The Real Ivanov, currently on stage in the East Village, is presented as a meditation on depression. I think that’s a mistake.
There are two ways to approach depression:
- To look at it as a comic activity; to ridicule it. That was Chekov’s choice.
- To wallow in it. That is this play’s choice.
Ivanov, in this version, is an empathetic figure. He is someone depressed and unable to shake this difficulty. But objectively, he is a scoundrel: he married a rich woman, then her family disowned her, and all she does is love him, yet he has fallen out of love with her. Is it related to his money problems? He says no. Yet when his wife dies of tuberculosis, immediately he marries the daughter of the richest people in town. The juxtaposition between what he says and what he does is notable. If a man leaves the side of his tuberculosis-ridden wife to prompt a new relationship with a wealthy young woman, is that not a deplorable act worthy of ridicule? Yet this production plays it straight.
Many of the scenes make no sense when played as a drama: Ivanov (our protagonist) goes to the richest woman in town, to whom he owes money, and begs her for another week to pay. She rejects him. A few scenes later, her husband goes to Ivanov and begs him to pay this man’s wife because she is haranguing him about it. That’s already somewhat of a funny circumstance: a man begging not for payment but for his wife off his back. Now, the husband pulls out a thousand rubles to give to Ivanov to give to the man’s wife, on the condition that Ivanov not tell her it’s from him. What a funny thing to do! Now, on top of that, add the fact that our protagonist rejects the money! What a ridiculous scenario! It’s like watching a circle of Loony Toons chase each other. Yet that scene in this production, much like the rest of them, is played dramatically.
Throughout this performance, I was the only person in the audience laughing, frequently laughing because the manner I have found to enjoy this play is by imagining I’m reading the script for it while the actors are talking. I’m enjoying the script itself (it’s very well-written) and laughing at the difference between what they are doing and the humor in the script itself.
This performance is to Chekhov like American Chinese food is to Chinese food. It can be simple and pleasurable if that’s your taste, but it lacks a certain depth of character.
After the play, I explained to my viewing buddy that this play could either be performed as a comedy or as a tragedy, and I thought this tragic choice was lacking. He said, “Are you sure it could be a comedy?” I showed him the poster: their tagline says, “A comedy about despair”. He said, “That was definitely not a comedy.”
Next time, please make the audience laugh at the depression, not at the production itself.
C-
Julian Wise 