Chekhov / Black Country, New Road
Why can't we enjoy great drama as it was written?
Since I discovered the British rock band Black Country, New Road a couple of years ago, I’ve been looking for a reason to to write about them. So when, ahead of a visit to the Donmar Warehouse to see Chekhov’s classic early 20th century play, The Cherry Orchard, I discovered the music for this new production was written by none other than May Kershaw, I saw my chance.
Okay, she may not be a household name, but she is the band’s piano / keyboard player and co-lead vocalist (her voice is sublime by the way). And with one of my favourite actresses, Nina Hoss, starring as Ranevskaya, and the always excellent Adeel Aktar as Lopakhin, I was rather excited as I made my way from Charing Cross up to Seven Dials last Thursday.
The production was billed thus:
THE CHERRY ORCHARD,
BY ANTON CHEKHOV,
IN A VERSION BY BENEDICT ANDREWS
It’s the third line I should have paid more attention too. ‘In a version by’, like ‘after’, ‘adapted by’ and ‘in a vital new version by’ is a term used to describe the re-writing of a classic play by a contemporary writer. These expressions have been used to promote recent London productions of Strindberg’s Miss Julie, Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya and Ibsen’s Hedda Gabbler and An Enemy of the People.
The question is: why? Why do great plays, plays that have endured a century or more and been enjoyed by generations of theatre-goers precisely because they reflect back on their audiences the essence of the human condition need to be re-written for the twenty-first century? I can’t imagine Nina Hoss or Adeel Aktar turning down a play because it was being staged in the original vernacular. Is it the audience, or the director’s perception of what an audience today will tolerate?
I have no problem with new translations being commissioned; great drama can survive updating to reflect contemporary vernacular. Neither do I have an objection to the inclusion of expletives that would historically have fallen foul of the censor. But there was barely a sentence spoken by a male character in Benedict Andrews’ version of The Cherry Orchard that didn’t contain at least one ‘fuck’. It just gets so tedious, and it adds absolutely nothing.
Much of the modified dialogue here seemed to focus on ramping up the levels of angst to the point that the play resembled little more than an extended episode of Eastenders, albeit considerably better acted. In the process, all nuance is lost, along with much of Chekhov’s underlying message.
It’s fine to modify language and even, on occasion, story structure. Michael Billington got it dead right when he wrote of Ian Rickson’s excellent 2019 production of Ibsen’s Romersholm:
‘Duncan Macmillan’s deft but daring tweaks underline the majesty of this sexually charged study of faith and heartbreak.’
They worked precisely because they were tweaks. Macmillan didn’t try to rewrite vast sections of dialogue because he knew that would undermine Ibsen’s original intention with the characters and their relationships. It would have made it into a different play. Benedict Andrews has no such qualms when it comes to Chekhov.
I didn’t see ‘Thomas Ostermeier's ‘bold reimagining’ of An Enemy of the People at The Duke of York’s theatre, but a friend who did reports that Matt Smith’s Dr Stockmann was given an extended rant about the woes of the modern world virtually identical to the one given to Trofimov by Andrews’ in The Cherry Orchard (beautifully delivered as it was by Daniel Monks). If a contemporary writer wants a platform for his views on the state of the modern world - issues that are mostly meaningless in the context of early 20th century Russia - then write a play about it. Don’t put false words into the mouths of characters drawn by one of the greatest dramatists of all time.
Of course the great contemporary playwrights - Miller, Pinter, Stoppard, Mamet, Hare, Bennett and (dare I add) James Graham, do indeed write their own, usually excellent, plays. And they only ever take on an adaptation when a lesser playwright has come up with a good story that needs better writing.
Before returning to the other subject of this article, I must add that the acting here was excellent. It was wonderful to see Nina Hoss command the stage as convincingly as she does the screen. Adeel Aktar was as good as I had hoped, and the entire ensemble cast were fantastic. I can’t name them all, but three young women: Marli Siu as Varya, Sadie Soverell as her sister Anya, and Posy Sterling as Dunyasha were all, I thought, outstanding.
I am neutral on the gimmick of having the actors seated in the front row among the audience when they weren’t involved, although I might have been distracted had I spent the evening sat next to Hoss. But quite why they had to resume their seats before Act 3, only to then busy themselves for several minutes constructing the set and carrying the musician’s instruments onto the stage in readiness for Ranevskaya’s party when this could have been done during the interval, I have no idea. Is it the theatrical equivalent of the Pompidou Centre with all the pipes visible from outside?
This was the latest disappointment in several recent trips to the theatre. Why is it so difficult to find a play in London that is just a play? If I want to see a musical, I’ll go to one of the many wonderful productions that line Shaftesbury Avenue. I really don’t want to see a thoughtful play about one of the most interesting political figures of the 20th century interrupted by a surreal ten minute song and dance routine that appeared to make Michael Sheen, otherwise excellent as Nye Bevan in the National Theatre’s recent production, appear distinctly uncomfortable. And don’t get me started about Clem Attlee whizzing around the Olivier Theatre’s stage like a demented dalek.
So, was the music really the best thing about The Cherry Orchard? That may be a slight exaggeration, but I was delighted when, once the instruments and musicians were in place, the band struck up my favourite Black Country, New Road number in place of the traditional Ukrainian folk song, with Posy Stirling singing it quite beautifully. The rest of the music - mainly riffs on the theme of that song - didn’t add a great deal for me, but that may be because once the actors had helped the musicians back to their original places, the drummer was a mere eight inches from my left ear.
The Black Country, New Road concert I saw at Shepherds Bush Empire last October will linger far longer in my mind than this poor interpretation of one of Chekhov’s finest plays. As far as that gig is concerned, I can add little to this excellent review in Louder Than War by Tom Parry, so I’ll just quote him:
In the hands of lesser musicians, some of what they did could have been pretentious, like the worst kind of over-indulgent prog rock, but this lot, despite their enviable youth, already know exactly what they are doing. There were gorgeous sax solos, thundering drum work-outs, plenty of dainty moments of quiet interplay between different instruments, and somehow it all seemed to gel.
Black Country, New Road draw inspiration from classical music, a century of jazz and folk tradition and sixty-plus years of rock and pop to deliver music that is unique and original. As great artists must, they create something that could never previously have existed and now emerges only because, by pooling their immense creative talents, they are able to move the boundaries of their art form. Chekhov did the same with drama a century ago. His genius should be left unadulterated, only then will it continue to be recognised by successive generations.
I’ll leave you with this clip of May Kershaw and friends performing Turbines/Pigs at the Primavera Festival in Barcelona last year. (And do stay to the end - it’s utterly joyous). Peculiar to think that every time I listen to it now, I'll be reminded of Nina Hoss and Adeel Aktar careening around the Donmar stage in drunken revelry.