Being confronted with one’s paucity of imagination can be disconcerting. For instance, as a lifelong theatergoer, I’ve seen countless productions of Anton Chekhov’s classic The Seagull over the years. I’ve even seen it performed in Russian. But while watching the play, never once have I wondered whether or not Irina Arkadina, one of its central characters, was keeping up with her Kegel exercises.
Fortunately, that oversight has been corrected, thanks to The Seagull/Woodstock, NY, currently receiving its world premiere courtesy of Off-Broadway’s The New Group. Of course, as the title indicates, this is not really The Seagull, but rather an adaptation written by Thomas Bradshaw. But it’s close enough of an adaptation to traumatize me into never thinking of the play the same way again.
Which is probably the point, since Bradshaw, whose previous works include Intimacy and Burning (both presented by The New Group as well), prides himself on being a provocateur. Or, as The New York Times has described him, “one of the most deliberately and effectively confrontational playwrights in America.” Bradshaw clearly takes pride in the designation, since it’s featured prominently in his program bio.
[Read Sandy MacDonald’s ★★★☆☆ review here.]
The problem with being confrontational is that it tends to get old quickly. Such is likely the case with this…what’s the word I’m looking for, oh, yes…confrontational adaptation. Chekhov’s play is still going strong, being produced regularly around the world even some 127 years after its 1896 premiere. The Seagull/Woodstock, NY, on the other hand, is unlikely to have a shelf life longer than overripe bananas.
You know what you’re in for even before the curtain (not that there is one) goes up. The actors slowly gather onstage, happily kibbitzing with each other while stretching and doing warm-up and vocal exercises. They then launch into a rendition of the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song “Our House,” for which the audience happily joins in. You have to say this about New York theatergoers, they’re certainly agreeable. And they clearly want to have a good time, even at a play that ends with one of the major characters committing suicide.
While this was going on, I couldn’t make up my mind whether Bradshaw (or director Scott Elliott, since the opening isn’t in the script) was being pretentious or slyly mocking such theatrical pretensions. I’m still not sure, but it’s not keeping me up nights. In any case, the cutesy pre-show business added some ten minutes to the already lengthy (two hours and forty-five minutes) running time. Because what everyone thinks when they’re seeing a Chekhov play is, of course, “If only this could be longer.”
Bradshaw hews rather faithfully to the storyline of the original play. He’s updated and changed the setting, of course. And he’s altered the names of several of the characters. The vain actress Irina, for instance, is now Irene (Parker Posey). And her hopelessly depressed, aspiring playwright son Konstantin is called Kevin (Nat Wolff). Masha is now Sasha (Hari Nef), and she’s still in mourning for her life. Although she doesn’t say so explicitly. Instead, when asked why she dresses in such somber fashion, she snaps, “At least I don’t buy my clothes at Walmart.”
Hewing carefully to his image, Bradshaw throws in numerous jokes about various bodily functions and seeks to jolt us in other ways. When the young actress (Aleyse Shannon) performs Kevin’s play in front of friends and family, it consists of her talking about her masturbatory practices and concludes with a vigorous demonstration (decorously done behind a curtain) in a bathtub. (She’s still called Nina, by the way, presumably because Bradshaw couldn’t think of an interesting variation). Race is a major theme, with Nina being mixed race and Irene’s vain novelist lover, William (Ato Essandoh) being African-African, and there’s a debate about the propriety of using the “N word.” And when William finally gets it on with Nina, we see them having sex, his bare ass pumping up and down in the aforementioned tub.
To be fair, Bradshaw does get off some funny lines, as when Nina angrily says to her playwright son, “Your work isn’t good enough to get produced in a dinner theater in Kansas City.” Or when the ailing Samuel (downtown theater veteran David Cale) comments, “Suicide and alcohol are the only two choices in Woodstock.” More often than not, though, the dialogue is simply vulgar: “You know I can’t cum if I’m not fully present,” Irene chides her lover.
There are some amusing in-jokes about theater, with references to La Mama and P.S. 122 getting knowing laughs from an audience obviously eager to demonstrate their bona fides. And I do admit that I chuckled when Irene announced that her next job was co-starring in all-female True West, which, for all we know, could be Bradshaw’s next project.
To say that subtlety doesn’t reign supreme is an understatement. Kevin expresses his hostility to William by giving him the finger (well, two fingers, to be precise), and reveals his repressed Oedipal love for his mother by kissing her full on the lips. You certainly don’t have to work hard to uncover the subtext here.
Under the scattershot direction of Scott Elliott, the actors, many of whom are familiar, are all over the place. At times, you feel like they’ve just been introduced to each other. Some manage to find the humanity in their characters, with Nef, Wolff, Cale and Amy Stiller having their moments. And Posey is an absolute delight, even if she feels miscast, with her extensive comedic experience in Christopher Guest’s films (and many, many others) serving her well in her impeccably timed delivery of Irene’s biting asides.
The show feels long, very long, but not to worry. If you find yourself nodding off, you’re likely to be jolted awake by the periodic blowing of an air horn onstage. The deafening sound produced many a startled response and made one hope that the theater is equipped with a defibrillator.
The Seagull/Woodstock, NY opened February 28, 2023, at Signature Center and runs through April 9. Tickets and information: thenewgroup.org
