The Cherry Orchard – Royal Shakespeare Company, Stratford-upon-Avon

There is a temptation with The Cherry Orchard to treat it as a museum piece: a wistful farewell to a vanished aristocratic world wrapped in reverential melancholy. Laura Wade’s ambitious new version, directed by Tamara Harvey for the Royal Shakespeare Company, refuses to preserve Chekhov in aspic. It brings freshness and immediacy to one of theatre’s greatest farewell plays, though its determination to find contemporary clarity occasionally comes at the expense of some of the original’s quieter poetry and ambiguity.

Written specifically for Harvey, the Swan Theatre and this ensemble, Wade’s adaptation is less concerned with reproducing Chekhov’s exact cadences than capturing the emotional and political forces beneath them. Purists may notice the freer language and sharper rhythms, but the spirit remains unmistakably Chekhov. The adaptation understands the play’s architecture, although its sharper contemporary humour sometimes replaces the elusive melancholy, long days and unrealised hopes that make the original so haunting.

Harvey ensures those ideas never become merely intellectual. She avoids static reverence, creating a production where comedy and melancholy coexist naturally, even if its momentum occasionally reduces the strange stillness and uncertainty at the heart of Chekhov. Anna Fleischle’s design perfectly complements this interpretation: a landscape of muted greys, gently illuminated by summer morning light before Aideen Malone’s lighting gradually drains away warmth as an entire social order fades.

While The Cherry Orchard has always been a play about class, Harvey never allows its historical context to become background decoration. Russia is undergoing seismic change. Barely half a century has passed since the emancipation of the serfs in 1861, and the landed aristocracy’s authority is collapsing as commerce and social mobility reshape the country. The orchard is more than a family possession; it is the final symbol of a world already disappearing.

That sense of history pressing against private lives is captured in the mysterious passer-by, whose intrusion becomes one of the production’s more intriguing interventions. His appeal to “your poor, your huddled masses” links those excluded from privilege with the revolutionary forces gathering beneath the surface, rooting this modern adaptation firmly in the turbulent Russia in which Chekhov was writing.

Kenneth Branagh delivers a superb Lopakhin, the production’s outstanding performance. His broad Irish brogue is a fascinating interpretative choice, functioning as social commentary as much as vocal distinction. It marks Lopakhin as someone who has escaped poverty but never fully escaped the class system that created him. He can buy the orchard, but he cannot entirely belong to the world that once owned it.

Branagh perfectly balances confidence and insecurity. His businessman carries the memory of the servant boy whose family were once controlled by those now dependent upon him. He mines Wade’s adaptation for physical comedy while never reducing Lopakhin to caricature. At times the production pushes Chekhov towards broader humour, but Branagh ensures every laugh carries an awareness of old wounds and unspoken resentment.

His finest moment comes not in triumph but departure. Few actors could invest four simple words — “My cue to leave” — with such emotional devastation. In that brief exit, Branagh captures a lifetime of hesitation and missed opportunity, leaving Esther Smith’s Varya shattered. It is a masterclass in restraint.

Smith gives one of the evening’s richest supporting performances. Her Varya is the voice of practicality, constantly attempting to impose financial discipline on a family determined to avoid reality while quietly harbouring her love for Lopakhin. Her anxiety masks deep vulnerability, making her disappointment genuinely painful.

Alfred Enoch’s Trofimov is equally impressive. Rather than portraying him as a fully formed revolutionary, Wade presents him as an unfinished work: intelligent, passionate and full of ideas, but unable to recognise the scale of the transformation approaching Russia. Enoch captures both the excitement and naivety of youth.

Michael Elwyn brings great dignity to Firs, while Guy Henry’s Pishchik provides much of the broader comedy with his Micawber-like belief that “something will turn up”. Sophie Stone’s Sharlotta adds another layer of loneliness, a performer forever entertaining others while remaining emotionally isolated.

Helen Hunt and Bill Pullman bring undeniable stateside glamour to the production, but beside the finely detailed stagecraft around them, both performances feel comparatively contained. Hunt’s Ranyevskaya is frozen by grief, while Pullman’s Gaev drifts between eccentricity and moments of clarity. Their restraint reflects characters trapped within a carefully preserved past, though their emotional range feels less expansive than those around them. Only when the sound of axes begins to fell the orchard do both fully reveal the scale of what has been lost.

Harvey understands that The Cherry Orchard is neither tragedy nor comedy but a shifting combination of both. Wade’s adaptation succeeds because it allows Chekhov to speak with renewed clarity, even if some of his mystery occasionally recedes.

As the final blows echo through the Swan, what disappears is not simply an orchard but an entire way of understanding the world. Beautifully designed, superbly acted and intellectually engaging, this is an intelligent and often moving reinvention. Its greatest achievement is making Chekhov feel immediate; its limitation is that, in sharpening the focus, it sometimes leaves less room for the silences, uncertainties and lingering sadness that make the original endure.

Reviewer: Paul Wilcox

Reviewed: 21st July 2026

North West End UK Rating: