Lopahin: Will you get there?

Trofimov: Yes . . . I'll get there myself, or show others the way to get there.

When Chekhov returned to the College Little Theatre this year (some old-timers may remember an earlier venture with The Wedding, which was magnificent but strained everything at the seams) we had something which has been lacking at V.U.C. far too long. That is a major production of an important play, not chosen for its box-office appeal, and presented by students within the College itself.

Obviously this is just what is needed if the plan for a really adequate Memorial Theatre in the new Union Building is to be justified. On this, more later. Meantime, my unreserved congratulations to the Drama Club on a policy which deserved better support than it seemed to be getting on the first night, when a rather thin band of enthusiasts picked their way towards Chekhov through a debris-laden site. What (apart from a moral fable on housing development) was their reward?

Stream-Lined Production.

First, a modestly-mounted production that ran smoothly through its four acts, with no fuss and clutter on the small stage, and no hint of a hold-up for scene changes. A single interior set served for three acts; for the [unclear: cutdoor] scene of Act Two we had Peter Campbell's symbolic painted curtains and wolfish rooks, framing a Dolomites wayside shrine. The loss was greatest in Act Three, where the narrow "nursery" had to contain all the bustle of the ball—my own suggestion for this would have been to have the musicians in the open on the floor of the hall; and let the dancers overflow the limits of the stage. Why in any case, was Peter Crowe's band so coyly immuned in a fortune-teller's gypsy tent?

Acting Honours to Women

Margaret Walker has often proved her special flair for building up stage tension: she is at her best with sudden explosions of naked feeling. These The Cherry Orchard hardly offers; it is a play of flickering sunlight through shadow, of tender or naive self-exposure rather than direct clashes of passion. One "strong" scene (between Lyubov and Petya) was brought off in Act Three, But in the true climax that follows the announcement of the sale of the cherry orchard, Lopahin failed to dominate as he should.

Elizabeth Gordon, in a leading part that has extended the most experienced actresses, played with great sensitivity and feeling. Perhaps she was too little of the demi-mondaine, more Barry than Chekhov. But she has overcome the restlessness of [unclear: movenent] that once threatened her [unclear: sty] and gave here an accomplished and moving performance. Virginia Todd made a most appealing ingenue in the Swan Lake manner. Alva Challis grappled, rather too strenuously, with the ungrateful part of Varya—a severer costume and hairstyle might perhaps have helped her out.

The lighter women's parts were admirably cast, and provided two minor triumphs. Natasha Tver—to whom this whole production clearly owed a very great deal—played Dooniasha most effectively for comedy throughout, and observed more completely than anyone else the Stanislavsky formula (for Chekhov) of naturalness and spontaneity. Heather Scott filled the brittle, enigmatic role of the conjuring governess with crisp intelligence, and a beautifully modulated delivery.

Men were Uneven

Chekhov makes harder demands, it seems, on the New Zealand male. Colin Bickler's finished study of the sentimental, loquacious brother was excellent: [unclear: he] was always reliable and let no scene down—though more might surely have, been made of his inimitable entrance in Act Three (a crayfish and celery in a string bag?). Graeme Eton was, I felt; miscast as Lopahin-a pity, for Lopahin is one of the hinges of the whole action of the play. He did not look or speak as though he had ever been a peasant. This is surely a part that must have some "local" accent. For an English actor. North-country or Midlands will serve; New Zealand (alas!) has merely the slurred vernacular.

John Dawick's "perpetual student" was nicely conceived, and at moments looked exactly right; but his delivery was rather monotonous. Geoff Barlow's amiable—and very English—landowner was comically effective, and so was Trevor King's unlucky clerk, though at some loss of the genuine pathos within this part. Michael Mathieson's superior valet was consistent, and his scenes with Dooiasha went particularly well. David Vere-Joties, as the octogenarian Feers, managed his voice much more successfully than his limbs. Laurie Atkinson's tramp made a brief but telling appearance, with something of the genuine stage power that Lopatin lacked.

Where was the Stage Team?

Altogether, then, the acting cast did their best with a difficult piece, and gained extremely valuable experience—for there is more in a minor Chekhov part than in a dozen contemporary Debutantes. But where, to support them, was the back-stage team that any other local drama group can always count on?

The lighting of The Cherry Orchard was most undistinguished, and the sound effect? were ludicrously in adequate. The mysterious snapping string did not register, and the orchard came down to a few unconvincing bumps off-stage. The last effect of all—that final surprise appearance of old Feers, abandoned in the locked house after everyone else has driven away—was hopelessly marred without the long preceding pause, with its muffled sounds of departure, followed by silence, and then the thud of axes. I cannot believe that Margaret Walker would not have supplied these really important sound effects, if she had had the necessary technical assistance to bring them off.

The Moral:

Ideally, of course, a satisfying performance of The Cherry Orchard calls for the full resources of the modern theatre—a perfect orchestration of aural and visual modes. I do not know of any play in which subtly varied lighting, perfectly timed music, and a whole battery of "noises off," can more legitimately contribute to the total effect. It is clear that the V.U.C. Drama Club must somehow recruit, impress, or seduce an adequate team of technical assistants, and try really to cope with modem production methods, whatever the difficulties.

Which brings me back to my starting-point. It is all very well to say that within a couple of years the college may have a well-equipped modern theatre with all the gadgets—but what use will they be if no one has been trained to make the most of them? And what happens to the case for the best possible Memorial Theatre in which a full range of stage effects will be possible, if it is evident that the Drama Club, with its present membership, can not make the best possible use of the Little Theatre it has got?

It is quite unfair to invite the most gifted guest producer to handle a serious play, unless it can be guaranteed that a small group of technical assistants—above all, electricians and stage-management—will be made available. Surely out of its 2000 odd bodies, many of them scientific, V.U.C. can provide these?

So much good work had been put into this production of The Cherry Orchard—into study of the text, acting, design, and music—that it may seem ungrateful to ask for more. But adequate technical support, I am sure, would have turned a very good performance into an outstanding one. My chief criticism here is not so much of those who took part, as of those who didn't. And I hope that Margaret Walker, who has shown her faith in the possibilities of intimate theatre in a university setting, may be one of the first producers to gave us a play of her own choice (The Three Sisters?) in the new model College Theatre towards which, like Trofimov, We aspire.

—James Bertram.