The Cherry Orchard is my favourite play. It is a complex exploration of a culture on the cusp of disappearance, the Russian aristocracy as it enters the final decade, before the revolution. Chekhov is my favourite writer. In his plays and short stories he excavated the human condition with more tenderness and honesty than anybody else I’ve read. Startling in his economy, he sees into his characters and their capacity for contradiction and silliness and despair with a clarity that staggers me.
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Failure is a noble achievement. All art fails in some way, and imperfection is the marker of true genius. The Japanese call the acceptance of imperfection wabi-sabi, and consider it one of the highest aesthetic ideals. In this philosophy, the incorporation of imperfection in works of art, and also in objects of craft like wood-working and smithery, are reminders of the transience of existence, a chief aim of the arts.
I had not before considered this philosophy in regards to translation, but the author here makes a good case for the comparison. The idea that a play, or any piece of writing, could be translated "perfectly" from one language to another is clearly delusional. I feel like the author must be unfairly representing the opinions of the critics of adaptation, because one would have to be a megalomaniac to believe themselves capable of perfect translation. There is simply no such thing beyond, perhaps, a phrase.
A play is a living work of art in so many ways, and to sequester the parameters around which we reconstruct it to those that were relevant only at the time of its first iteration is to make of it a wax museum. Of course many playwrites are naturally protective of their work and its intent and how it is staged while they are living, and from what I understand Chekov was no exception. At the same time, the best writers are always open to editorial collaboration, and again, Chekov's work with Stanislavsky, although sometimes rocky, bears this out.
An article discussing the value of iteration is especially poignant on the eve of our opening The Trojan Women by Charles Mee. Mr. Mee writes many of his plays with the expressed intention that they be re-adapted every time they are staged. Even the dialogue can be no more than a suggestion, and collaborators are not only invited but required to re-invent the parameters of the play for themselves and their audience. I think this philosophy provides an essential counterpoint to the pedantry espoused by adherents to the school of wax museum theatre, and gets closer to the ideal of what the art form can be when ego is removed from the equation.
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