If a one-man production of Anton Chekhov’s 1898 tragicomedy sounds like a tall order, or a terrible gimmick, it picks just the actor for the job in Andrew Scott. He holds us captive with his gamut of roles although the play itself is overshadowed by its high concept.
Co-created by Scott, along with Simon Stephens, Sam Yates and Rosanna Vize, the story follows Chekhov’s closely, although Stephen’s adaptation is in modern vernacular with anglicised names and not a samovar in sight.
All the Chekhovian themes are touched on, however briefly, from midlife malaise to climate damage. But at its heart is the love-quadrangle involving Helena, the beautiful young wife of elderly Alexander (a film-maker here), his daughter Sonia, world-weary doctor Michael, and the titular Vanya.
Scott gives carefully controlled, thrillingly virtuoso physical performances. He exits as one character and enters as another, excelling in the plate-juggling feat of playing two or more characters in conversation. Where the romances might so easily have felt off-kilter, they reel us in, even though the sex scenes that follow push us back out with the sheer oddness of Scott’s solo enactments.
Each character is given symbolic tics and changes of voice: Helena is a posh woman who twiddles her necklace. Vanya is a rakish type who lopes around in sunglasses. Michael is little short of the “hot doctor” who speaks in occasional double entendres. “You wanted to see my maps?” he says suggestively to Helena in a scene in which he reveals his passion for the environment – and for her.
It is all very entertaining, with lots of sharp comedy (Stephens’ script has some great one-liners) but it renders characters flimsy or broad. Some rise above this such as Sonia, whose pain of unrequited love is played with a smiling vulnerability that is moving.
It is precisely because Scott is so exceptional that we want more than the actorly somersaults he performs. By its nature this playful dramatic experiment cannot allow him to penetrate any one part deeply or devastatingly enough for the tragedy to be truly felt by the end.
As a concept, the production bears all the thoughtful postmodern experimentalism of the Wooster Group but because its tone leans towards the mischievous and picaresque, it ends up looking like the Reduced Chekhov Company, certainly in the earlier scenes.
But still it is to be commended for its innovation. It never falls into gimmicky either but seems like a radical concept rather than a radically reconceived play.
Vize’s set design exposes its workings, with plywood boxes and props scattered around the stage. The back curtain is drawn to reveal a mirror reflecting us, the audience, back at ourselves. This becomes meaningful in a production that requires us to actively build this ostensible rehearsal space into an imaginary world.
It is also a bold move to stage a play with such an improvisational, fringe feel at the West End, especially when many venues are wheeling out safe revivals. Those who come to see Scott on stage will not leave disappointed. We get him up close, up stage and intimate. So much so that this really is the Andrew Scott show. Chekhov comes second.
• At Duke of York’s theatre, London, until 21 October.
