The moment Uncle Vanya appears, prickly and grumpy after his afternoon nap, you know that you're in Chekhov country. Nicholas Le Prevost's Vanya moves about, still and jerky, puzzled and restless, as if every step might lead to some undeserved disaster, like a fretful marionette who resents the puppeteer's hand but needs it to give him a posture of dignity. Le Prevost knows, I think, that, deep down, Vanya longs for rejection - it's a well-deserved punishment for a lifetime of subservience. Chekhov's greatness lies in the fact that he neither loves nor hates his characters. The doctor in him observes moral behaviour as symptoms, but, crucially, promises neither improvement nor aggravation. Peter Hall's production brilliantly brings out this hardness in Chekhov. The play comes across as tough and taut, wading briskly across puddles of unhappiness without pity, but with an understanding that doesn't miss a thing. Chekhov liked to tease people by calling his plays comedies, but Hall is not fooled: the comic moments are painfully serious, the dark ones grimly comical. Life is an unfinished business. People are imprisoned in themselves and dream of some restful freedom that they can't understand. They love people who are not available, but don't love those who are.
Neil Pearson's Astrov, tough, frustrated and much more lonely than he thinks, is like a brooding prisoner trying to grow lilies on his windowsill. He knows perfectly well that his beloved forests are doomed. Michelle Dockery is a cool, proud Yelena, trying and failing to cover up her need for life; and there's a brilliantly funny and devastatingly cruel performance by Ronald Pickup as Professor Serebryakov. It is a masterclass of acting, a portrait of a vulgar intellectual in whom self-pity and self-admiration fight each other like toothless lions.
This is the first production at the new Rose, seating 900, an imposing but welcoming space. The seating is comfortable, the acoustic excellent. The stage, not square and thrust, but wide and curved, is modelled on the Rose, where Marlowe's plays and Shakespeare's early works were first performed. But what this Rose needs is finance. The local authority paid for the building. Running it needs a mere £600,000 a year.
The Arts Council showed a stony indifference. Might they reconsider? Or are we living in a nation of Serebryakovs, knowing full well the price of the arts, but ignorant of their value?
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Rose, Kingston