Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov
Baron's Court Theatre, London, April 2003
Directed by David Illari

Black Snow by Mikhail Bulgakov
Baron's Court Theatre, May 2003
Directed by Tayla Klein

Walking into the Baron’s Court Theatre does not necessarily feel like the most auspicious start. It is a remarkable, atmospheric venue in itself - one could imagine it in a former life as a smoky Victorian gambling den, all wood and scarlet, clandestine: it’s like discovering a treasure. But its confines do make you wonder quite how long you’ll be able to stand it — the air-conditioning slightly noisy, the stage Lilliputian and cornered by pillars that could potentially block views from certain angles, and the seats so unstable and creaky that they could have been, or produced, the butt of many jokes.

The greatest praise, then, that one could bestow upon these productions is that both of them quite simply made you forget where you were. Both in their own very different ways were quite frankly most impressive in the ways they drew their audience into them so completely that the surroundings and confines were forgotten, time flew by, and one became completely lost in world of play. To say that time flew by is indeed a claim and a half for The Cherry Orchard, which running at nearly three hours in total, begins to bring on the age-old symptoms of cinema-goers buttocks.

In fact, the surroundings were employed for maximum impact. Indeed, one of the very first things to become apparent was that the director was resourceful and inspired in his use of his space, scenery and props.

Intro and extro scenes were impressive feats of choreography - the one reflecting the other in wonderful ring composition that provided most effective closure - as the entire cast criss-crossed the stage again and again, with all the hustle of a rush-hour station, boxes and suitcases crowding the space, as the noise and activity built to a frenzy.

Particularly effective was the use of the single vast packing-case that dominated scenes: albeit literally and practically difficult — in everyone’s way - it was representative of the themes of transience, of the baggage of one’s history and ties. The play’s symbolism was always brilliantly deployed and rendered visible and affecting. For the scenes of the cherry orchard itself, fragile pink blooms were pinned to the black walls: effective, simple, in keeping with the minimalistic atmosphere. And having them fixed up by the play’s two most innocent characters was a particularly nice touch — moving and thought-provoking.

The play was dominated by the siblings Madam Ranyeskaya and Gayev, whose bringing to life by their actors must be highly praised. Unintentionally, I can only presume, the production almost had me in stitches when we heard the phrase ‘lucky ticket’ in conjunction with the appearance of Alexander Gordon-Wood, who, and I hope that he will pardon me, bears more than a passing resemblance to the lottery’s own Billy Connolly. Oh the fate of modern culture; the all-pervasiveness of media advertising... Later, the ‘phrase the sound of music’ drew my attention to the fact that — and again, no offence intended — our Madam Ranyevskaya had more than a little of the air of Julie Andrews about her, which fitted the role perfectly. Tracey Pocock was fragile, yet stubborn and assertive in the role, rendering the character’s stylised reactions perfectly. Here we had a trivial, hysterical Ranyevskaya, childish in her emotions, and yet ultimately sympathetic. As Gayev, Gordon-Wood was wonderful — bringing before us a deeply impractical, eccentric, but kindly man, obsessed with billiard angles and existing in an unreal world of philosophy and dreams, as he feels the world he once owned slipping away from him.

Meanwhile the rest of the characters circulate around these two, caught in the bonds of family, history and loyalty.

Theirs is a choking, claustrophobic and highly strained world. The plot rests on the tension between the characters, and the moral, spiritual and psychological conflicts behind the dialogues. Once the setting is established, it is the backdrop for all the action - the nature of the plot is such that we cannot get away from the orchard and the estate. They, and we, can barely escape: the audience urges them to act decisively, but they seem unable or unwilling to break free. Thus is the level of involvement with the same characters almost unbroken. The production brings out the play’s subtleties and different layers, naturalism and symbolism; the result of intelligent direction and a responsive, talented cast. This is a world of people thousands of miles and hundreds of years away, and yet the thoughtful characterisation, and the power of the play and this theatre draws us in so completely; we are made to care.

