Reviews from Broadway and Beyond
In the first act of the first of Anton Chekhov’s four classics, The Seagull (1895), the callow Konstantin presents a play for the approval of his mother, the famous actress Irina Arkadina, home for a countryside holiday. Critical of the standard fare in which she appears, he has fashioned something in what he proudly considers a new form.
It looks as if the Elevator Repair Service troupe—whose Gatz version of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains unforgettably superb—has it in mind to present its own example of a new form, or “norm,” as frequently invoked during this three-hour piece.
At least, that’s one possible explanation for the head-scratching piece of theater on view—and in which the word “boring” is spoken repeatedly and for which the “The” part of the title has been clipped. Perhaps there are other explanations, but it’s doubtful any of them would make palatable whatever the company is peddling this time around.
[Read Melissa Rose Bernardo’s ★★★☆☆ review here.]
On a dots-designed set somewhat reminiscent of the basic Gatz layout, the 11 members of the cast enter to face the audience while sitting on metal folding chairs. They’re attired in contemporary dress (Kaye Voyce, the costumer), as if sporting outfits they might wear to a rehearsal.
Pete Simpson—playing Semyon, according to the one-sheet program—remains standing. He addresses the audience in a presumably off-hand discourse about the Skirball Center for the Performing Arts auditorium and, while wandering back and forth with microphone in hand, meanders through other bits of info that could be intended to be amusing but aren’t.
He natters long enough for any sentient ticket buyer to worry that Chekhov’s Seagull may never materialize and has only been employed as a ruse to fill a theater with unsuspecting patsies.
Not so, though. After too long a while, the ERS-ers do begin to enact the work. More or less. Mostly less. For two acts, they get to the bones. Konstantin (Gavin Price) shows his pretentious theatrical screed, with young and innocent Nina (Maggie Hoffman) pretentiously orating. Irina (Kate Benson, garbed in a long white shirt, black tights, and heels) mocks it. In time, Boris (Robert M. Johanson), does his Trigorin thing of playing up to Nina behind lover Irina’s back and eventually ruining the youngster’s seagull-like life.
Before Marika Kent’s lights finally fade to black and as if to snatch some success from the gaping mouth of utter defeat, the actors straightforwardly deliver the final scene—in which awful things happen to Konstantin while the unaware Irina plays cards.
Somewhere in the opening disquisition, Pete/Semyon mentions there will be “violent dance” before the evening ends. As promised, there is. At least twice, cast members perform a drill, apparently routined by Katherine Profeta, wherein they raise their arms, hunch their bodies, and include various other group movements.
Why? Ask them. Maybe ask Profeta. Maybe, more to the point, ask director John Collins.
At one juncture—and as this one or that one is handed a mic—things get metatheatrical. Actors talk about themselves or each other. To wit (or to no wit): The always remarkable Susie Sokol kind of fills spectators in. She’s playing Masha, whom Chekhovians know dresses in black because she’s “in mourning for my life.”
Except she isn’t in director Collins’ dizzying spin. OK, not quite. Introducing the second act and indulging in some of the metatheatrical-izing, she talks about Masha’s mourning and says, “That line was cut.” (Observers in the know laugh.) N.B.: Voyce does put Sokol in a black-and-grey-striped dress.
There’s not much more to say about this Seagull—in which a supposedly shot seagull is carried around in a brown paper bag—other than that at the moment Elevator Repair Service is in unmistakable, momentary(?) disrepair. Patrons exiting are advised to use the Skirball stairs as early and as quickly as they can.
Seagull opened July 20, 2022, and runs through July 31 at NYU Skirball Center. Tickets and information: nyuskirball.org
David Finkle is a freelance journalist specializing in the arts and politics. He has reviewed theater for several decades, for publications including The Village Voice and Theatermania.com, where for 12 years he was chief drama critic. He is also currently chief drama critic at The Clyde Fitch Report. For an archive of older reviews, go here. Email: david@nystagereview.com.
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