The Seagull
–Anton Chekhov
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Just about everyone in The Seagull is desperately in love with someone unattainable or, worse, indifferent. Artists either have little talent and aspire to greatness or have little talent and have achieved greatness. Passion smolders but rarely flames; it’s most pitiable in the figure of Irina’s elderly brother Sorin, who owns the estate where the play is set. He says he had three great desires in life–to get married, to become a writer, and to speak beautifully–none of which he achieved, or apparently even pursued with any diligence. His one notable achievement, attaining the rank of state councillor, is something he never particularly wanted, something that “just happened by itself.” As in the dramas of the great French modernist Jean Anouilh, who learned a thing or two from Chekhov, postidealistic adulthood in The Seagull is a state of perpetual compromise.
But then along comes Jillian Bach as Nina, supplying a much-needed directness to the evening. Rather than embellishing her words indulgently, as several other actors around her seem stuck doing, Bach simply goes after what she wants (which, when you get down to it, is all that acting is). Nina is here to perform Konstantine’s new play, but she has to leave in half an hour. So let’s get on with it. With a real foil onstage, Foust at last finds Konstantine’s idealistic drive. Instantly the play kicks into gear and on track.
In her final scene she must restrain a tidal wave of contradictory emotions, any one of which might crush her if she were to give in to it, while finding the strength to leave everything familiar forever. With superb craftsmanship, Bach negotiates this emotional maze thrillingly, without ever resorting to hysterics. The scene is heartbreaking precisely because Bach maintains the kind of masterful restraint Chekhov arguably intended.
