Theatre in Review: The Cherry Orchard (Classic Stage Company)

	Dianne Wiest. Photo: Carol Rosegg

An antic mood has overtaken one and all in Classic Stage Company's revival of The Cherry Orchard. As Epikhodov, the trouble-prone clerk -- he is known far and wide as "Master Disaster" -- Michael Urie enters carrying a sad little bouquet and executes a pratfall right out of a silent film, scattering flowers everywhere. As the cranky elderly governess, Charlotta, Roberta Maxwell asks an audience member to vacate his seat for a minute or two, while she gazes at the stage; as a reward, she gives him her half-eaten zucchini. Dianne Wiest, as Ranevskaya, the lady of this epically feckless household, returning from a morally and financially dispiriting sojourn in Paris, sweeps into her former nursery and hugs the bookcase as if it were an especially prized relation. ("Laugh at me...I'm ridiculous," she says, giving the bookcase a big kiss.) Her idle, dissipated brother, Gaev (Daniel Davis), offers a stream of stunningly meaningless commentary, most of it related to billiards. Speaking of Ranevskaya, he murmurs, "People say I've squandered her fortune on sugar candies," popping a dainty morsel into his mouth.

What's remarkable about Andrei Belgrader's production is the ease with which comedy -- both the loose-limbed, physical variety and a darker, subtler humor -- coexists with a feeling of tremendous sadness and impending, irreversible loss. For all the inventive bits of business, one never forgets that The Cherry Orchard is about a once-wealthy family facing dispossession. How could we forget, when John Turturro's Lopakhin -- once a peasant, now a wealthy merchant -- constantly, frantically tries to remind Ranevskaya and company that time is running out if they want to save the family estate? ("People today don't want a monstrosity like this," he says as he envisions the surrounding land filled with vacation cottages.) The mounting spleen accompanying Lopakhin's warnings are always amusing; the implications of them are not. The house will be lost; the extended family will be scattered to the four winds; a way of life will vanish forever.

In moment after telling moment, laughter and melancholy are joined together. Alvin Epstein, as a superannuated servant, carefully uses his cane to slip a pillow under Ranevskaya's feet. "I'm so glad you're still alive," she tells the old man, by way of making conversation. The infinitely poised and lovely Ranevskaya, handed a telegram from an unfaithful lover, grabs the document like a greedy child seizing a longed-for toy. Maddened by Trofimov (Josh Hamilton), the aging, perpetual student who claims to live on a plane above physical needs, Ranevskaya finally snaps, "You're not virtuous; you're just ridiculous." When the home is finally sold, to Lopakhin, he delivers the news in frenzy; joy spilling into rage, as a lifetime of envy and irritation, mixed with real affection, is laid bare. Losing control over his conflicted emotions, he tears at an upholstered chair, filling the air with feathers. "Don't worry. I can pay for it. I can pay for everything," he roars, his voice filled with dismay at his own triumph. (Throughout, the translation, by John Christopher Jones, has a contemporary, highly conversational quality without tossing in any obvious anachronisms. It's a fine accomplishment.)

About those feathers: If you're planning on attending The Cherry Orchard, it's best to ask for a seat in one of the higher rows, or you may find yourself breathing in a multitude of fluffy particles. Also, the higher up you are, the better your view of the circular stage; seated on the ground level, you're likely to find that Belgrader's blocking occasionally makes it hard to see the principals. Overall, there's something slightly effortful about the physical production, extending to the curtains that surround the stage before the show and during intermission; they leave little room for the patrons to find their seats. (Interestingly, Santo Loquasto's set design, which places arrangements of furniture on a stage covered with white cloth -- with the addition of red velvet curtains for the Act III ball scene -- look a bit like photos of his design for the famous 1977 Cherry Orchard, staged by Andrei Serban at the Vivian Beaumont Theatre. I didn't see that production, but, from what I've read about it, its emphasis on grand gestures and physical comedy has influenced Belgrader's approach here.)

In any case, the director has obtained a rich and varied set of character portraits from his starry cast. In addition to those mentioned above, Juliet Rylance is heartbreaking as Varya, Ranevskaya's adopted daughter and housekeeper, who yearns, hopelessly, for Lopahkin's hand. "Nothing's going to happen," she says, firmly, smiling yet transparently desolate. Elisabeth Waterston is touching as Dunyasha, the housemaid with pretentions, who falls for Yasha, the social-climbing footman. As the latter character, Slate Holmgren is especially effective when seductively begging Ranevskaya to take him to Paris. Katherine Waterston is equally touching as Anya, Ranevskaya's daughter, who waits patiently for Trofimov to trade in his philosophical beliefs for a little corporeal romance. (Katherine Waterson, Rylance, and Wiest share a resemblance, adding credence to a point on which many have speculated, that Varya may be the daughter of Ranevskaya's deceased spouse, or may possibly be Gaev's illegitimate daughter.)

Wiest provides the necessary center of gravity, making sure we see that there are profound consequences to the characters' woolgathering ways. Clouds cross her face when, from time to time, the truth sinks in and she realizes she has spent all her money, chased after men who don't really love her, and recklessly mismanaged her family's fortunes. When she learns of the sale of the cherry orchard, the truth hits her like a physical blow; she nearly faints, clutching Lopakhin in something like a death grip.

Whatever you think about those curtains, Loquasto's setting effectively suggests a house already being emptied of its possessions, and it is it lit by James F. Ingalls with his usual extraordinary sensitivity to time of day and location. Marco Piemontese's costumes are a series of finely detailed character studies; Wiest's Act III outfit, a black, low-cut ball gown with a capelet covered in black beading, is a real knockout. The sound design, by Christian Frederickson and Ryan Rumery, solidly delivers their original music and a number of sound effects - although the famous, and mysterious, offstage sound that may be the snapping of a wire or the cry of a bird is so subtly rendered here that you may miss it if you're not listening for it.

Belgrader's approach won't appeal to everyone -- nobody's approach to Chekhov ever does -- and I heard people complaining about, for example, Maxwell's moments of interaction with the audience. But, to my mind, the director has cunningly conjoined laughter and loss in a way that suits the play almost perfectly. Chekhov's characters are fools, but their tragedies are real; thanks to Belgrader and his company, we understand that to look at them is, essentially, to look in the mirror.--David Barbour