Chekhov's 'Seagull' takes flight

NEW YORK - No one does disappointment, aimlessness, sorrow and despair like Chekhov. And hardly anyone does Chekhov convincingly on stage - making us recognize ourselves in those impossible tragicomic characters. This magnificent production of

The Seagull

, transferred from London to Broadway, gets it absolutely and thrillingly right.

Early in Act 1, young actress to young playwright: "But there's not much action, is there? It's just a lot of speeches. And I think you always have to have love in a play . . .." Chekhov's actress has just about defined Chekhovian drama. Both the long speeches and the long silences of

The Seagull

are delivered to perfection, and there is love, so much love, so unrequited.

The plot concerns a famous actress, Arkadina, played by the elegant, splendid Kristin Scott Thomas, and her young lover, a famous writer, Trigorin (Peter Sarsgaard). Trigorin's attention turns to Nina (the luminous Carey Mulligan), whom Konstantin (Mackenzie Crook) adores hopelessly. But Masha (Zoe Kazan in a wonderful goth-before-the-fact turn) loves Konstantin, and the impoverished teacher Medvedenko (Pearce Quigley) worships Masha.

Subterranean dramas run through every household crevice, seen and overseen by the physician Dorn (Art Malik, who can convey both intensity and sanity simultaneously). Patting the weeping Masha, he comments, "How neurotic everyone is! So neurotic! And all this love . . .."

The ensemble acting magically includes the audience, holding it rapt for nearly three hours. Director Ian Rickson takes daring chance after chance, distracting us from the big speeches by having other characters walk across the stage to light a lamp, fetch something, leave the room.

Even the porter (Christopher Patrick Nolan), who barely speaks, contributes with a face of outrage or distress. Ann Dowd as the estate manager's wife inexplicably but perfectly shreds a bunch of flowers. Not a moment - in a production filled with silences and seemingly pointless dialogue - is wasted.

Rickson has Scott Thomas (how brave for a middle-aged actress to play a middle-aged actress desperately pretending to be younger than she is) and the astonishingly beautiful Carey Mulligan use the same gestures from the same position on stage. Throughout, each leans forward from the waist, with outstretched arm, yearning, reaching hand. The whole play is contained in those empty hands.

As Trigorin, Sarsgaard (the only American replacement in the Royal Court production) speaks in measured, unemotional rhythms, boring himself by talking about his boredom, a poseur who seems authentic. This disaffected delivery is matched by Crook's as Konstantin. Both are, like everyone else, annoying. But they know they are, and they annoy themselves, so we sympathize while we're annoyed, since their self-awareness is, as always in Chekhov, partially redemptive.

So much laughing, weeping, kissing, talking, waiting. So much theatrical pleasure.

Walter Kerr Theatre, 219, W. 48th St., New York. Through Dec. 21. Tickets $25-$110. Information: 212-239-6200 or

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