Uncle Vanya’s magnificent MANE MAN
By
Uncle Vanya (Orange Tree, Richmond) Verdict: Old school Chekhov HHHHI The Crucible (Crucible Theatre, Sheffield)
SIR Trevor nunn, former RSC and national Theatre frontman, has descended on Richmond to re-create Anton Chekhov’s Russian masterpiece, Uncle Vanya, in his own image. To this end, he has cast Ted Lasso’s James Lance (aka Trent Crimm of The Independent) — an actor blessed with even more luxuriant hair and goatee than the 84-year-old nunn in his pomp — in the title role.
The play is about a forlorn estate manager in provincial 19th-century Russia, and it has clearly been a labour of love for nunn. The result is a period piece in more ways than one: a traditional costume drama, yes
— but as Chekhov was performed 30 years or more ago
(in Sir Trevor’s middle age).
Happily, that means we are treated to a rigorous and thoughtful performance centred first on a sturdy samovar, and later a circular sofa.
NOR is it too gloomy. Initially, it lets off steam with light comedy as the small family group is visited by Vanya’s rich, famous and ageing brother-in-law — a professorial stick insect who arrives with pretty young wife in tow.
But nunn’s tightly drilled cast get to blow the lid off their respective pots with tears and declamations when their stewing passions finally boil over.
It can’t be easy for James Lance to look despondent beneath that magnificent mane. It’s an independent life form that might pull crowds in Kew Gardens. Yet he plays Vanya with humility as a wry and rueful roué, wallowing in a lifetime of disappointment.
even better is Andrew Richardson’s dejected doctor, besotted wife with (Lily the Sacofsky). professor’s rofesfsky). He is an early Russian ssian eco-activist who hasas an amazing ability forr his eyes to detach fromm his charming good humour mour and drift into a parallel allel reverie of sadness.
There’s also a great reat turn from Madeleine ine Gray as Vanya’s lovelorn lorn niece Sonya, the plain ain and of overlooked the professor, daughter who ghwho pines for the doctor. or. Bossy as she is, she’s e’s also hugely because sympathetic, as pas a reluctant martinet, she he craves affection but ut commands obedience. ce.
She bears her burden en of unrequited love with th the courage of a saint; nt; and delivers a heartbreaking tmn closing hymn to hope and eternity.
THE CRUCIBLE, Arthur Miller’s parable of America’s anti-communist purges during the 1950s, has been brought bang up to date in Sheffield. nor is the coincidence of the venue’s name and play’s title lost on Anthony Lau’s riveting production. A replica of the theatre’s street sign hangs over the stage, reminding us that this tale of 17th-century witch
trials in Salem, Massachusetts is also all about us, now.
For black magic and 1950s anti-communist hysteria, read paranoid conspiracy theory in this spartan, mostly modern dress production.
And the play’s moral panic around invisible crimes chillingly echoes today’s social media preoccupation with virtue tu signalling, self-censorship sh and political hygiene. As the play’s unexpectedly compromised co hero John Proctor Pr cries out: ‘Is the accuser acc always holy now?’ Using U racially mixed casting ing to mirror modern Britain, ain and sticking with modern ern British accents, the show sho feels like a public meeting mee on Georgia Lowe’s set of a podium scattered with stacking chairs and microphones. mic Moreover, Miller’s Mill poetry is allowed to sparkle spar in lines such as Proctor’s Proc complaint that an ‘everlastingever funeral’ marches around arou his wife’s heart. The melodrama is mirrored ominously omin in composer Giles Thomas’s Thom organ and chamber ber music, m that murmurs almost almos throughout.
At ththe performance I caught this wweek, the audience — a mix ofo pensioners and school parties — was spellbound. no wonder. Simon Manyonda’s stoical Proctor is an ordinary man who pays a terrible price for ordinary faults. Anoushka Lucas is a steely saint as his devoted wife elizabeth, and Rose Shalloo, as Proctor’s vengeful former lover Abigail, who sends half the town to the gallows, chillingly knows she must bear false witness — or perish herself.