Theatre in Review: The Real Ivanov (Lynn F. Angelson Theatre)This revival of an early Anton Chekhov play could be significantly improved by simply adding a few furnishings. Jiyoun Chang, best known as a lighting designer, takes on the scenic design here, too, and her approach makes any revival of Waiting for Godot look overdecorated. The first act, set in the title character's garden, features a single bench; the second act, taking place in a drawing room, has nothing but a carpet. Thus, a group of people must play cards standing up. Later, two of them lie down; who can blame them? Everyone needs a break now and then. The lack of a place to rest becomes increasingly urgent: By the time we get to Act IV, one is seriously worried about actor fatigue setting in. When Lebedev, the feckless landowner, turns to his daughter and says, "Sit down, Sasha," peals of disbelieving laughter rang through the theatre at the performance I attended. Otherwise, the audience was largely quiet; for a production billed as a comedy, that's not a good sign. I don't doubt that Chang acted at the behest of the director and adaptor, Laura Strausfeld, but the absence of practical decor results in many awkward groupings and skewed stage pictures. Adding to the difficulty, the audience is placed on four sides, but even with Strausfeld distributing her cast far and wide, one spends a surprising amount of time looking at actors' backs. During Act II, featuring the Lebedevs entertaining at home, their guests form a kind of nervous clump at center stage. Act IV, which unfolds in the run-up to a wedding, forces everyone into a farcical pileup on a narrow red carpet. Perhaps because they feel ill at ease in this unfurnished terra incognita, the actors give extremely busy performances. Really, you've never experienced so much fidgeting, shuffling, gesturing, humming, and chuckling. The only character with any stillness about him is Ivanov, and he is clinically depressed. I don't often spend half a review discussing blocking issues; then again, the issue rarely comes up as comprehensively as it does here. But it points to a larger problem, namely Strausfeld's inability to wrangle Chekhov's script, which, with its crude shifts between tragedy, melodrama, and farce, is best seen as a rough draft for the masterpieces to come. (Ivanov has a full load of woes: He is drowning in debt; has fallen out of love with his dying wife, Anna; and is being pursued by the much younger Sasha, who combines a flower-like innocence with a terrier-like tenacity. Sometimes his problems are touching; at other times, they are flat-out ludicrous. It's a point of view that the playwright mastered in his later plays. This version isn't helpful: With its psychologically paralyzed hero surrounded by a cadre of misers, chiselers, and fools, The Real Ivanov looks like a Chekhov play, albeit an uncommonly brief one, but the magic isn't there. (My only previous experience with Ivanov was a Broadway revival that, even with Kevin Kline, Jayne Atkinson, Hope Davis, and Marian Seldes, under the direction of Gerald Gutierrez, didn't quite come off. A short-running revival last March was better-received, but clearly it needs a powerfully clarifying directorial vision to succeed.) Alas, not one member of Strausfield's cast seems to know how best to proceed, a strong indication that the director hasn't provided them with the necessary support. As Ivanov, Sam Underwood, best known for his gigs on the pandemic-era Dynasty reboot and Fear the Walking Dead, underplays in a way that sometimes seems like a relief from the overacting all around him, yet can also feel underfelt. When he announces, "I am choking with anger," one can't help thinking: Really? That's all you've got?. Chang's lighting, which introduces sharp shifts from warm to cold white light at revelatory moments, is fairly effective, as are Ella Matza's period costumes, although she occasionally introduces an odd touch, such as the black feathers worn by Babakina, the wealthy, marriage-minded widow. Brandon Bulls' sound design usefully contributes key effects, including party voices, but I'm still wondering about the inclusion of Mel Torme singing "The Windmills of Your Mind" in the preshow playlist. The best moments in the production pass in a flash: Sasha's dismissive comment about the ostentatiously upright local physician ("He can't ask for a glass of water or light a cigarette without displaying his remarkable integrity. 'I am an honest man.' It's boring."); Ivanov's sad admission, "We're all heroes at twenty, ready to take on anything, and do everything, and by thirty, we're exhausted. How do you explain that?'; and the terrible moment when he informs Anna that she will soon be dead. But this is an enervated evening, bustling about without a clear purpose and filled with performances severely in need of editing. By the time the tragic denouement arrives, you may find yourself like the title character, feeling nothing at all. --David Barbour 
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