Here's where Chekhov's obtuse idea of theater actually starts to cohere, nearly ten years after "Ivanov". Still, I left this with largely the same feeling I had when I read it the first time, with much less exposure to Chekhov's "I hate everything that came before me" sensibility. And that feeling is: What the fuck is this?—the exposition is laid out much too plainly as exposition to be accidental, everybody's hopelessly in love with everyone else, the play parodies plays, the writer character wants to create new and different forms of theater (in a piece that bucks traditional form,) the seagull symbolism is recognized by the characters themselves as a symbol they find difficult to understand, I mean, what the fuck? I'm gonna try to watch the play. I'll say it definitely reads better than Ivanov, but for now, gosh, I'm nonplussed! Two stars.

Found a 1975 PBS staging. It works, and the play makes a little more sense, but I can't explain to you how it works and how it makes sense. I really really can't. I don't know where to begin. It's kinda good, but I don't know why. Gosh, I'm nonplussed! It's hard to believe Frank Langella hadn't been born an old man! Three stars.