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The childrens old nursery is a rectangle of floor, empty save for an enormous rust-colored Persian carpet.
An even bigger expanse of that same carpet masks one long wall.
The effect is warm if not quite cozy the space is a little too abstract for total comfort.
I slept in here when I was a little girl.
When I was innocent and pure … she says.
The orchard is exactly the same as it was then.
It hasnt changed one bit.
Ranevskayas 17-year-old daughter Anyas (Sadie Soverall) fuzzy sweater has cherries on it.
When is less more, and when is more necessary?
Why do I even exist?
she asks a mute cosmos between the magic tricks she performs for the gentry.
People like this have begun the walk toward Beckett and Ionesco.
Like a string snapping in the ether.
Is it too easy, a sermon for the choir?
Perhaps a bit but this is who Chekhovs fierce, pent-up young tutor has always been.
And, in Monkss charged performance, the sad self-delusions of the character are equally present.
As Anyas interest in him blooms, he retreats into intellectualism.
Poor boy so determined to cure the world, so afraid of himself.
Fortunately, its got a crack ensemble to call on.
And Akhtar digs deep into Lopakhins gnawing class anxiety: Hes always itchy, always on the move.
As are and this is where I feel Chekhov cracking a smile its eccentricities.
The Cherry Orchardis at St. Anns Warehouse through April 27.
