Summerfolk - National Theatre ★★★★★

First published in 1905, Maxim Gorky’s Summerfolk was written in response to Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard as an alternative tableau of the Russian bourgeoisie. For its time, Gorky’s commentary was radical and divisive. He writes affluent characters who don’t stop complaining despite their idyllic lifestyles. Historically, the stage has acted as a mirror for the upper classes to see their actions justified – but this play was built to poke at the ignorant and wealthy.

Twenty-three actors fill the National Theatre’s Olivier stage to tell Maxim Gorky’s story, adapted by sibling playwrights Nina and Moses Raine. It begins boldly with Robert Hastie’s military-like blocking. The elites stand in formation, accompanied by Nicola T. Chang’s composed clockwork sounds, before the urgent noises swell to a final gunshot, all actors turning to the sound. The context is set, something is brewing, and it’s Sophie Rundle’s striking, pleading expression that delivers the core message: change is coming.

The protagonist Vervara (Sophie Rundle) and her brother Vlass (Alex Lawther) are the central voices that speak against their posh acquaintances – causing friction in the stalls. As the hums of a revolution buzz beneath Russian cities, wealthy academics spend their summer in Vervara and Sergei Bassov’s (Paul Ready) dacha (summerhouse). They await the famous writer (and Vervara’s lifelong love interest) Yakov Shalimov (Daniel Lapaine) to begin rehearsals for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but when he arrives he is wildly disappointing to Vervara. This fuels her desire to leave the intelligentsia and live properly, away from the ‘weak’ people she’s surrounded by. Summerfolk is a labyrinth of secrets, love affairs, rejection and grievances; the wealthy creating their own hardships to validate their privileged lives. But at a farewell dinner party, Vervara speaks her truth.

Summerfolk is essentially a three-hour-long conversation that we watch unfolding in clusters of characters. These characters are intentionally unlikeable, performed with lethargic superiority as a tool for satire. Hastie’s direction creates a well-balanced piece that ensures this important narrative feels worthwhile. Throughout the play, there’s a constant unpicking of the wealthy characters’ sad or shameful backgrounds. As each one arrives on the stage, their identities are confirmed and grievances aired – some more self-indulgent than others.

Even before Doon Mackichan waltzes in as Kaleria, she is established as the stereotypical, self-absorbed poet. Her confident delivery of pretentious verse is hilarious, but there is a tenderness to the way she interacts with young but insightful Sonya (Tamika Bennett) that displays her humanity and genuine feelings of loneliness. In this script of complex characters, Gwyneth Keyworth as Olga also stands out as one of the most well-established identities. Olga is a mother and a friend of childless Vervara. She is a witty voice of truth and reason; her opinionated and quick one-liners add depth to each conversation. When she monologues freely about her hatred for other characters, it’s a funny, well-crafted metaphor for the uprisings elsewhere. You’re relieved when she appears because you know you’re going to laugh. She delivers a funny riposte to The Cherry Orchard: “Went on too long. Didn’t like it.” She’s brightly comical and brilliant to watch.

Politically, Alex Lawther as Vlass is mesmerising. Brother of Vervara, he is the classic fool desperate to experience love. In conversation with his much older love interest Maria Lvovna (Justine Mitchell) – a plot of their doomed romance with a comical twist is a highlight – Lawther delivers a short monologue about his father beating him. His understated presence and delivery define Vlass as the underdog. Having been literally beaten down his entire life, patriarchs like Sergei Bassov, Yakov Shamilov and Pyotr Suslov (Arthur Hughes) make him the butt of their jokes. So, it’s a sense of incredible catharsis (for some) when he has his comeuppance at the final dinner. He delivers a poem that mocks the elites that he sits next to; his vociferous delivery is utterly empowering and inspiring. Alex Lawther is a megaphone for Gorky’s frustration.

During scene changes, powerful soundscapes composed by Nicola T. Chang tell a story in themselves. Her decision to merge rebel tune The Internationale with Shostakovich’s 5th is an enjoyable one. The sound of revolution crescendoes into Shostakovich’s internal rebellion against the oppressive Russian regime under which he composed. It’s a clear understanding of the material and a neat design element to extend the play’s message beyond its script and actors. Also, in the second half, Peter McKintosh’s set falls away into the woods, where a band of musicians sit and play the balalaika, guitar and accordion to orchestrate this hazy summer picnic. It’s a detail that massively increases this production’s watchability whilst never upstaging; you can imagine other unspoken narratives happening around our focal characters.

As the narration unfolds, Peter McKintosh’s gorgeous set opens up. Its skeletal wooden pillars and rustic simplicity align with classic Russian naturalism. It also offers the concept that these elites are withering and walled off from ordinary people. The inclusion of water on stage is a bold one, but it suggests real tranquillity and luxury. The thoughtful beauty of this set is a satirical tool itself.

Nina and Moses Raine’s adaptation ensures that 120 years on, Summerfolk still feels relevant. References to an uprising happening “over there” are met with all-too-familiar responses like “Don’t look at the news; it’ll only make you depressed.” This rewriting of Summerfolk keeps its radical message alive by reframing ‘the untouchables’ as characters recognisable to us rather than an outdated bourgeoisie. For that, it’s worth enjoying the three hours – but if you fancy fast-paced glitzy spectacles, steer clear. This play is about its politics. In the final scene, the wealthiest men are left in the dacha with an armed watchman and a disobedient servant. The final line is “It’s all utterly meaningless”, a bleak realisation from the patriarchs. The revolution has arrived.