Has there ever been a Cherry Orchard as funny as Simon Stone’s Korean-language reinterpretation now playing at the Park Avenue Armory?
Not that previous versions haven’t leaned heavily on the comedy. Tom Stoppard’s nimble adaptation, seen in a Sam Mendes–directed production starring Simon Russell Beale at BAM in 2009, comes to mind. But over the years they’ve been getting more and more dour. And remember that Anton Chekhov infamously (and vocally) hated the way-too-tragic 1904 Moscow Art Theatre premiere.
Yet even performed in Korean—with very accessible supertitles—laughter abounds in this nearly three-hour presentation. Funny is funny in any language.
[Read Michael Sommers’ ★★★☆☆ review here.]
Chekhov purists might want to turn away at this point. Stone—known for taking classic works by Chekhov, Ibsen, and company, and turning them on their collective ears—has uprooted the action from turn-of-the-20th-century Russia to modern-day Seoul, South Korea. (He has called Seoul “an artistic mecca,” comparing the city and its cultural reach to Paris in the 1920s; he also likened the “incredible social hierarchy” to Imperial Russia.) The characters, members of the nobility in Chekhov’s original, have become clueless heirs to a family-run corporation. Yet the central crisis remains the same: They’re having massive money problems and refuse to listen to rhyme or reason; eventually, they wind up having to sell everything.
Now, meet the family: Just returned to Seoul after a money-burning, alcohol-soaked extended stay in New York City with her younger daughter, Kang Hae-na (played by Lee Ji-hye), Song Do-young (famous Korean actress Jean Do-yeon) is the endlessly charming and willfully ignorant owner of the family business, and of the architectural marvel of a home that anchors the property. Her older brother, Song Jae-young (Son Sang-kyu), has no interest in running the company. Do-young’s older daughter, Kang Hyun-sook (Moon Choi), works as vice president, and she’s smart enough to see they’re in trouble, but she can’t do anything—her uncle’s college pal is the CEO. The one voice of reason in the household? Hyun-sook’s casual boyfriend, Hwang Doo-sik (Park Hae-soo, a 2022 supporting-actor Emmy nominee for the Netflix dystopian thriller Squid Game), who’s transformed himself from the chauffer’s son into a major business mogul. He rationalizes, pleads, harangues—essentially does everything in his power to warn Do-young of the business’s impending collapse; he tries to get them to sell something, anything, in order to stave off financial ruin. You don’t have to know The Cherry Orchard to know where this is going.
If you do know The Cherry Orchard, you’ll be delighted by the way Stone has molded Chekhov’s characters. At one point, Jae-young delivers an extended ode to a beloved portable record player with the tenderness one might reserve for addressing a small child; it’s by turns precious and poetic, and just a bit pitiable. If we’re wondering why he’s stuck in the past and unable to take the reins and guide his company into a fast-changing future, this is why: He’s an LP in a streaming world. Hae-na spent her time in New York studying film; her final project, it turns out, was a movie about a dead bird (Chekhov crossover alert!). And while the relationship between the elder daughter and the entrepreneur has never been very plausible, by the end we see a genuine connection here. “I hope you find someone who brings you to your knees,” Hyun-sook tells Doo-sik as they part with a perfect kiss.
A word about the set: If you saw Stone’s Yerma, anchored by a claustrophobic clear box, at the Armory in 2018, you might not be surprised to see a massive glass-paneled house, created by the architect Saul Kim. While there aren’t any cherry trees in sight, the glass walls show us just how vulnerable Do-young, Hyun-sook, Hae-na, and Jae-young are.
The Cherry Orchard opened Sept. 16, 2026, at the Park Avenue Armory and runs through Sept. 26. Tickets and information: armoryonpark.org
