Glad though I am to see this production, cut short this year by the pandemic, I was disappointed. It saddens me thinking of all London theatres still closed, and actors struggling but I cannot pretend to like a production because of the emotional pain it is causing people who love to see live theatre. My main quarrel with this version of the play is that there is nothing Russian about it. I do not mean having a Samovar on stage but something deeper. The British are often heavy with Chekhov, and this production for me falls into this trap. The actors do their best and if I have to pick out two who I thought achieved something of the ' feel ' of the environment it is supposed to take place in I was impressed by Richard Armitage and Anna Calder-Marshall. Their first scene together was tremendous, light and dark in their dialogue and in their gestures. After that I thought it slowly became more static, various different accents clashing which would not have been the case in the province in which these characters are trapped. I found the use of swear words irritating and added nothing to Chekhov's text. Of course in these past years we seem to think audiences need them. Also monologues said facing the camera and looking at us. Painful and too attention grabbing, when these are musings and almost private, and to be overheard and not stared at in the face. The third act sounded shouty and I switched off mentally. Where is the tragic farce in all this and the sad humour ? Chekhov is not Ibsen, but mood and vast spaces, not a claustrophobic ' Huis Clos '. I also do not think Toby Jones was right for the role, but that is perhaps unfair. The shooting scene was not as farcically dreadful as it should have been. Many will disagree with this, but it is certainly not for me the 5 star production many think it is. It should have been fiercely painful, and horror in the madness that farce can be. Toby Jones lowering his trousers at one point did not make up for the light touch sorely missed by this viewer. And the set and the clothes were an appalling mess and without any real sense of period or location. Chekhov's endings are perhaps the greatest ever written for the stage, and yes as always I was moved. Unity of vision at the end was achieved, and Aimee Woods gave a superlative final monologue, and was a cry of hope relevant today as it was in Chekhov's time.
