Chekhov in Hell by Dan Rebellato, Soho Theatre, dir Simon Stokes
Chaotic. Chekhov wakes from a hundred-year coma to find himself in twenty-first century Britain. There is a kind of plot of sorts: Linda, a descendant of Chekov’s, reports him as a missing person; and Aleksandr, a sex trafficker, passes himself off as Chekhov, whilst pursued by police as he looks for a girl named Irina. Throw in a couple of scenes in Russian and German for authenticity, projected lines from scenes as motifs on the wall, such as You’re having a fucking laugh or Yo Soy un Fashionista; the lack of props, unless essential to Chekov, no change in costume and a range of accents, reminiscent of an agents’ showcase, and you begin to have a measure of this hotchpotch, chaotic evening. What was the point? No help in the programme which suggests this bitterly comic new play asks where we came from, how we got here and what do we do now? This could be said about the play itself. It feels like an early draft with too many ideas and directions, and never digs deep enough as its bitter-comic tag suggests.
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