From Britain with love

Published in 4 May 1997 issue of The Independent on Sunday

Almeida Company member Oliver Ford Davies kept a diary of the Theatre Company's trip to Moscow for their production of Chekov's play "Ivanov"

Tuesday 22 April: This is colossal cheek. The Almeida production of Ivanov is the first British Chekhov to play in Moscow in English. "Haven't they got enough Chekhov in Russia? Islington sceptics drawn. Certainly, but our excuse is that Ivanov, his first performed play, is less well known than the big four. Nevertheless it takes nerve. Ivanov is sometimes called the Russian Hamlet. We're conscious that David Hare's adaptation and Jonathan Kent's production have tried to make passive characteristics active. Often, the words 'boring' and 'boredom' have been cut from the text; 'melancholy' has become anguish. We play it at a furious pace. The comedy is done broadly, almost farcically. In London people dubbed it "very Russian - Moscow will love it". But is it? And will they?

Our hotel, built in 1912 'style moderne', has been immaculately restored. We rush to see the Maly Theatre. The stage is huge, with four great dusty bells hanging 60 feet up at the back. The 1,000 seater auditorium is very 1840 - unraked stalls, three circles of boxes set very far back, and Stalin's stage box with bullet-proof curtains. The acoustic is tremendous (well, naturally, for its era). At the Almeida we have two dressing rooms, and six actors overflow into the wardrobe. Here we have over 100 rooms to choose from, but we've already decided to stick to our huddled groups. This baffles the Maly. Reluctantly they allow us to at least pair off. I alone have a room to myself. Kevin Fitzmaurice, our stage manager, explains that this is because no one will share with me. This is typical theatre joke. I think. Anyway, it's beautiful, with a view out to the Bolshoi and a huge, intricately carved mirror. Perhaps I can stand the loneliness after all...

Ralph Fiennes goes off to introduce a screening of The English Patient. He gives his speech in Russian, and is applauded every third word. Whether it's because he's a film star, or attempting Russian, or has simply turned up, is not clear. We all meet for a Georgian meal. Opposite the restaurant is a magical sight - the floodlit Novodevichiy Convent, domes and castellations gleaming.

Wednesday: A difficult day. We've all slept badly. The set isn't ready. Our crew work 48 hours, with five hours sleep. We have a word run on the great sofas of the green room. These can be speed gabbles, but this is a concentrated, urgent playing of intentions - very thrilling. When Anna (Harriet Walter) asks Count Shabielski where he'd go if he won the lottery and I reply "Moscow", everyone cheers, and the frightening reality of being here finally sinks in. We scramble through the technical, nerved frayed, then dress-rehearse in front of 300 drama students. It's a very difficult performance. We can't gauge our projection in a house six times the size of the Almeida. Few of the students understand much English and we lose 90 per cent of the laughs. As audiences, drama students are notorious. They usually come to scoff - well, my generation did.

We then have a question and answer session. Of course the students are polite, but it emerges that they find our acting too energised. One person uses the word "hysterical". They are clearly used to melancholic, reflective Chekhov. It confirms my suspicions. Tell a British (or American) audience that you are sad and life is boring, and they think, "and so is this play, and I'm missing 'ER'. Tell a Russian audience, and they think, "absolutely right - this is the human condition". There's a question about the anti- semitism in the play, and Ralph answers by talking passionately and eloquently about the possibility of evil in all of us. Then a young woman speaks of how, though she didn't understand the language, she became gripped by the human emotions and dilemma on stage. It transcends all barriers. The audience applaud frantically. We applaud even more frantically. Honour is saved. But doubts remain.

Thursday: A better day. I sleep until 10.30. We have a press call at noon, with more than 100 journalists present. Of course most want to ask Ralph if he prefers stage to screen, is Ivanov the Russian Hamlet, etc., etc. Towards the end a woman asks, "Aren't you tired of all this about the Russian soul? If you were doing Ibsen would you worry so much about the Norwegian soul?" Good question.
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We start the play, determined to play with one another, be truthful and enjoy ourselves. This is the happiest, most generous, least tortured group of actors I have worked with. The first half is sticky. The audience is unsure, despite being 40 per cent English-speaking. Tickets originally priced at $30 have been changing hands for $200. Is this London fringe theatre, where actors rehearse for only four weeks and are paid GBP200 a week, going to be worth it? Laughs are coming. My scene with Tony O'Donnell and Diane Bull (pure Feydeau farce) gets a round. But the real test comes after the interval, in the great sequence of dualogues in Act III. Ralph, Harriet, Tony, Bill Paterson, Colin Tierney, Justine Waddell are superb, completely concentrated, letting the extremes of emotion flow in the big theatre. The audience are fixated. This is their Chekhov - a man proclaiming the shame of human existence. Great applause and cheers at the end, many curtain calls, flowers for everyone. My main feeling is one of great relief.
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We end up back in our hotel bar singing Beatles songs. I guiltily retire at about three to write up this diary. Ah, the sacrifices we hacks make.

Friday: The Moscow Times says, "Fiennes takes Moscow", but we're not clear what's meant.

Saturday: Last night. The reception is stunning, even to an old sceptic like me. A standing ovation for minutes on end. We applaud the audience back. I am handed red carnations which I resolve to take back to London (I do and four have survived). There is a note attached. "To Ralph, with love Natasha. Come back soon." Ah well, can't have everything.

Sunday: On the plane home I read a Chekhov story, 'Ariadne'. A character says: "A Russian actor will never play the fool. Even in a comedy he wants to express his soul." Perhaps Chekhov too had problems with the Russian theatre.