I am going through a little strange time in my life, a time when I have reached a high degree of detachment from my everyday interests and activities. I went through a rather serious and planned hospital procedure four days ago. It was my decision rather than necessity. Even if I took it well and things went accordingly to plan, it was a lot of unknowns involved and this is normally stressful. I somehow managed to transport to a bubble where my priorities were concentrated on the best emotional preparation for what was to come. Now it is time to come back to normal, but it is comfortable in my bubble. I am free of any duties, so I read, think, watch serials on my PC, play bridge online and sleep. Rather nice, especially that there is no pain involved only some tiredness.
This type of life does not give me many subjects to write about. This will soon come when I progress with the books I read. It is The Blazing World by Siri Hustvedt, Madame Bovary, Winter by Karl Ove Knausgaard and perhaps a story or two from Nocturnes by my latest favourite writer Kazuo Ishiguro. A lot to read at the same time, I admit. The Blazing World is my focus.
For now, I think I will come back to the subject of my previous post on Chekhov and modern adaptations of his plays. I have been thinking about it a bit as I felt uncomfortable with my way of receiving the Sydney performance. I thought, I thought and I came to the same conclusions as earlier on. I think it is disrespectful by a translator of a classical master to change the form of the original play, its climate, mood, type of language and even the story. Very little of The Tree Sisters is left after Upton’s treatment. The text like this one cannot be updated to the extent it has been done this time. It is the duty of the translator and the director of the play to serve the master rather than modify his text to serve a personal purpose. I wonder what was supposed to be achieved. Feeling bigger than Chekhov? Making it easier for the public to get it? Not good ideas in my mind.
Chekhov was a wise man who loved the characters he depicted in his plays and showed what was going inside them with tenderness, but with honesty nevertheless. This, in my opinion, the Sydney adaptation missed. I felt that the characters were mocked and judged. Very un-Chekhov. The sense of humour was another miss. Chekhov’s sense of humour is deep and subtle. I could not say anything like that about the play I saw. It was just crude.
Perhaps it is enough on the subject coming from somebody who is not a theatre critic.
