Vanya snarls. Serebryakov is querulous. Sonya snaps. And Yelena throws her sullenness around the stage as if it were a discarded frock. The keynote in Andrew Hilton's incisive production of Uncle Vanya is anger. The decorative languor – muffled sighs over the samovar – once thought to be the default position for a Chekhov play is banished here. The family and guests trapped on a rotting estate are going mad. With more than six degrees of irritation.
Hilton may have attended to an excellent note by the dramatist to his future wife, Olga Knipper: he advised her when appearing in Three Sisters that she show her long-standing, pent-up grief not by looking mournful but by being cross. Disappointment is never elegant here. Simon Armstrong's Vanya is so bunched up with anger that it's not much of a shock when he pulls out a gun: it's more surprising that he hasn't long ago machine-gunned his companions.
This must be one of the most confrontational Chekhov productions ever staged. Characters have the sweetness winnowed out