THE REAL IVANOV
by Anton Chekhov
Adapted and Directed by Laura Strausfeld
Lynn F. Angelson Theater (Location of Classic Stage Company)
Official Website
Reviewed by David Spencer
Of all things, the title accorded The Real Ivanov reminded me—well, why say “of all things,” given my pop culture interests, it’s inevitable—of The Real Ghostbusters. The latter is the title accorded the animated TV series produced by DiC; for although it was based on the live-action Ghostbusters film, rival studio Filmation (a prolific producer of live and animated shows for children) had its own, older property, variously titled Ghostbusters and The Ghost Busters. (In fact, the live action film had had to make a prior deal with them over the title.) Not to go down the legal rabbit hole further, and to make a long story short, Real was added to the title of the toon based on the live action franchise to make the distinction.
And indeed it did. The Real Ghostbusters (a favorite of mine, I must admit) was wildly successful, and ran for seven mostly-syndicated seasons—the best of those seasons showrun by Babylon 5 creator-writer J. Michael Straczynski, written by him and a cadre of then-young/now-veteran speculative fiction writers who were genuine fanboys and fangirls. The delivery system of the toon was tweaked here and there to make it more kid-appropriate…but it remained genuine Ghostbusters. Indeed, the very Real Ghostbusters.
Which brings us back to The Real Ivanov.
It is the contention of adapter-director Laura Strausfeld that the original text of Anton Chekhov’s Ivanov is very much a product of its place (Russia), time (1886) and positioning as the playwright’s first theatrical work, lacking the maturity and control he would evidence later; that in fact the original is so overwritten and discursive that it blunts the play’s effectiveness with contemporary audiences. And that therefore, it would benefit from a 90 minute, intermissionless distillation to its narrative and thematic essentials. To reveal the REAL Ivanov. The intended Ivanov.
Well, maybe.
But her may not be the ideal iteration.
It’s hard to be categorical about that, though, because her direction thwarts her in nearly every aspect.
Thumbnailing what the play is about: a fellow in the throes of clinical depression. Exacerbating this or because of it, he’s married to a woman he no longer loves, who unbeknownst to her is dying; he’s in debt up to his eyeballs, unable and unwilling to take her to the warmer climes of the Crimea where she might recover; and instead, spends time with the money-lender to whom he’s in debt—and the money-lender’s family, including the wife who keeps the books and the daughter who throws himself at Ivanov. Throughout, Ivanov is emotionally paralyzed, enveloped in self-pity and compelled to tell all and sundry how miserable he is, and how he only brings down everything and everyone he touches.
Ivanov himself is a easily a one-note samba of a role, and what seems to be a problem with cutting to suppoosed bare essentials—in this production anyway—is that it reduces the contrast between him and those around him, which is what makes his depression more bearable for us to observe. In its fuller context, we’d have a better chance to perceive that, right alongside the waste of his intellect, is the irony that at his best, he would never fit in with the society in which he’s trapped. His mind is too fast, his own sense of that irony too acute. He doesn’t have, to appropriate a Herb Gardner line, “a talent for surrender.” And that “deficiency” is what must, in the end, overwhelm him.
Meaning that among the cuts Ms Strausfeld has made are a whole other category of essentials.
She has managed to snag a lead actor, Sam Underwood, who, speaking in his native “received British” accent, has sufficient persona wattage and technique to hold the center without getting sucked under; but she has surround him with a far less effective and less affective supporting cast (a kind of meta irony when you think about it). They disappoint either because they’re too young, too callow or too ill-equipped to carry the material sufficiently; or, because, like the oft-impressive Jordan Lage, they’re at the mercy of the material and unhelpful direction. Which encompasses colliding acting styles, a range of American cultural accents and body-gesture anachronisms. The blocking is likewise frenetic and clumsy. Both tone-deaf and myopic, the execution fudges everything Ms Strausfeld seems to have in mind.
It‘s perfectly okay for writers to direct their own work, there’s a centuries-long and notable history of that, but doing it well involves having a very specific, very sharp vision of the storytelling universe and tonal style. If Ms. Strausfeld’s vision of Ivanov is actually what she delivered …well, it’s as far from “real” Ivanov as it can be.
It’s just something weird. And it don’t look good.
Who (else) you gonna call (out)…?