A Comedy In Four Acts

When one of the lead characters is off-stage
playing a melancholy tune on a piano keyboard,
you know you must be watching a Chekhov play.
I say that, but I've never actually seen a Chekhov play before.
I know! It's ridiculous. I'm 36 years old,
and I've never seen a Chekhov play before.
I have a degree in theatre studies
and another in playwriting
and yet, somehow, I've never before
seen a play by Anton Chekhov. Never even read one.
I'm not entirely sure quite how that's happened.
The Royal Court's production is one of gentle expanse;
the ensemble performances measured and fully-rounded.
The seagull is a metaphor. Clearly.
Beyond the talk of unrequited love
and the painful artistic struggle for new forms,
I am drawn to the smaller off-the-ball moments;
mesmerised by the way
Katherine Parkinson (Masha) eats fresh cherries.
Moved by the way
Pearce Quigley (Dorn) lingers in a doorway.
Chiwetel Ejiofor (Trigorin) could do nothing but
pack away fishing-tackle for 2 hours and 50 minutes
and I'd happily sit here and watch -
my tongue slowly freeze-drying to the roof of my mouth.
Mackenzie Crook (Konstantin) looks perfectly at home
amongst the long shadows and the over-sized wooden floorboards.
In another world that might've been me up there
with a blood-stained bandage wrapped around my forehead.
In another world the Russians might've made it to the moon first.
In another world Chekhov might not have succumbed to tuberculosis
and been transported back to Moscow in
a refrigerated railway car normally reserved for oysters.
In another world I might be able to get through
a whole day without thinking about that girl as much as I do.
The seagull is a metaphor. Clearly.