The Seagull (2018), directed by Michael Mayer

It is interesting to ponder whether there is touch of the Emperor’s New Clothes about some of the classics. Do they endure because they really are so profound or have they become a habit so ingrained they are beyond the kind of critical appraisal applied to new works? Chekov’s The Seagull is essentially a melodrama and only the outstanding cast stops this film version tripping over into pure soap opera. Everyone is in love with the wrong person; they make the wrong decisions and are determined to wallow in their misery. In fact, you just want to slap most of them. Saoirse Ronan inhabits naïve, betrayed Nina; Annette Bening is wonderful as ageing actress Irina eliciting some sympathy for a character so shallow, self-centred and vain; Elisabeth Moss makes a good fist of the rather thankless role of Masha, the most slappable of them all. The women outshine the men, but Corey Stoll is good as selfish writer Boris, while Billy Howle is suitably sulky as the moody and frustrated Konstantin. Set in the idyllic Russian countryside in the early 20th century, the film is beautifully shot and costumed. Most of the action centres on the many dysfunctional relationships – mother and son, lovers, husbands and wives, brother and sister – that are undermined by jealousy and dissatisfaction. But it is punctuated by occasional pithy references to the social climate, which leave little doubt as to why there was a revolution in the offing.