![]() ![]() The paring down is intensified by the handling of the lines of Anya Reiss’ fleet and extremely playable version of Chekhov. Her influence may also be the reason why the actors are inexplicably barefoot in a production that mostly forbids them from standing, let alone moving dynamically through the space. The set is a chipboard box illuminated by hard white overhead lighting with the actors in status-free blue and gray clothes, sitting in a row of nondescript, matching plastic chairs.įresh though this initially seems, the chairs and largely seated actors most strongly evoke the practice of the legendary dance-theatre maker Pina Bausch (who died 13 years ago). In this non-specific contemporary presentation, there are no props. Old-fashioned Chekhovian naturalism is banished to create a samovar-free zone. ![]() Lloyd’s presentation is initially arresting. Stripping down “Cyrano de Bergerac” released that play’s energy but playing a similar game here, its director delivers an uneven production more willful than wonderful. The aesthetic is austere, the emotional range fiercely compressed and the intent is relentlessly pure, but that’s only to be expected in Samuel Beckett’s “ The Seagull.” Wait, what? Obviously, the play is actually by Chekhov but despite a handful of piercingly authentic performances, including that of an incandescent Emilia Clarke, three-dimensional writing is often flattened by the all-controlling, would-be-Beckettian voice of director Jamie Lloyd (“ Betrayal“). ![]()
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