Call me a philistine and throw me to the Chekhovians.  I don’t get. Maybe I started too young.  Us drama types try and immerse in the canon early.  I get Strindberg, I get Ibsen. Can’t blame it on my parents, can’t blame it on Chekhov.  I mean other people get it. Do I need to get it? Probably not!

Imagine my surprise then.  That in a place as strange as Marrickville, with thundering aircraft low overhead and armed with coke and chips because its going to be a sodding 2 hours long. Imagine my surprise to thoroughly enjoy what I might have called in a text to a friend beforehand… Fucking Chekhov.                 Continue reading THE SEAGULL: SOARING WORK BY SECRET HOUSE THEATRE →