ON THE ROAD: BORIS GODUNOV, THE LADY FROM THE SEA, A DOLL'S HOUSE TOURING

The Daily Telegraph
05.30.2001
Dominic Cavendish

Curious thing, Cheek by Jowl's production of Boris Godunov. It's supposed to be outstanding – hailed as nothing less than "100 per cent proof theater" by Moscow's Izvestiya – and yet, watching it ahead of its Barbican run, it struck me as one of the director Declan Donnellan's rare misfires.

Performed in Russian, with surtitles, and lasting a bladder-testing two hours 15 minutes with no interval, it's rather like Putin's Red Square military march-past – a lot of superficially impressive spectacle, but on close inspection, much of the hardware looks decidedly old and rusty. Why should we care about the fate of Godunov, who succeeded Ivan the Terrible's son Fyodor as Tsar in 1598 after more than a decade as regent? The evening has few answers to this.

At the start we learn that Godunov (forgettably played by Aleksandr Feklistov) is rumoured to have slain Ivan's son Dmitry. His rule is dogged by insecurity and much of the play, in contrast to Mussorgsky's related opera (1874), is taken up with the progress of a pretender called Grigory Otrepyev. This renegade monk passes himself off as the older, mysteriously unharmed Dmitry and enlists a batch of war-hungry Poles to support his cause.

There are certain obvious parallels with Macbeth, but where Macbeth grips us with the nightmare of self-defeating ambition, Pushkin – writing in 1825 – appears more interested in the dream-like nature of power. It's the weakness of the people, rather than the strength of a leader, that can hold nations in thrall.

The play's most fascinating scene has Yevgeny Mironov's scheming Otrepyev declare his deception to Marina, the woman he's wooing; she rejects him as an imposter, then comes to be persuaded, by the force of his self-belief, that his triumph is all the greater. Here we move from dry historical incident into the satisfying realm of ideas. Typically, though, this scene – set beside a fountain – has the two actors awkwardly splashing around in a sunken pool of water, betraying a nervous need, on Donnellan's part, to seduce us with playfulness.

Aside from a mesmerising opening tableau, which conveys the austere beauty of a Russian Orthodox ceremony, too much of what we see on the narrow traverse stage, whether it's the jarring modern costumes, the fleeting presence of Pushkin at an old typewriter or the use of anachronistic video, doesn't so much illuminate the verse as expose its lack of vital connection to recognisable dilemmas.

Where Shakespeare continues to hold the mirror up to nature, Pushkin's seldom-seen drama appears here – mainly and vainly – to admire itself.