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Ivanov
Angst in the Russian countryside reigns supreme as aristocrats complain that life is boring. Chekhov was just trying his hand at theater when he wrote Ivanov; all the moody Russian tropes are here, though they’re not very effective. Our titular protagonist can’t pay the bills; women delight in being misers or doorstops. Spoiler alert: There’s even a gun on the wall that you know just has to go off at play’s end.
In later work, Chekhov used all those ideas brilliantly, but Ivanov comes off as juvenile, almost parodic. Perhaps the company should have gone for parody. Instead, the ensemble plays it mostly straight, and the black comedy is lost. Some cast members do nail the comedy-tragedy balance: Howie Johnson and Sue Redman shine as the sanest aristos on the estate. But for the most part, the actors seem undirected, choosing enunciation or ennui over character.
Luckily, set designer Jacqueline Penrod and costume designer Frances Maggio know exactly what they’re doing. A bare, beaten wood home flanked by delicate trees turns deftly into an opulent country house. Likewise, we see both rich and poor manifested via the beautiful period costumes. The designers get what the rest of this recession-era production does not: The line between comedy and tragedy isn’t angst, it’s affluence.
