Ivanov

27.11.08, Wyndham's Theatre

Not since my English A-levels had I seen a play so soon after reading it. I had become used to watching performances based on plots that I'm barely familiar with, being introduced to characters for the first time. But this was different. This was a tense and nervous occasion, hoping that the event would do justice to a work that I am deeply fond of. I read the short, symmetrical play on a flight back from Belgrade which I think is the perfect context. Nikolai Ivanov is an unpleasant but morally ambiguous anti-hero. Belgrade is a city where pragmatism reigns, built on such convoluted history we can barely distinguish the heroes from the villains. In both cases our intellect revolts in a fit of misunderstanding, and despite feeling ethically repulsed we're left with infatuation, and an sincere emotional bond.

I was looking forward to this play as soon as I heard about the Donmar's much-trumpeted residency at Wyndham's Theatre, but was late getting organised. In the end I secured the very last ticket, on the very last night of the run. I suppose it makes sense to watch this play alone - it isn't light entertainment, it isn't trivial. You need to invest in it, need to believe in it, and it was fitting that I jumped onto a train in the pissing gloom of late November, grumpy after watching a meak Australian display in the Rugby, ready to see how this would go.

Ivanov is an arl arse. Grumpy, gloomy, wracked with guilt about his own disatisfaction with life and his inability to do anything about it. His farming efforts have failed. He owes money to his neighbour and is surrounded by people he loathes. He's fallen out of love with his wife and with himself. Remnants of a once proud, ambitious hero lie shattered as he stumbles through sheer existence. We are introduced to him with a gun shot fired by the irritating schemer Borkin, the manager of the Ivanov estate. The real meat of the play are the relationships that Ivanov has despite longing for solitude. He is so unmoved by his wife, Anna, he can barely communicate with her. She sacrificed her faith (and thus her dowry) to marry Ivanov, and is now dying from TB. Ivanov lacks the financial resources to send her to the Crimea, or the emotional resources to comfort her. As rumours fly about his original motives the young Sasha (daughter of Ivanov's creditor) declares her love for him, or rather her love for who he used to be and her confidence that she can rescue him. Just as Ivnov dares to dream that he's found his energy, Anna arrives.

Amidst this turmoil, the only voice of certainty is Anna's doctor, Lvov, unafraid to denounce Ivanov at every opportunity. He is appalled to think that Ivanov's past and prospective marriages are fuelled by pecuniary motives, and even more revulsed when he realises that this is a commonly held belief. Amidst the mud slinging, rumours and accusations Ivanov remains stoic, repeating that he's never lied. The play leapt to life in the exchanges between Kenneth Branagh (Ivanov) and Tom Hiddleston (Lvov). The former believes in the integrity of honesty, the latter rejoicing in the assertion of his own moral superiority. The man who speaks most about morals, sees morals so clearly, so willing to accuse others of moral bankruptcy, turns into a farce, and we're forced to feel sympathy for the broken man who sees the world as it truly is.

Throughout Branagh was outstanding, and it was a treat to watch. The play gave plenty of opportunity for him to demonstrate his genuine talents. This was a blockbuster - Branagh as lead, Stoppard as author, Grandage as director - but it was also formiddable quality. There is a real challange to bring Ivanov to life on stage, to get across such internal misery and despondency whilst still being the lead and having to make oneself heard. The assembly pulled it off, with busy and entertainting scenes involving the extended cast to complement Ivanov's soliloquoys and pounding dialogues. This culminated majestically in the final scene. Ivanov cannot bear being in the company of multiple people and stands uneasily. Whereas in Act II he finds comfort in the guitar (a wonderful use of the Russian role for folk), in Act IV a cello case lies empty - part symbolising the lost duets from earlier in the play, part symbolising that Ivanov is beyond escape. When he finally gives up, the play concludes with a wonderfully subdued yet blistering end. Standing ovation. Thrilling.

There is always a danger that something so ambitious doesn't quite become the sum of its parts, and there were certainly a few points of uneasiness. The script played up the wit within the text, and although at times it provided a comic respite by ridiculing Ivanov's frustration with the incestuous and dull monotony of his social circle, there was also a tendency to take bluntly serious (and achingly soulful) laments as light commentary. As ever, the audience seemed intent on extracting humour from the merest offering, possibly even when the delivery commanded sobriety. Although the play was originally intended to be a comedy, I would have preferred the darkness to take priority. There were also a few irritations with the text. I believe Stoppard's intention was to modernise, but why? One of the real joys of reading Checkov is the essentially pre-modern nature of his work (with streams of consciousness and intellectualisation etc), and there is a wealth of decent translations in existence. Yet at times (and I'm not a linguist so this is just a general feeling) sentences seemed clumsily modern, references seemed anachronistic, or simply out of context. This was all the more evident in contrast to the set design, perfectly faithful to the original - this wasn't (and shouldn't have been) a modern revival. It was (and should be) the triumphant demonstration that top quality theatre can be financially viable in the heart of the West End. More praise for the Donmar, for implementing a vision of what theatre should be.