“I’m
in mourning for my life.” So writes
Anton Chekhov. His play, The Seagull, has stood the test of
time. It has been produced across the
globe for a number of reasons. One
reason is the method and style that Chekhov employed. It allows audiences to focus more on the
characters, their motives and emotions, which, ultimately makes them easily
relatable. Another reason is the quality
of characters that he developed in the play.
One further reason, and the final one addressed in this paper, is that
the themes of the play transcend time.
The Seagull stood in
contrast to the mainstream nineteenth century contemporary theater.[1] The most physical, and therefore vivid,
actions were not presented on stage.
This places more pressure on the dialogue, both what is spoken and not
spoken, to deliver the real meaning of the play. By sequestering action off stage, Chekhov is
able to develop characters fully and make them into believable human
beings. The actions, attempted suicides,
actual suicides, pregnancy, and affairs bolster the more emotional and cerebral
aspects not only of the play but of what are relatable to the audience. These elements are projected to the
forefront. The audience, then, is not
overly concerned with the shock of lurid action. As a result, it is easier to empathize with
the characters. The hollowness of unrequited
love and derision from peers and family are conveyed in a more humanistic
method. We, the audience, know what
should be said, but characters do not take cues from the audience. The characters are more relatable as their
emotions are given a voice, or lack thereof, and not merely inferred by
actions.
The
character of Irina Arkadina is one example of Chekhov creating an individual to
which we can relate. Arkadina’s actions
in the play are never explicitly decried as wrong, nor are they hailed as morally
right. Rather, he appoints the audience
as adjudicators of her character.
Arkadina is jealous, of nearly everyone.
She does not want her son to eclipse her station in the art world, even
going so far as being the most vocal critic of her son’s play. She does not want Nina’s youth and beauty to
detract from her own (no matter how hard she tries to hold on to her own fading
youth and beauty). She hoards money to a
fault, refusing the assist her family.
Today’s audience would see such acts as morally bankrupt.
However,
we can see Arkadina’s beating heart at times.
Moments of compassion, helping a less fortunate neighbor, caring for the
physical health of her family, and, most poignantly, when she begs Trigorin not
to follow Nina, prevents the audience from entirely judging her as evil. There beats a heart, perhaps chilled by
vanity and jealousy, but not devoid of the human characteristics of a mother
and lover. This duality of endearment
and repulsion pulls the audience in.
When the curtain falls, we empathize with Arkadina and the news she will
soon hear. We contemplate what she might
do after she hears of her son’s suicide.
The Seagull has been
staged around the world and has become well known. While many adaptations and interpretations have
been produced since the play was written, Martin Crimp’s version is of
particular interest. Crimp transforms
Chekhov’s writing from the failure of interpersonal relationships to political
and social failures predicated upon the audience, the spectators of life.[2] Chekhov’s Russia may be noticeably absent
from Crimp’s interpretation, but the echoes of serfdom, of inequality, and the
need to redress grievances ring louder in the updated version. What Crimp has done is take an existing text
and “selfishly, write a play, because the material is already there: a sense of
structure, a sense of character and a sense of situations.”[3] He took The
Seagull out of the nineteenth century and planted it firmly in the
twenty-first century. However, I believe
that Crimp stayed loyal to Chekhov’s vision of the need for vigilant personal
ethics. Crimp takes it one step further,
however, and positions the audience in the spotlight then drives the theme into
spectators’ memories. It is not enough
for the audience to see that duplicity and poor ethical choices create
carnage. He posits that inequality can
be conquered by its antithesis. When
Crimp is finished with the audience, we may well be in mourning for our
lives.
As
we don our mournful garb, we can reflect on The
Seagull and recognize why it still touches us years after it was first
penned. Chekhov’s style is
timeless. We can remove it from its
original Russian context and, following Crimp’s lead, stage it today and still
be intellectually engaged with it. It is
Chekhov’s use of subtext and well developed characters. We are not told what to think or believe;
rather we are left to make our own moral judgments. As times change and eras ebb from one to the
next, we can sit in the audience and play our part, perhaps even learn
something and emerge from the theater morally superior to when we entered. Then, and only then, we may not mourn our own
lives.
[1] Benedetti,
Jean. Stanislavski: An Introduction. London:
Methuen, 1989. Print.
[2] Escoda, Clara. “A
Textual Analysis of Martin Crimp’s Adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull: The Importance of Testimony
and Relationship.” Platform 5.1: 54-70.
Electronic Print.
[3] Laera, Margherita.
“Theatre Translation as Collaboration: Aleks Sierz, Martin Crimp,
Nathalie Abrahami, Colin Teevan, Zoe Svendsen and Michael Walton discuss
Translation for the Stage.” Contemporary
Theatre Review 21.2, 213-225. Print.
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