“This is Chekhov. This is freedom.”
Alexander Moloshnikov’s audaciously theatrical take on The Seagull tackles themes of artistic freedom and censorship in a production that blends joyful cabaret with chilling drama — effectively commenting on the question of how to speak truth to power in an increasingly controlled and commercialised world.
Its original script by Eli Rarey moves between absurdist wit and gutsy drama, following the real-life story of Moloshnikov’s semi-fictional stand-in, Kon, to stage Chekhov’s play, first at the Moscow Art Theatre, then in a warehouse in New York.
With metatheatrical aplomb and some expertly deployed audience address, we are transported to Russia in 2022, shortly before the Kremlin orders its attack on Ukraine. The company is in rehearsals, with Kon directing his mother as Arkadina. Amidst an ensemble of dazzlingly physical exercises and actorly squabbles, the intrusion of Yuri, manager of the prestigious theatre, brings the political situation into the room, forcing Kon to decide between taking a stand or simply carrying on rehearsing.
There is so much to commend here, with a breathtaking abundance of comic, visual and musical elements all working together to tell not just his story, but that of a nation in full moral crisis. A simple red curtain opens out onto Marylebone Theatre’s generously deep performance space filled with richly theatrical costumes and floating sheets of plastic that become in turn birds flying in the sky, physical partitions and bedsheets. Ohad Mazor’s choreography strongly evokes Kander and Ebb’s Cabaret, adding a light-footed theatricality that matches the MC’s levity and contrasts the heaviness of the plot. Shukhrat Turdikhodjaev’s live multi-instrumentation enlivens Fedor Zhuravlev’s referential compositions, shifting between elegant balletic movements, rock ’n’ roll, and pumping dance music.
The second half shifts to Kon’s self-imposed exile in New York, exposing us to a flawed utopian commune in Bushwick filled with brilliantly parodied hypersensitivity, fragile egos and self-medication, where the complete lack of hierarchy leads to another in-play performance that tries to say everything at once yet still arrests with sweeping flags and defiant physicality. The relationships continue to mimic Chekhov’s play, with Kon’s bohemian lover Nico almost becoming Nina from The Seagull, while letters from his collaborator Anton, who’s been imprisoned for speaking out against Putin, yank us back to the devastating realities of what life back home might have been if Kon had stayed.
This is a play so packed full of ideas delivered in an unapologetically fun way that pulls the audience into its intricate narrative games. It’s an incredibly vivid portrayal of creative exile, and the differences between the Russian and American contexts that celebrates joyful resistance and forces us to confront the realities of what art looks like under and outside of authoritarian rule — troublingly, perhaps, a glimpse into our own future.
To observe how Russia’s diasporic theatre scene has responded to this is a powerful example of theatre’s ability to endure, and Seagull: True Story serves as a model for what civic, political and historically conscious theatre can be. In this case, an absolute riot.
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