In a word, no.
The new Broadway production of Uncle Vanya is still in previews and has a few weeks to work things out. But Carell’s lackluster Vanya is just one of several fundamental problems it may not be able to resolve.
With desultory furniture scattered across the thrust stage of the Vivian Beaumont, the play never really feels as though it inhabits the space. A moody backdrop of birch trees is lovely but also a bit puzzling. Where are we? Not in Chekhov’s Russia. The language and costuming are contemporary American but no more specific than that. (Astrov’s use of the word “freaks” in place of the usual “cranks” calls to mind hippies of the 1960s, but nothing else supports that idea.)
This lack of specificity drains the play of its emotional roots. The story may be one of universal disappointment, but it’s the specificity of this particular disappointment that draws us in, whether it takes place in Russia before the revolution or, as in Andrew Scott’s recent Vanya, in modern Ireland.









