I used to think that The Seagull was the great play about writing, with its vision of the established and the aspirant dramatist, its insights into authorial jealousy, its portraits of women enraptured by pen-wielding men. Chekhov’s drama glints slightly differently in Jamie Lloyd’s startling production, which uses Anya Reiss’s lively modern version. It rivets with what it shows about celebrity; the longing for it and its insidious effects.
Lloyd never does anything by halves. In one of the most revelatory productions of the past decade he, and translator Martin Crimp, turned Cyrano de Bergerac from a big-nose-and-boots-boys flamboyant indulgence into something immediate and rasping. Now he does the opposite with The Seagull. He stills a work that often flaps around, strutting its thespiness.
