Director Kirill Serebrennikov retains the bite of a dark 19th-century family saga in his new stage adaptation

The first thing we see in Kirill Serebrennikov's dramatization of The Golovlyovs at the Chekhov Moscow Art Theater is a relatively empty stage on which there stands a large, imposing, though plain wooden table. Clamped to the table are a few manually operated meat grinders. As contrived by designer Nikolai Simonov, this image instantly establishes the general territory of this work – simplicity and brutality.

Mikhail Saltykov-Schedrin's The Golovlyovs, originally published in installments in the late 1870s, is one of the outstanding novels in the history of Russian literature. It is a merciless human portrait, a withering, relentless expose of stupidity and narrow-mindedness. Russian literature of the 19th century was rich in works of this vein – Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Aleksei Pisemsky and Aleksandr Sukhovo-Kobylin are just a few of those who plumbed the depths of human depravity and sycophancy alongside Saltykov-Schedrin. But a case could be made that in The Golovlyovs Saltykov-Schedrin outdid them all. In this novel, routinely considered his masterpiece, he created a dark, oppressive world to beat all dark, oppressive worlds.

In his theatrical rendition of the novel, Serebrennikov shows why he is widely considered the most prominent new director to emerge in the last five years. His is a creative, interpretive approach that offers a new vision of the original in the light of the world we now inhabit.

Simonov's set is both realistic in its detail and impressionistic, if not abstract, in its visual effect. It is divided into zones by moving panels that transform the space quickly. There is an unreal sense to the surroundings at times, in part thanks to the lighting by Damir Ismagilov, in part thanks to little tricks employed by Serebrennikov and Simonov. What appears to be a black hole in the back wall turns out to be a mirror that reflects objects imperfectly. A small projector worked by one of the actors projects headings and subtitles onto various surfaces as if in a silent movie. The music by Aleksandr Manotzkov, sometimes played live by the actors themselves, is often suggestive of confusion and alarm.

The people of the play are marked from the outset as deficient in some way. Porfiry (Yevgeny Mironov), the family's eldest son, is clumsy and seemingly blank-headed. His brother Pavel (Aleksei Kravchenko) is a drunk. Their young brother Stepan (Eduard Chekmazov) is an outcast who has earned the scorn of everyone, including Arina Petrovna, the matriarch of the family (Alla Pokrovskaya). Perhaps one of the reasons for Stepan's reputation in the family is the time when he set one of the servants on fire, a scene we witness in one of many flashbacks.

Flashbacks play a crucial role in the dramatization that Serebrennikov wrote himself. He uses them to foreground the past, making it an active element in the present. Thus, we see sequences of action outside of chronological order: the young Porfiry and Pavel writing obsequious letters home to their mother from school; Stepan trying to return home from "exile"; and Arina Petrovna lording over the entire household, including her weak-willed husband Vladimir (Sergei Sosnovsky). On occasion, as in one of the final scenes when Porfiry turns away his niece Anninka (Yevgeniya Dobrovolskaya) at a moment of her greatest need, we see scenes from the past and present being played out in parallel in different corners of the stage. The result is that Serebrennikov achieves a multi-faceted portrayal of a complex, conflicted and dysfunctional family.

Arina Petrovna keeps a strict grip on the household, bending everything and everyone to her iron will. Justice or integrity mean nothing in this home; power and blind resolve alone are what shape it. But if Arina Petrovna is a woman of consequence by nature, this quality has been lost in her sons. And, as can happen, in time the role of leader is taken over by the least distinguished and the least talented of them all.

Porfiry – whom everyone calls Iudushka, or Judas, as it were – is every bit his mother's son. Having perfected the role of the flatterer and toady from earliest childhood, he inherits the family's holdings after his mother begins to decline and his father dies. He learned the value of being mediocre, of never overstepping his bounds, of never taking chances and of always doing what is suspected of him. He will sacrifice anything or anyone in the name of piety and righteousness, at least insofar as he understands them. To one degree or another he is to blame for a series of deaths, including those of his brothers, his illegitimate son Volodya (Sergei Medvedev) and others. In short, with his convictions of obedience and conformity, Iudushka becomes a monstrous tyrant.

Mironov puts a chilling sugarcoating on his performance of Porfiry. Sweet-voiced, gentle in his gestures and modestly dutiful in his manners, he is one of those people who terrorize others with empty principles and condescending morality. Patronizing at every step and stuffed full of false humility, Mironov's Porfiry slowly reveals himself to be an odious, treacherous figure. Rarely have such high-minded speeches about thriftiness, humility, filial respect and religious devotion sounded so utterly base and repulsive.

This is a universe in which everything is corruptible. Once the backbone of the family, even Arina Petrovna buckles instantly under the pressure of her fanatical son. Almost in the blink of an eye she transforms from a domineering figure of unassailable authority to a furtive old woman whose only goal in life appears to be to avoid calling down the wrath of her son upon her own head. Only when it is too late, only when the entire family has effectively been destroyed, does she come to her senses. The sole satisfaction left her at that point, however, is to condemn Porfiry and die.

Pokrovskaya draws a long, tall arc in her remarkable performance of Arina Petrovna. Regardless of what she is portraying – cruelty, crassness or obsequiousness – she fills it out with power and personality. One always senses there is a person there behind the facade, one filled with paradoxes and worthy of deference, if not respect.

But this production is blessed with numerous fine performances, including Kravchenko's interpretation of the doomed Pavel and Dobrovolskaya's handling of the forlorn Anninka. Kravchenko's Pavel is a man without talent or vision, but he has heart and this is what proves to be his downfall. Dobrovolskaya brings to Anninka a rough mix of innocence and weathered life experience. In her moment of truth, when she appeals in vain to Porfiry for assistance, she seems capable of stripping back the facade of his lies with a single contemptuous glance.

Serebrennikov's The Golovlyovs is an enormous canvas, a compelling, persuasive and unsettling treatment of duplicity and hypocrisy. If the play's topic is often heavily oppressive, the performance of it never is.