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theatre review

Moya O’Connell as Yelena Andreyevna and Neil Barclay as Ivan Petrovich (Vanya) in Annie Baker’s adaption of ‘Uncle Vanya.’Emily Cooper

That the Uncle Vanya that opened at the Shaw Festival on Friday is a fine one is no surprise – the tragicomedies of Russian playwright Anton Chekhov are fully within the wheelhouse of this destination repertory theatre located in Ontario's wine country.

That director Jackie Maxwell's production would be a truly revivifying one came as a shock, however. A translation by American playwright Annie Baker as refreshing as cold water in the face, Maxwell's fly-on-the-wall direction and uncannily natural performances combine to make Chekhov really feel like our contemporary again.

Whether it's Neil Barclay's bumbling, depressive Uncle Vanya knocking over an axe, then disguising his embarrassment by self-consciously throwing it back over his shoulder; or Patrick McManus's doctor briefly taking a break from alcoholic self-pity to gobble down a late-night snack; or Marla McLean's Sonya and Moya O'Connell's Yelena sharing confidences on a shared journey from shy to bold over glasses of wine like any two young women anywhere, any time, there are myriad moments free of mannerisms and soaked in honesty.

This production constantly holds the mirror up to life in all its bittersweet beauty – and will make you laugh and maybe even blush in recognition.

That's generally the goal with Chekhov, of course. "Let the things that happen on stage be just as complex and yet just as simple as they are in life," the playwright wrote. "For instance: people are having a meal, just having a meal, but at the same time their happiness is being created, or their lives are being smashed up."

At its best, Maxwell's production in the intimate Court House theatre realizes that effect better than any Canadian production I've seen.

Uncle Vanya is set on a country estate in decline. Retired, ailing and cranky, the professor Serebryakov (David Schurmann) has moved back home with his beautiful, bored wife Yelena – turning the world of the relatives, employees and moochers who live there upside down.

Vanya – brother of the professor's first wife – has become enchanted by Yelena, while local doctor Astrov has fallen for her heart and groin. At the same time, Sonya, the professor's insecure daughter and Vanya's niece, has become obsessed with the doctor – and Yelena is headed that way despite, or perhaps due to, being married to the unbearable professor.

This quartet of characters, performed by actors happily liberated from accents and the acting affectations that they used to call the "manners of the mandate" here, is a joy to watch, simply existing for four acts.

The most exquisite sequence comes in the second act – a sleepless night on the estate, where Astrov shares a conversation with Sonya, then Sonya shares her attraction to the doctor with Yelena.

It's hard to explain what's so gorgeous about this half hour of stage time. In the case of McManus's complex Astrov, I cycled through rolling my eyes at him, pitying him, loving him, laughing at him, hating him and relating to him in a few short minutes.

"I don't think I'm capable of really loving people," he tells Sonya, pulling her in and pushing her away at once. McManus simultaneously plays a jerk who toys with women for fun, a man deeply fearful of commitment and a prophet foreseeing the destruction of the world.

"There are fewer and fewer forests, rivers are drying up, wildlife is being displaced, the climate is changing, and every day the land becomes less fertile and more disgraceful," he says, making apocalypticism seductive.

(Read older translations and they mention the climate, too; this isn't an attempt to shoehorn in relevance by Baker, a brilliant contemporary playwright who has refreshed and redeemed naturalism for a new generation.)

As Sonya, mostly listening, McLean gives an equally impressive performance – balancing her attraction to the doctor with skepticism of him, her intelligence and hope and lack of self-confidence staging a battle royale in her eyes. I could have watched the two of them dance around each other eating sliced cucumbers all night.

The supporting cast has memorable moments too. As Serebryakov, Schurmann is incredibly unlikeable, annoying every moment he's on stage – as, I suppose, he should be. Sharry Flett's Nanny soothes him like he is a giant, overgrown baby. As the pockmarked moocher known as Waffles, Peter Millard is constantly disappearing on stage; his tiny sense of self is heartbreaking.

Maxwell's production does lose some steam in the second half, as the contemporariness of the acting and adaptation starts to clash when everyone stops being selfish enough to be entirely relatable.

Barclay, so perfectly pathetic until then, loses the complete connection to his character in the final moments – but McLean subs in to provide out a sizzler of an ending.

"We've lost any kind of pure immediate connection with nature," Astrov says in one of his rants. "Or with each other." If you have the same complaint about the theatre, check out this Chekhov.

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