here they converse effortlessly and naturally, providing emotional nuance and subtlety. As their engagement continues, playful conversation turns into the solely visual, their words drowned out by music. The directorial focus for the rest of the play places far greater emphasis on the admiration they have for each other's respective ways of life, and almost seems to do away with any thread of romance.
Burke has always wanted to play Trigorin. He brings to the role a kind of pensive, moody quality that he seems to exude simply as a result of existence. Burke delivers an impassioned speech to audience - house lights on. Rather overt in its politicism, he almost pleads with us the viewer. He balances power and fragility; vulnerability, as he grapples with the importance of his artistry - both seemingly that of his character's writing career and his own work as an actor. He urges us to value the real. To value those he considers the important figures of history and of the present day. To value "Mary Wollstonecraft... Volodymyr Zelenskyy".
The continual blurring of the line between character and actor is a theme throughout.
The microphones play this kind of double role; comic and serious. For Blanchette/Irina her most disingenuous moments are those when she’s “given the stage”. Grabbing the mic is her opportunity to be in the limelight again, and to feel the praise and laughter of the audience wash over her. In her most heartfelt, serious scene she rids herself, aggressively, of her mic pack - the only one to ever do so - and declares she is no longer acting. She huddles, quiet and diminutive, in the centre of venue seating over one thousand. She makes her emotional plea to her lover.
Juxtapose this with someone like Burke/Trigorin, who only chooses to amplify his most choice, calculated, poignant words. A really interesting concept, one which seems to make comment on the kind of people we allow to have their voices heard the loudest. In our politics; in our media.
The comic nature of the play suppresses the impact of some of the plays darker moments. Kostya's suicide feels more like an afterthought in this adaptation, rather than the culmination of the characters' collective experiential agony. The play's final lines as delivered by Paul Bazely's Evgeny, seem almost limp and unimportant in the face of Kostya's death. An end which felt disappointing rather than devastating, particularly within the context of production that verged on embodying something incredible. ★★★★☆
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