"I passionately love anything that is called an estate in Russia.
This word has still not lost its poetic sound.”
— Anton Chekhov

Chekhov's plays, like Shakespeare's, never wane. Both playwrights have earned their momentous rank as the greatest of the classic dramatists because they have each captured, so completely and profoundly (though so differently!), the vast scope of human existence.

For all the timelessness and universality of their work, however, there are "moments" in the march of civilization where certain of their plays emerge more forcefully. This is one of those times — when the events of our current world resonate so closely with the social landscape and the people inhabiting the pages of Chekhov's older world. I do not think it is merely coincidence that a plethora of The Cherry Orchard productions have sprung up all over the nation in the last year.

So, while The Cherry Orchard is a play that I have wanted to direct for a number of years, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it is one of the world's greatest and most influential plays, it was chosen for this season because the time for The Cherry Orchard is ripe, pun indeed intended. It seems to me, that the events, people and themes of the play have never felt so relevant to our lives as they do now; and as always, it is the hope that by looking at our "reflections" in the mirror of art, we recognize pieces of ourselves. It is also the hope that in that act of recognition, something changes — so that, perhaps, we all move forward a bit differently after our two hours in Russia of the 1890s.

The estate life era of Russia lasted only about 200 years, beginning in the early 1700s. In 1861, the serfs were emancipated and the political, social and domestic landscape of Russia began to shift radically — slowly at first, but by the advent of the 20th century, that shift culminated in the Russian Revolution of 1917. We enter into the lives of the people who live on Madame Ranevskaya's estate in the last, dying moments of this complex, unique era, and like all "undiscovered countries," we encounter much that is mysterious and new to us. With Chekhov's genius, however, we are able to see, in short time, how these being are so much like us. In a time of vast social and political sea change, these spoiled, ineffectual, crippled people stand by and allow the demise of their land, their home, their lives, indeed their very history. Despite their good intentions, their dreams of a better future, their hopes and their affections, they are afflicted by their own staggering inability to take action of any kind. Moral cowardice, emotional fears, apathy, arrogance and ineptitude seal their fate. Their own inertia destroys them. It is no coincidence, either, that the play is rife with allusions and subliminal nods to Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Despite each character's infuriating stagnancy, we fall in love with them as characters, foibles and all — I think this is in part because for all their indifference, blindness and emotional cruelty, they love their land, their ideals and each other with true, albeit damaged, hearts.

Chekhov lifts the curtain in the dacha so that we may see these broken lives playing out, but he does not cast judgement. Nor should we, for those who live in glass dachas should not cast stones. But perhaps, we can glean, from this mirror on stage, what we might do to save our own proverbial cherry orchards.

— Bonnie J. Monte