The very first thing you see is someone pointing a gun at Ivanov's face. The very last thing you see (hear, actually) is Ivanov shooting himself. It's "Chekhov's Act I gun" in plain sight. But the rest of the play is kind of bad. Like it's overstuffed and rushed at the same time. Maybe it's okay if you see it in action, but I doubt it—his plays tend to assume obtuse forms, and this feels like an embryonic version of what he'd later refine. It's just funny that the epitome of his famous mantra, its literal manifestation, espoused as sacred gospel by generations of writing teachers, guarded as untouchable formula by generations of writing students, really kind of stinks. Two stars.