Rangapat blew a golden chance to explain to unaware Bengali audiences the source and evolution of the now global techniques of realistic acting formulated by Konstantin Stanislavsky. The author, Ujjwal Chattopadhyay, persists in his recent penchant to stitch varied threads together to project a superficial complexity, once again composing an ambitious three-in-one plot (see, for example, Chandrābati Kathā) on the interaction of Stanislavsky, Chekhov and star actress Olga Knipper in Moscow Art Theatre’s world-renowned The Seagull. Each of these three legends merits a play in their own right, but we may still accept them limited within the parameters of the 1898 production. However, Chattopadhyay overreaches by extending into Chekhov and Knipper’s marriage and beyond, effectively simplifying deep, intricate histories.
Consequently, many key points remain untouched or inaccurate, crying out for a reliable dramaturge’s advice during the rehearsal process. Viewers must be informed that Chekhov’s classic premiered in 1896, not by the Moscow Art Theatre (MAT), and failed to the extent that some spectators booed it. When Stanislavsky took it up, he prepared detailed notes on the entire text that we can read in English translation, which Chattopadhyay does not give much evidence of. Hardly any discussion occurs on the friendly dispute, paradigmatic in theatre education, between Chekhov’s insistent opinion of his own work as comic and Stanislavsky’s interpretation of it as serious.
False ideas abound. The cast mispronounces the ch in Nemirovich-Danchenko (Stanislavsky’s equally respected co-founder of MAT and co-director of Seagull) as sh, though the Russian Cyrillic letter concerned is the same as that in Chekhov, which they enunciate correctly. The programme mentions Method acting as Stanislavsky’s, whereas it was a later American distortion of the Stanislavskian “system”, which he himself revised as he grew older, unknown to American Method trainers. Indian actors need a lesson on the differences. Recent research even reveals his experiments with yoga (Sergei Tcherkasski’s Stanislavsky and Yoga), which I expected an Indian dramatist to highlight. Stanislavsky also published My Life in Art and An Actor Prepares long after Chekhov died, not before. And, of course, the reference to television is blatantly anachronistic.
While one can appreciate literary echoes like the poetic licence in titling the play after Jibanananda Das’s famous image although “Sindhusāras” does not denote a seagull, we cannot justify the lengthy interpolation of Chekhov’s farce The Bear for no other reason than light relief. Some insertions suggest the director Tapanjyoti’s oversight. The MAT—whether Nemirovich-Danchenko, Stanislavsky or Chekhov—unanimously rejected superfluity on stage, what we in theatre parlance call “Chekhov’s gun”. In spite of that principle, we see a credited supernumerary, the Doctor, whom one feels for because he has nothing whatsoever to do.
The conspicuously imbalanced histrionics embarrasses. The worst culprit, highly experienced actor Sanjib Sarkar, goes so overboard in his ranting and raving as Stanislavsky that I have no other word than disgraceful to describe it. No thespian internationally would transmogrify the refined Stanislavsky like this. In direct contrast, the reticent Tapanjyoti as Chekhov, the mercurial Senjuti Mukherjee as Knipper and the warm Biplanu Maitra as the perennially overlooked Nemirovich-Danchenko match the aesthetic backgrounds of their characters. Also satisfying in this luxuriously mounted production: Sanchayan Ghosh’s expressionistic set with multiple levels, lit harmoniously by Dinesh Poddar.
16 September 2025