Post-Communist Collapse in Russia sees an intra-class battle errupt through some fantasic performances.
In an ideal world, Russian playwrights could write about a group of relatives and colleagues sitting in one room, battling—and losing to—their destinies, without anyone mentioning Anton Chekhov. Vassily Sigarev’s script has been translated by Sasha Dugdale into convincing English vernacular, but nonetheless invites those invidious comparisons.
Ancestral estates are now council estates (this one set carefully and cleverly by Nicolai Hart Hansen). Faded grandeur is replaced by rotting Soviet glories. And a cast that Chekhov would have stretched from peasants to nobles forms, instead, a hierarchy within one class. These are the victims of Russia’s post-communist collapse. Arkasha is a big thief, but Dima is small fry. Lera is a prostitute, and Slavik is a junkie. Above them all is Yulika—she’s going to college. Hovering on the edges is “Waster”, a meth-sodden former official.
Charlie Archer’s moody and riveting Dima is about to leave for the army, and his friends are toasting him, sort of. Arkasha, played by Iain Batchelor with enjoyable cruelty, has come to complete one last deal, and Lera (Bethan Cullinane) has come for money to fund her desperate entry into a fraudulent competition. Her flirtations are pathetic, but she bullies like a pro. She leaps and yelps and giggles and irritates everyone, especially the audience, until we almost stop caring—and then she pulls it back.
Her foil is her cousin, Yulika. While everyone crashes around her, this blasé, enigmatic teen sits silently, watching. Molly Gromadski plays her with disarming charm, implying so much while showing so little, before exploding in a final climax that, unfortunately, left me unconvinced. Sigarev’s script demands that Yulika lose her mystery and slot neatly into a stereotype. It’s not fair on this impressive cast, least of all Gromadski.
Just as male writers often fail their female characters and actors, portrayals of the poor by outsiders always rankle. Sigarev rarely shows his characters’ critical intelligence, maturity or ambition; he has, after all, chosen to write about desperation and futility. But the play might not only be more politically convincing, but also more tragic, if the denizens of this tower block called “Life and Death” could find a way out, but don’t. Still, the strength of director Seb Harcombe’s drama wins. London’s fringe rarely sees such polished performances, and this is desperate, dangerous stuff.
Ladybird runs at New Diorama Theatre until 22nd December
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