To return to the cast… Lopakhin the outsider, gaining inspiration from past repression cannot hear ‘the music’ of the orchard as others can: unromantic, business-minded and without family ties to it, as he is. In the role, Jeffrey Smith was not perhaps either odious or sympathetic quite enough for us to truly care. However, he more than came into his own, wowing us with his ‘orchard speech’, as he portrayed the buyer’s almost gloating thrill at finally laying his hands on the symbolic — and profitable - property, overcoming his own past, having beaten the circumstances of his birth. Later, the scene of failed proposal worked marvellously: the audience were made to linger in seat-edge, frustrated, tension as we were forced to bear their inept silences. We were made to care, to will them into action — and were left utterly deflated by their inability to do so.

Chloe Gilgallon and Helen McBain are both highly commendable: McBain provided us with the simple, naïve, innocence of the as yet optimistic Anya, whilst Gilgallon rendered easily the complex character of Vanya — with all her world-weary cares and responsibilities. Rebecca Hyland is a flirtatious Dunyasha, whose tendency towards the melodramatic is by no means detrimental to the character’s hysterical keeping-up-of-appearances, suiter-persuit, and household-incompetence. Clara Maguire, meanwhile, gives an idiosyncratic, rather sinister and frighteningly powerful performance as the governess Charlotta, and Paul Gilmore as Yepikhodov gives a beautifully understated performance that draws our laughter and empathy — thus stealing many a scene he is in. All are compatible with the Frayn translation that studies the tensions and relations between comedy and tragedy — a thin line that borders on hysteria either side - a relationship that was magnificently exploited in this production. Mention too, must be made of David Illari himself as Firs, the deaf servant who mutters his way through the play, a bent old man who, we realise, is a true relic of a nobler and more elegant time.

The ending is to be remarked upon. Although perhaps the sound balance itself was not great — it was difficult to hear speech over the music — the music itself was emotive, and its build to an overwhelming crescendo poignant and symbolic: the old world drowned out. Chekov’s emphasis tends towards atmosphere rather than action worked perfectly in this theatre. The Cherry Orchard presents the juxtaposition between past and present, tradition and progress, stagnation and change. David Illari gives us a fresh and powerful interpretation of the original, that deals insightfully and effectively with these universal themes.

Of course with The Cherry Orchard, it is hard to say very much that is new, and not to compare the production to both previous stage version, and indeed to the eminent play itself. Black Snow on the other hand was appealing in its enigma — not only the UK directorial debut of Talya Klein, who’s summer work we can only look forward to with great anticipation — but also the UK premiere of play itself.

Black Snow is a dark comedy — treading that very fine line between farce and despair. It is without doubt a play with undertones: part of its impact lies in its relevance to, and personal insight from, the life of its author. A tremendously popular writer in Russia in the '20s, Bulgakov fell dramatically out of favour in the '30s with the Communist regime due to his barely concealed criticism. No longer able to get his novels published or his plays produced, he began writing a darkly satirical novel - a story about a young playwright who can't get his play produced. In 1992, the novel was translated into English, adapted for stage by American Keith Reddin and Black Snow, as the adaptation was titled, premiered in Chicago.

The whole play exists in a surreal, dreamlike-bordering-on-the-nightmarish state, with its manic action and frustration,reversals of fortune, and sheer absurdity.

