On first acquaintance, the somnambulistic pace and gravity are not particularly inviting. The play-within-a-play in Act I eschews the farcical possibilities of Konstantin’s “experimental theatre” and offers only muted, uncertain, well-spaced laughs, when usually the scene’s rich comedy accentuates the encompassing bleakness of Chekhov’s vision. Then a line of Dorn’s leaps out as if the governing aesthetic: “Something can only be beautiful if it’s serious.” The solemnity and respectfulness of Christopher Hampton’s new version, and the careful pace of Ian Rickson’s direction, gather dignity and depth as they progress. This is a Seagull that grows on you. And grows. And grows.

A Comedy in Four Acts, Chekhov impishly subtitled it, but as a comedy about frustration, hopeless yearning, failure and, on top of all that, the brevity of life, it reminds you of the Woody Allen joke about two old ladies in a restaurant: “This food’s awful.” “Yes, and such small portions.”

The acting is, without exception, outstanding. Kristin Scott Thomas makes a quite ghastly Arkadina, which I mean as the highest compliment: a monster mother, the surface all icy, smiling egomania and brittle self-regard, but with desperation and sorrow coursing just beneath the porcelain skin. That harrowing, mutually manipulative-destructive scene between mother and son, when she begins by tending his head wound and ends by screaming “Parasite!” and, “ Mediocrity!” at him, reaches heights of intensity painful to watch. But how we feel for her as, down on her knees, she pleads with Trigorin: “You’re the last page of my life!” Mackenzie Crook is inspired casting as Konstantin, with his sunken cheeks, staring eyes and little Russki chin beard. Crook says he’s so new to theatre, he’d never been in the Royal Court before, but he looks comfortable there to me: at ease with the 19th-century dialogue and, unlike poor Nina, the failed actress, knowing exactly what to do with his arms. Carey Mulligan’s Nina is, I hasten to add, excellent. She seems to radiate a visible innocence.

Katherine Parkinson judges Masha just right, loopy but not too loopy, with a weird, quavery voice, continually knocking back vodka shots and taking snuff in a way that suggests a more ruinous powder addiction. Chiwetel Ejiofor has a tremendous presence as Trigorin, articulate and vigorous. His speech on Being a Writer — not the most promising of subjects, you might think — is riveting. Peter Wight is a portly, despairing Sorin, and Pearce Quigley makes a bumbling, good-natured Medvedenko, cursed by the stubborn fact that, as Konstantin says, “women never forgive failure”. Art Malik is a powerfully charismatic Dorn, sweeping off his hat and standing with legs apart, exuding a rare confidence among these losers. “How neurotic everyone is!” he observes, putting it mildly.

Together, they form a poignant, absurd group of nonentities: the used-to-be-famous, the failed and the destined-to-fail, with ambitions far outstripping their talent, all seemingly dedicated to enacting GK Chesterton’s caustic observation: “The artistic temperament is a disease that afflicts amateurs.” But they’re never mere targets of our smug mockery, least of all in this grave, sonorous, atmospheric production, so sensitive to the way Chekhov can switch from melancholy to comedy and back again in just three lines. In fact, here, the same line can be ludicrous and deeply moving. Reprised from Konstantin’s daft play, Nina’s concluding lines are full of pathos: “The cranes no longer wake whooping in the meadow, and in the lime groves the May beetles are silent.”

Other moments are strikingly modern, such as Arkadina’s defence of playing lotto: “It’s a boring game, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it.” We’re not far off the exchange in Waiting for Godot here: “That passed the time.” “It would have passed in any case.”

This is not the most laugh-out-loud version, but by the end, you’ll realise you’ve watched one of the great productions of this masterpiece — such a deeply thoughtful and sympathetic version, you can almost sense Chekhov’s dark, kindly eyes watching over it, and hear his tubercular little cough.

The Seagull, Five stars
Royal Court, SW1

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