Theatre in Review: Vanya (Lucille Lortel Theatre)It's the pauses that are so telling in Andrew Scott's solo version of the Anton Chekhov classic. To be sure, the actor does many things spectacularly in Sam Yates' production: He crosses behind the freestanding door unit of Rosanna Vize's rehearsal room set and, seconds later, passes through the entry having become an entirely different person. He enacts both participants in an impromptu romantic tryst, also impersonating the husband who unwittingly interrupts them; he is also convincing as two characters struggling for possession of a vodka bottle And when, in a moment of utter dejection, he falls to the floor and half-whispers, half-sings Jacque Brel's "If You Go Away," he fills you with the sneaking feeling that love has left the world, never to return. But, oddly enough, it's the actor's moments of repose that you may remember: when the frantic, mocking title character is muted with grief over the memory of his late sister; when the beautiful, bored Helena, enters, causing a sea change in the room's temperature; or when Liam, a feckless hanger-on in this household of troubled souls, recalls being taunted by a local in the nearby town, an incident that, to him, sums up a lifetime of slights and betrayals. "It was extremely hurtful," he says, just this side of tears. Scott may be busily pursuing a tour de force, but he knows how to make a moment of silence speak volumes. The playwright Simon Stephens has taken a free hand with Uncle Vanya -- hence the foreshortened title -- bringing it into the present, apparently moving it to Ireland in the process. Vanya, who administers the country estate belonging to his late sister, is now Ivan. Astrov, the solitary, alcoholic doctor, is Michael. Marina, the nurse, is Maureen, a kind of housekeeper, and Telegin (aka "Waffles), is here known as Liam -- not that anyone can remember this name. (Speaking of pauses, Maureen's horrified reaction to Michael's spontaneous, vodka-fueled declaration of love -- practically shrinking into the nearest wall, her face frozen in disgust -- ends with her saying, "Are you sure you don't want a drink?" It's a callous gesture but eminently practical.) Scott, moving like mercury in human form, embodies them all. Ivan enters, furious with boredom, toting a handheld device that cues his personal laugh track and womp-womp effects; he is the class clown, wearily aware that the joke is on him. Admitting to having taken up daytime drinking, he saucily slaps his hand, a parent and naughty child rolled into one. He makes ruthless fun of his brother-in-law Alexander -- not an aging, dried-up intellectual, as per Chekhov but a "generational-defining filmmaker," who hasn't gone near a set in seventeen years. When Ivan finally speaks up about Alexander's entirely selfish scheme to sell the estate and live off the proceeds, the shock produced by his unchecked fury is electric. (I've never experienced a more stinging rendition of this scene.) But, brandishing a gun, he misses his adversary, leaving him to mutter, "When you think about it. I'm an attempted murderer. But nobody seems to be doing anything about it." Scott is the ideal Chekhovian protagonist, entirely tragic yet totally superfluous, forced to live with a keen sense of his ridiculousness. The actor is equally good as Helena, Alexander's gorgeous, much younger wife, standing with her arms folded, toying with her necklace, and admitting, "I'm just an extra in other people's lives;" as loveless, drunken Michael, stricken with a sense of loss over a countryside ravaged by deforestation, throwing himself into a thwarted affair with Helana; and as Sonia, Ivan's niece, hopelessly in love with Michael, allowing herself to be the victim of Helena's disastrous matchmaking. (Fending off one of Helena's halfhearted compliments, Sonia says, "Whenever anybody's, like, really plain looking, somebody says, 'You've got beautiful hair!' It's unbearable.") To be sure, Scott doesn't stint on the minor characters. Alexander is a natural preener, skilled at striking great-man-of-cinema poses. "I am an artist," he says, practically composing his own epitaph. "A man of film. Of image. Of idea. Of feeling. I have always been something of a stranger to the more practical side of life." (This is said just before he tries to rob Ivan and Sonia of everything they have.) Maureen, forever dragging on a cigarette and complaining about the general disorder, hits the play's only note of common sense. Liam, whose presence in the house no one can quite explain, laments, 'My wife betrayed me, you know? Ran off with another man. Just because she loved him." Naturally, he provides them with financial assistance. Vanya could have been a stunt but, instead, we're treated to the spectacle of a fine actor testing his talent against one of the theatre's greatest texts, applying a startlingly successful form of cinematic naturalism as he immerses himself fully in each character. (Dan Balfour's sound design allows the actor to throw away lines with abandon, often catching the characters at their most tongued-tied.) Thanks to his utterly nonjudgmental approach, he arrives at the crossroads of tragedy and farce where Chekhov's plays are situated. If we're honest, it's a neighborhood well-known to most of us. The set is capably transformed by James Farncombe's lighting, a combination of practical units with a modest stage rig; it is especially effective during a night scene shaped by blasts of low sidelight, setting the scene for the sharing of melancholy truths. Video designer Jack Phelan delivers a series of images for Michael's lecture (to an entirely bored Helena) about the devastation of the countryside. (The climate change theme makes it the most contemporary of Chekhov's plays, even in a straight-up production.) Natalie Pryce dresses Scott exactly in what one imagines he would wear to a rehearsal. Not everything in Vanya works: Despite Stephens' considerable invention and often scalding wit, the play sits awkwardly in a twenty-first-century context. For one thing, it's hard to believe that Sonia, who inherited the estate from her mother, would farm herself and Vanya out as drudges for hire, generating income for Alexander's creature comforts. For another, Helena's lassitude seems entirely out of the late Victorian era. And there are occasional moments when the actor's shapeshifting ways leave one unsure who is speaking. But this is an astounding achievement: A single man fills the stage with characters who are ludicrous, oddly lovable, and heartbreakingly exiled from happiness. It's a group portrait anyone can recognize. --David Barbour 
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