Sergei Maxudov is a young proofreader who hates his job, his apartment and his life so he decides to write a novel: "I sat down at my table and I started to describe snow falling." No one likes it, but just as he is about to hang himself — a powerful opening scene, staged in equally powerful silence - a strange visitor arrives, gives the novel a glance and declares he knows a magazine publisher who'd be interested in serialising it. The first chapter gets published, our hero's spirits soar, the publisher disappears and the magazine folds. Then the director of the Academy of Drama and the Independent Theatre writes to Maxudov and suggests he adapt his novel for the stage. Novelist becomes playwright. Production is guaranteed. Everything seems momentarily promising. But the audience has been primed to know better than to hope for smooth running. The hapless novelist finds himself pushed into a terrible contract, inundated with ‘advice’, embroiled in all sorts of politics with actors, producers and director/producer Ivan Vasilievich, who sabotages Maxudov's script unrecognisably, runs the actors through meaningless exercises, and at the merest hint of dissent, declares another break. Finally, critics condemn Maxudov's yet unproduced play based solely on the advance poster. The satire is biting.

Sergei is the perennial outsider thrown into a den of manipulative yet ignorant insiders — an existence of egotism, criticism, mockery, backstabbing and disingenuity. Artistic success, as he quickly discovers, is tempered with artistic compromise. The Theatre and its artistic director are of course thinly disguised parodies of the Moscow Art Theatre and the autocratic Stanislavsky and a microcosm of the macrocosm of the Stalin era during which all these fantastical events occur.

Once again, the confines of the Baron’s Court Theatre were used for maximum impact- but quite differently - and thus easily forgotten. In Black Snow, they were deployed most effectively to suggest the confines and constraints of Maxudov’s world. The scenery was necessarily minimal but effective - especially given the circumstances of the play, its setting and ambience. The lighting was most skilful, with its use of stark contrasts, aggressive brightness and oppressive darkness. Only the strobe lighting effect seemed perhaps a little over-ambitious in such a small setting. The choice of moody Russian music highlighted atmosphere and provided instant tone, colour and setting.

This was all impressively co-ordinated. Particularly masterful were the group scenes — always a good indication of a good company and director. The dream sequence, in which Sergei, Moliere, Sophocles and Shakespeare discuss his play, with voices fading in and out, was truly surreal. And the movement piece in the rehearsal scene that Maxudov stumbles into - elaborate but farcically meaningless, a jab perhaps at the vacuity of the so-called culture of the period — was carefully and wittily choreographed. Choral and group speaking was similarly well handled by director and cast alike.

But although there is interaction between Maxudov and the other characters-some 40 of them played by a dozen actors - Black Snow is almost a monologue with Maxudov operating as protagonist and narrator. Philip Elvy was up to the mammoth task. He embraced the frenzy and frustration of the role with manic energy. Even physically he made a convincing Maxudov - slight, nervy, pale and with a permanent air of despond. We sympathise with Maxudov to a point: the play itself involving and fascinating, but the satirical style of Black Snow does not demand full personal empathy with the character. Indeed, it seems obvious that the protagonist really is Bulgakov himself with Stanislavsky and the Russian bureaucracy his antagonists. However, the poetic ending was well spoken, moving and potent.

To mention one or two other outstanding cast members… Brian Harris was dapper, mannered and self-important and overbearing as the aforementioned Vasilievich. In contrast to perhaps one or two certain cast member’s tendencies towards over-acting, and reliance upon facial expression, Harris was a master of subtlety: naturalistic, everything toned down and understated. Reminiscent in many ways of a Richard Briers or Ian Holm, he was superb, bringing an air of true professionalism to the production. In the more straightforwardly comic roles, Sarah Worker brought to life the one-trick Toropetzkaya with convincing zeal, and Lee Arnott cannot but belong on the stage: a true performer, who demanded our attention ceaselessly.

It was a shame that the play had few roles for female chars, and that nearly all the roles were bit-parts, with little to stretch the actors - and that at the same time, many of the cast had to keep coming back within seconds in a new guise. But these are difficulties which the play itself posed, rather than the performance itself — being performed with a small cast due to the confines - and did not end up overly confusing the audience or detracting from its appeal.

Above all, lest we forget, Black Snow is a comedy. On the evening I attended, it had its audience rolling in the (somewhat-restricted) aisles. That’s all the review it needs.