Theatre in Review: The Cherry Orchard (Donmar Warehouse at St. Ann's Warehouse)For a guy who's been dead for one hundred and twenty-one years, Anton Chekhov has had quite a few co-authors lately. These days, writers, not content with translating the Russian master's plays, are intent on dragging them into the modern era. Simon Stephens' currently running Vanya (no "Uncle" needed) moves the action to Ireland and makes one character a famous filmmaker. Thomas Bradshaw's The Seagull/Woodstock, NY (produced by The New Group) turned the narcissistic actress Arkadina into a Broadway diva, dropping wisecracks about Tracy Letts and an all-female revival of True West. In Heidi Schreck's take on Uncle Vanya, seen at Lincoln Center last year, the characters put their favorite jazz albums on the living room stereo. And then there's Aaron Posner's take on Uncle Vanya and The Seagull, called, respectively, Life Sucks and Stupid Fucking Bird. Now it's The Cherry Orchard's turn, in Benedict Andrews' version, which, to say the least, has its novel touches. I cannot find any standard translation in which Firs, the aging servant, calls various characters a "fuckwit;" Liubov, the lady of the house, smokes a joint; two characters enjoy a discreet lesbian fling; or everyone expresses their existential despair in downbeat rock ballads. And nowhere in, say, Constance Garnett's translation will you find the following tidbit: "Word from the wise: When a woman falls in love, she's either batshit crazy or a slut." The effect of this strenuous updating is mixed, to be sure, but Andrews is pursuing an interesting line of thought and, when it snaps into focus, his Cherry Orchard harvests some highly original intellectual timber. Certain innovations don't feel entirely sporting, but, overall, this production delivers a sense of urgency lacking in many more conventional revivals. It's an essential quality for a play in which time is running out: The action centers on Liubov, the bankrupt, death-haunted widow, who, having fled a life of dissipation and an abusive love affair in Paris, has returned home for the sale of her family home and its surrounding lands. Practical action is called for, but, alas, neither she nor any of her foolish, feckless relatives can get it together, despite the urgings of Lopakhin, a child of the peasantry who has gotten rich and is desperate to help. Most Cherry Orchard revivals turn on Liubov, paralyzed by her dilemma, and Lopakhin, who, driven by a strange mix of admiration and resentment, tries to force a solution on her. In this production, however, the focus is stolen by Trofimov, the perpetual student among the family's army of hangers-on. A centerpiece of Act II is his speech denouncing the do-nothing intellectuals of Russia who gather around the samovar and bloviate, ignoring the poverty and illness plaguing the poorer classes. Trofimov is convinced a better world is coming, and, depending on the production, he can be portrayed as a dreamer or an acute social critic (although, as Liubov cannily notes, he is more talk than action). In this production, however, Trofimov unleashes a jeremiad about life in the Anthropocene, touching on immigration, climate change, overconsumption, and economic equality. (He even alludes to "the so-called government efficiency.") Turning on his so-called friends, he concludes, "And not one of you...has any idea of the debt you owe the past, the human cost of your privilege. None of you see that your entire existence is built on the suffering of people who you don't even allow past your front door." As delivered by Daniel Monks with the fury of Moses hurling the stone tablets at the faithless Israelites, it definitively reframes this Cherry Orchard: Andrews subsumes Chekhov's musings on the depredations of time and the illusions of nostalgia for an acid-tinged portrait of spiritually and financially bereft landed class fiddling while the world burns. Color me ambivalent: This approach erases many layers of sentiment, muting the aching heart underneath the action. Yet color me intrigued: this is the first time I've seen a Cherry Orchard motivated by underlying panic, in which the characters are so obviously dancing on the edge of disaster. In Nina Hoss' flustered, poignant, enervated characterization, Liubov, frozen by grief (her husband died young, and her son was drowned) is perilously close to a nervous breakdown. Yet the fate of the house will drastically alter the fates of everyone onstage, and, to a greater or lesser degree, they know it. One can't help but identify with Adeel Akhtar's Lopakhin; a materialist and go-getter without a shred of social responsibility, he offers the only workable plan for saving the estate, even if it involves selling off pieces to create a community of vacation villas. Hoss, Monks, and Akhtar deliver the production's marquee performances, although Akhtar overdoes Lopakhin's drunken rage in the third act, when he returns to announce he is the new landowner in town. The rest of the company delivers well enough, but they are handicapped by Andrews' direction, which allows for too much fidgeting and shuffling around. I could especially do without the bits that involve yanking the audience into the action: Liubov selects a patron, seated in the front row, to represent a beloved bookcase, forcing the poor person onstage; others are solicited during a dance scene. Also, Merle Hensel's costumes are among the most unattractive in recent memory, featuring cheap fabrics, ugly patterns, and colors not found in (indeed abhorred by) nature. This must be a conscious choice, but I can't think why; surely, Liubov, admittedly on her uppers, would at least put up a front of prosperity, as would Gaev, her brother, often represented as a bit of a dandy. If this is how everyday Russians dress, the war in Ukraine must be taking a greater toll than one realizes. Still, Andrews' intentions are clear, and he has many successes, for example, when the estate is sold and the rugs and wall hangings that make up Magda Willi's set are rolled up, leaving a stripped-bare landscape. James Farncombe's lighting, which relies heavily on an enormous lightbox over the stage, is an unusual and creative solution. Brendan Aanes' sound design creates an especially jarring version of the strange tone (a cable snapping?) that disturbs one and all; the intrusions of a buzzsaw in the final scene indicate the industrial devastation to come. The use of songs like "Turbines/Pigs" by the group Black Country, New Road, fits into the overall scheme, but the intrusive underscoring (music by May Kershaw, additional composition by Zac Gvi) is regrettable; it sounds lifted from some B thriller film. And yet, when Liubov and her entourage make their final departures, one has a sense of something irretrievably lost. If Andrews and his company take the scenic route, they eventually arrive at something close to what Chekhov meant, filtered through a modern perspective of a world in upheaval. This is a Cherry Orchard to wrestle with, a kind of grunge Chekhov that sometimes offends yet ultimately illuminates. Andrews proves to be one of his most intriguing modern-day collaborators. --David Barbour 
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