‘Three Sisters’ leaves you pondering life.
For most of the characters in Anton Chekhov’s “Three Sisters,” things have not gone according to plan.
“Where has my life gone?” asks one. “Where is it?”
Eldest sister Olga reflects on her life wistfully: “It never turns out like we hope,” she softly says, “does it?”
Lost hopes and dying dreams hover over “Three Sisters” as the Russian playwright examines that uneasy compromise between the aspirations of youth and the realities of adulthood.
At Orlando’s Mad Cow Theatre, Chekhov’s story is presented in a new English translation by Libby Appel. Her rendition, though conversational, feels heavy-handed in places, as multiple characters tell the audience the same thing. Director Mark Edward Smith gets noteworthy performances from some actors, but several others fail to convey the complexity of their characters. As a result, the production goes through sterile patches; even the bond between the sisters doesn’t always resonate organically.
This then, is a “Three Sisters” that hits your brain and effectively leaves you pondering your own life trajectory. But it never quite penetrates the soul.
The sisters, trapped in some dull provincial town, are at the heart of the story. Olga thinks she has grown old at 28. Masha, in the middle, married too young and now regrets it. Irina, the youngest, just wants her life to begin. She, more than the others, yearns to move to Moscow, as if that city is a light at the end of their tunnel of disillusionment.
Rachel Comeau, who plays Irina, is the cast’s brightest star. At play’s opening, when Irina is on the cusp of adulthood, Comeau gives her childlike outbursts. But as Irina comes to accept her destiny, Comeau’s features settle into a noble resignation. It’s a lovely performance.
Also making a strong impression: Adam Reilly, as Irina’s most devoted suitor who never lets go of his ideals, and John Hamilton Rice as Masha’s kind, if ineffectual, husband. In the small role of a devoted elderly servant, Shami J. McCormick tugs at the heartstrings.
Robert F. Wolin’s scenic design fills the stage with birch trees. These evocative silent sentinels serve as a reminder — or is it a warning? — that no matter how much we might wish to, like Chekhov’s sisters, we can’t always uproot ourselves.