Dramat's 'Cherry Orchard' cultivates complexity

By Nikolai Slywka

PATRICK MCGARVEY/YH Danny Beatty, ES '98, stars in Chekov's classic blend of comedy and drama.

Chekhov considered The Cherry Orchard to be "not a drama but a comedy: in most places a farce." His producers disagreed, viewing the work as "a serious drama of Russian life." The Dramat's production of The Cherry Orchard brings this tension between comedy and drama to the foreground, intertwining humor with a melancholy that verges on despair. Such an approach runs the risk of exploiting the thrill of shifting emotions rather than challenging the audience with a sustained argument. It's a testament to the actors' expertise and subtlety that this production never becomes a cheap melodrama. On the contrary, the Dramat's The Cherry Orchard is a wonderfully complex treatment of nostalgia, loss, and desire whose most humorous moments work not to distract from the play's difficult themes but to free them from cant and didacticism.

Under the skillful leadership of director Rebecca Holderness and assistant director Rachel Anne Levy, SM '00, The Cherry Orchard provides a portrait of an upper- class Russian family on the verge of losing its estate. Stephanie Escajeda, CC '98, skillfully blends aristocratic dignity with an aristocratic irresponsibility in her portrayal of Lyubova, the family's matriarch whose homecoming after five years in France begins the play. Amid the jubilance of her arrival, the audience learns that the family is in debt. Lopakhin, the local peasant-made-good played with superb obsequiousness by Daniel Beatty, ES '98, recommends that she raise money by replacing her ancient and magnificent cherry orchard with rental homes. Lyubova ignores his advice and decides to let the orchard go up for sale rather than be responsible for its destruction.

Around this central problem of Lyubova's faltering finances unfolds a series of mild domestic disputes and anxious romances. Lyubova's 17-year-old daughter, Anya (Lauren Popper, ES '01), has the play's most developed relationship, with Trofimov (Sam Walsh, TC '99), the "eternal graduate student." Lyubova's step-daughter, Varya (Anais Alexandra Tekerian, SM '98), sees Trofimov as depriving her of Anya's affection, and she goes out of her way to interrupt the couple's time alone. And Varya, for her part, is involved in a stunted relationship with Lopakhin.

The Cherry Orchard benefits from a simple set that makes the most of the Main Stage's broad expanse. Spread yards apart from each other, a few chairs and a single bookcase establish the estate's aura of attenuated wealth. Noticeably absent from the stage is the cherry orchard itself. The fact that it isn't physically represented works to emphasize the impossibility of ever adequately representing its sentimental and symbolic significance. It defies any one reading, as it is simultaneously a repository of familial pride and beauty and a reminder that this beauty was established by the owners of serfs. Trofimov articulates the problem with his question of how to treat one's own past. Does one ignore sentimental ties and deform the past in order to indulge a drive for profit and immediate gratification? Or does one sacrifice oneself to the past, allowing it to sit pristine and unexamined--magnificent, obsolete, and surrounded by decay?

The Cherry Orchard handles these issues gently but never superficially. The play's humor and goodwill prevent it from becoming an occasion for rhetorical grandstanding. The audience finds its consideration of these questions circumscribed--but not undermined--by an affectionate appreciation of the character's dilemmas and failings.

The precise nature of this appreciation, however, is unclear. The audience has affection for Lyubova and admires her dignity but we never respect her. Her haplessness in the face of material difficulty makes us acknowledge the justice of having her lose her home. And although we appreciate Lopakhin's giddy climb from peasant to wealthy landowner, we also enjoy the opportunity to laugh at his coarseness and inanity. With her sweet optimism, Anya makes the most compelling appeal for the audience's sympathy. But she's so naïve it's hard for us not to patronize her with our affection.

The laughter that The Cherry Orchard provokes often arises from the foibles of the characters. But beyond these moments, a more complicated laughter arises whose object isn't so clear. It's not directed at any one person or incident. Rather, it recognizes the fragility and persistence of human attachments in the face of impersonal forces that threaten to eradicate sentimentality and affection. In her director's note, Holderness suggests that Chekhov's primary concern is freedom. Yet this play's primary concern is not freedom, but rather it is the clumsy and essential commitments that individuals develop towards each other, their homes, and their personal histories.

Back to A&E...