First, let’s talk about the play. No, the play itself remains the same, but this is a brand-new translation. And not just any translation—it’s a meticulous, almost forensic approach to the text, precise down to the last comma. No, it’s not a word-for-word rendering (God forbid!). On the contrary, it’s poetry—at times, astonishingly capturing the rhythm and music of Chekhov’s original language. Rory Mullarkey’s translation of Three Sisters occasionally sounds as if it were written in Russian.

Mullarkey is both a playwright and a translator who knows Russia from the inside—he has traveled extensively across the country and even studied in St. Petersburg. Perhaps this deep connection helped him tackle Chekhov. This isn’t even his first foray into translating Chekhov—he previously worked on The Cherry Orchard.

The production itself is equally remarkable, executed with an old-school reverence for the text. Director Caroline Steinbeis approaches Three Sisters with incredible delicacy: no trendy adaptations, barely any cuts, no Procrustean effort to squeeze the play into a tight, intermission-less runtime of 1 hour and 10 minutes. Nothing is lost, skipped, or drowned out—every line is given full weight and dimension.

The stage design, too, feels unmistakably Chekhovian: the setting evokes an early 20th-century home. Pale wooden interiors, dresses, flowers, uniforms—and, of course, a samovar (how could it be missing when it’s right there in the text!).

Beyond this textual fidelity, what makes this Chekhov feel truly authentic is the inescapable inertia of longing—a gray, suffocating melancholy that ensnares everyone who steps into the Prozorov household. This is not a space for passionate revolutionaries; it is a space for nervous breakdowns. (Which, by the way, aligns perfectly with Chekhov’s stage directions.)

Of course, the goal here is not “historical accuracy” but rather a parallel reality—a dreamy, feverish vision of Russia, where the sisters play the balalaika and sip tea from delicate glasses, where Solyony bellows at the world and distorts his face in cruel mockery. And, naturally, there is a bear—a shaggy creature that rolls onto the stage, only to reveal itself as an elaborate costume.

The performances are just as meticulously crafted.

Tuzenbach (Michael Abubakar) is strikingly reminiscent of… Pushkin. The same wild curls, the same trembling romanticism, the same tragic fate. His monologues unfold like operatic arias—his thoughts spiraling like a nightingale in song. His disarming vulnerability, almost childlike in its tenderness, makes him an easy target for Solyony (Richard Pyros)—a venomous, sardonic figure. Pyros, with his subtle makeup, slicked-back hair, and sharp-tongued jabs, clearly evokes Lermontov (a connection he even acknowledges in the play).

Vershinin (Paul Ready), for a brief moment, stirs the stagnant waters of this provincial existence. Towering, bearded, his voice thunderous—he is every bit the commanding officer of a battery. But even he gets trapped in this mire, in this distant, desolate corner of the world where the nearest railway station is over ten versts away. Here, the three sisters—like modern-day Moirai (the Fates)—take hold of destinies without even realizing it.

“In this town, knowing three languages is a useless luxury,” lament the Prozorovs. These four adult children, unable to learn how to live, cling desperately to childhood and dreams of a future in Moscow while despising their present. A dangerous contradiction.

The elegant furniture—gueridon tables, chairs, flowers—gradually gives way to the suffocating atmosphere of the atticin Act II, with its gaping stairwell like an open wound in the center of the stage.

In this Three Sisters, no character is a mere filler. Each one breathes in the same stagnant air, slowly sinking into this quagmire, trapped further with every movement.

The Globe’s production presents Chekhov in a way that resonates almost like Shakespeare. As if these characters were stranded on an island—except Prospero is silent, Macbeth has gone completely mad and vanished, and Lear has squandered his inheritance. Whether this connection stems from the genius of the venue or the sheer depth of the performances is hard to say.

The loudest force in this production is undoubtedly Natasha, Andrey’s wife (Natalie Klamar). She dominates the space with a nervous, high-pitched laugh that frequently turns into a shriek. Her restless, jerky movements betray her unstable nature—one moment, her eyebrows shoot up, the next, a nervous spasm flickers across her lips. And when she screams, it feels like some terrifying predatory bird has let out a piercing cry. Klamar’s performance is bold and fearless—when she sings a Russian lullaby to her baby, Bobik, wrapped in a blanket, the moment is chilling:
“Baiu, baiushki, baiu, don’t sleep near the edge…”

And then, of course, there are the sisters—the black, white, and red trio (as Grebenshchikov would say). They suffer, weep, and hope—yet they are the true arbiters of fate here, much like the daughters of Cronus, the Moirai themselves. Clotho spins the thread of destiny, Lachesis weaves it together, and Atropos cuts it, bringing death. Tuzenbach is shot (not quite on the Black River, but close enough), Vershinin leaves forever…

A deep, guttural sound—like the rumble of a distant furnace—permeates the play, something vast and Homeric in scale. It makes even Masha (Shannon Tarbet), with her thin, weary, sardonic face, shudder as if she truly hears the breath of fate. Irina (Ruby Thompson), the Atropos of the group, hears the mention of Tuzenbach’s coffee and freezes—her pale face and wide eyes knowing the truth: he will not return. And Olga, oh, Olga—trapped in the harness of her fate, desperate to break free:
tedious lessons, endless notebooks, ink-stained fingers, dust, boredom, musty cobwebs—where is life?

The Shakespearean tone of fate runs deep in this production, amplified by the candlelit stage. The silent, gliding candelabras, the heavy waxy air, the flickering shadows that seem almost haunted. In this eerie twilight, Solyonyrelentlessly pursues Irina, his presence suffocating, as she circles the dangling chandeliers, shuddering with disgust.

“To Moscow, to Moscow!”—but there is no escape.
No marriage, no love, no travels await them.
The Moirai, though they spin the threads of fate, are themselves eternally bound to the spindle.