Conor McPherson's Uncle Vanya

It is a two word phrase that causes dismay. If I hear it in a meeting I wince. It almost brings me out in hives. At least I no longer take the speaker to task after the meeting, although if more people did that perhaps we could rid the world of it once and for all. It is the king of office babble, the pinnacle of redundant tautology [wink], and it drives me crazy. It is 'going forward'.

Yet last week it made me smile for the first time. Uttered by Aleksandr Vladimirovich Serebryakov, the pompous professor in Conor McPherson's adaptation of Anton Chekhov's Uncle Vanya - "We must seek out such measures as will guarantee us all a constant, eternal, fixed income going forward - and for the rest of our lives!" - it was just perfect. Truth be told, I did wince before I smiled, but I quickly realised what McPherson was up to. Serebryakov is the Russian fin de siècle equivalent of the metropolitan liberal elite, contemptuous of those who live their lives out in the sticks, and, in Chekhov's play, willing to sell out almost all of his extended family so he can continue his existence as an ineffectual and unread Petersburg intellectual.

  

Chekhovites and a certain type of theatre-goer can baulk at any updating or overhauling of the language in the plays, but I love it. Initially, it might be great to have a conservative and literal translation, particularly when you first come across these incredible plays. But their timelessness, and the liberality of translation, allows for a playfulness with language. The themes are adaptable and supple. Keep the structure and the interplay, but make it resonate. It is robust enough to survive. Ivan (Vanya) Petrovich Voynitsky's occasionally modern outbursts and obscenities in this reworking are a case in point.    

I've seen Uncle Vanya once before – at the Donmar with that ubiquitous frequenter of Chekhov's estates, Simon Russell Beale - and I had decided that it was my least favourite of Chekhov's four major plays. A few decades back it was The Seagull that had struck a chord: I'm was a sucker for the desperately romantic Konstantin. But that's a younger man's choice, and encountering Uncle Vanya in middle-age teased out its subtle, poignant brushstrokes. Toby Jones as Vanya is perfect (Toby Jones is always perfect). We are irritated by him, angry at him, and finally, after his infamous outburst, are drawn towards sympathy as we contemplate the quiet life of desperation that he leads. The pathos and delusion in his cry of "I could have been another Schopenhauer, another Dostoevsky" can't help but bring to mind Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront.     

Toby Jones: "I could have been a contender!" 

This theme, the beginning of a slow, inevitable descent towards death, is also captured beautifully by Peter Wight as Ilya Ilych Telegin. Nicknamed 'Waffles' because of his pockmarked skin, and deserted by his wife the day after he had married her, Telegin still clings loyally and romantically to vows made decades before. The role, and Wight's portrayal, brought to mind Richard Griffiths' Uncle Monty in Withnail and I. This is no faint praise: I've said it before that the character of Monty is the saddest and most quietly tragic in cinema. Desperate loneliness and late-middle-age are fertile grounds for comedy, but only for a fleeting second or two. You laugh readily and then hollowly. Fear lurks, stalking the middle distance. Indeed, Shakespeare's line "I was adored once too!" is not so much about looking back, but rather about the impossibility of looking forward.    

Ian Rickson's production, currently showing at the Harold Pinter theatre in London, is superb. The set is exquisite, with light filtering through lush greenery left of stage, and birdsong and bright light pervading the set. It conjures up a brooding, hot-house quality that is perfect for the tension that is about to bubble to the surface. 

"There's going to be a storm!" 

I think there is also something appropriate about watching Chekhov in the dark of winter. His plays tend to be set in Russia's brief, fleeting warmer months, and this complements our temporal knowledge about what lies, just a decade or so, over the horizon. All of the problems that engulf this family and its estate will fade into obscurity; many of the protagonists will be dead, crushed by the terrors unleashed by Lenin and then Stalin. And with that final thought, I'm left thinking again about the phrase 'going forward' and the irony and semantic baggage that it carries. The final coinage and its 'great leap' may belong to Mao Zedong, but the idea for that grew out of Stalin's 'Five Year Plans'.  The objective was to advance; the reality was nothing of the sort.