About a month ago I saw a Moscow theater production, projected on a screen in suburban Cincinnati. It was breathtaking -- the scope and creativity of the theatrical version of Pushkin's classic novel-in-verse from 1831 had me rapt.
Then I went to Moscow.
The Moscow theater scene is all about the classics these days. There's a new musical based on Tolstoy's Anna Karenina; the Vakhtangov is showing that Eugene Onegin, and Chekhov's plays never leave the repertoire: Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, Cherry Orchard etc. I was in town all of two evenings, but that didn't stop me. I got to two productions based on classic 19th century fiction, and both were utterly amazing.
At the Mossovet Theater I attended R. R. R., a play based on Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment.
The leading man, Alexei Trofimov, played Raskolnikov opposite the brilliant Viktor Sukhorukov as the prosecuting detective Porfiry Petrovich. Trofimov was all tossed hair and youthful arrogance, panic creeping in as the play progressed, while Sukhorukov was calm, thoughtful, tricky. Collapsing scenes and characters together, the adaptation succeeded in maintaining a taut, suspenseful atmosphere while not getting bogged down in the details of some of Dostoevsky's many complications.
Most interesting was the set. First, a scrim regularly descended and typed out words: sentences from Raskolnikov's famed manuscript (the article "On Crime") appeared one letter after the next across the stage -- pre-revolutionary fonts and all. Second, an immensely elaborate set of bridges rotated on stage, offering space for the characters' pacing and chasing, evoking the city of St. Petersburg with its many canals and embankments, and carving out apartments and offices -- the pawnbroker's, Raskolnikov's "cell," Sonya's odd-shaped room, the police station. With actors marching across the bridges, leaping off, managing the rotations, unexpectedly meeting each other at the crossroads and ducking to enter the door of the room below, the sense of continual motion only added to the suspense.
I thought it was terrific. Some Moscow critics disagreed, calling the production a "clip" -- a combination of Brazilian melodrama and detective story, made for TV. But I've never seen any television like that.
The next night found us at MKhAT -- the Moscow Art Theater. I hadn't been there in years, and the interior looked surprisingly tatty.
The play, though, didn't disappoint. We forgot to check before it started whether there was an interval, and I should have been able to guess based on the subject matter: Tolstoy's Kreutzer Sonata. As it began, I wondered how the production would handle the most important narrative element of the story -- the constant reminder that the murderer himself is telling the tale, through the night in a darkened railway car. I shouldn't have worried. For one thing, the music created a constant feeling of unease; for another, as we watched Pozdnyshev drink cup after cup of extremely strong tea, every woman in the audience was grateful to have gone to the loo in advance. There was no intermission.
Critics might argue here, too, that the tears and screams and overly melodramatic reactions caused the play to spin out of control. But if readers sometimes feel that Tolstoy's narrator has a right to his misogyny, here there was no doubt: Liza was innocent, a woman who -- unable to bear more children due to medical complications -- just wanted to enjoy some music. And her husband was a jealous beast, insane with suspicions and leading her into a trap from which she could not escape.
He might look reasonable in the photo above, but let me assure you, he was not.
I returned to Ohio to hear more rumors about one of our presidential candidates (a friend offered a great alternative slogan for him: "Make America Grope Again"). And this evening an event is planned for the center of my small town: Men Standing Up in Defense of Women and Against Misogyny.
Liza should have been so lucky.
Then I went to Moscow.
The Moscow theater scene is all about the classics these days. There's a new musical based on Tolstoy's Anna Karenina; the Vakhtangov is showing that Eugene Onegin, and Chekhov's plays never leave the repertoire: Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, Cherry Orchard etc. I was in town all of two evenings, but that didn't stop me. I got to two productions based on classic 19th century fiction, and both were utterly amazing.
 |
| Opening Scene of R.R.R., featuring Raskolnikov on the typewriter |
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| Porfiry Petrovich shows Raskolnikov his article, published under the pseudonym "R.R.R." -- Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. |
Most interesting was the set. First, a scrim regularly descended and typed out words: sentences from Raskolnikov's famed manuscript (the article "On Crime") appeared one letter after the next across the stage -- pre-revolutionary fonts and all. Second, an immensely elaborate set of bridges rotated on stage, offering space for the characters' pacing and chasing, evoking the city of St. Petersburg with its many canals and embankments, and carving out apartments and offices -- the pawnbroker's, Raskolnikov's "cell," Sonya's odd-shaped room, the police station. With actors marching across the bridges, leaping off, managing the rotations, unexpectedly meeting each other at the crossroads and ducking to enter the door of the room below, the sense of continual motion only added to the suspense.
I thought it was terrific. Some Moscow critics disagreed, calling the production a "clip" -- a combination of Brazilian melodrama and detective story, made for TV. But I've never seen any television like that.
 |
| Waiting for the spectators to fill the seats |
The play, though, didn't disappoint. We forgot to check before it started whether there was an interval, and I should have been able to guess based on the subject matter: Tolstoy's Kreutzer Sonata. As it began, I wondered how the production would handle the most important narrative element of the story -- the constant reminder that the murderer himself is telling the tale, through the night in a darkened railway car. I shouldn't have worried. For one thing, the music created a constant feeling of unease; for another, as we watched Pozdnyshev drink cup after cup of extremely strong tea, every woman in the audience was grateful to have gone to the loo in advance. There was no intermission.
Critics might argue here, too, that the tears and screams and overly melodramatic reactions caused the play to spin out of control. But if readers sometimes feel that Tolstoy's narrator has a right to his misogyny, here there was no doubt: Liza was innocent, a woman who -- unable to bear more children due to medical complications -- just wanted to enjoy some music. And her husband was a jealous beast, insane with suspicions and leading her into a trap from which she could not escape.
He might look reasonable in the photo above, but let me assure you, he was not.
I returned to Ohio to hear more rumors about one of our presidential candidates (a friend offered a great alternative slogan for him: "Make America Grope Again"). And this evening an event is planned for the center of my small town: Men Standing Up in Defense of Women and Against Misogyny.
Liza should have been so lucky.
I would have loved to see both these plays. Thanks for sharing. I always enjoy your posts, Angela! -Ona
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