Hilton McRae gives a virtuoso performance in the Gate Theatre adaptation of the Tolstoy novella THE KREUTZER SONATA
La MaMa First Floor Theatre
74A East Fourth St. between Bowery & Second Ave.
Through March 25, $18
212-475-7710
www.lamama.org
Leo Tolstoy’s 1889 novella, The Kreutzer Sonata, which examines love, jealousy, morality, and manners, was initially banned in both Russia and the United States. But over the years, it has since been made into several films and has inspired paintings, ballets, and musical compositions. In 2009, Nancy Harris adapted it for London’s Gate Theatre, and the intimate production has now crossed the pond, where it continues at La MaMa through March 25. As the audience is still being seated, Pozdynyshev (Hilton McRae) takes the stage, a well-dressed, erudite man carefully preparing a pot of tea on a moving train. For the next eighty minutes, he relates the fateful story of his marriage to a woman (Sophie Scott) he describes as “that one special lady who would stand above all others in virtue, ideals, character, and beauty.” Both feminist and misogynist, Pozdynyshev tells his tale of jealousy and murder almost matter-of-factly, making such grandiose declarations as “Women will never be equal until they’re free of men’s desire, and women will never be free as long as that desire is something they court. Women are slaves who think their shackles are bracelets. And marriage is . . . whoredom with a license.” Pozdynyshev, who freely admits to not being a music lover, describes how when Trukhachevski (Tobias Beer), a childhood acquaintance, suddenly showed up at his door one day, he virtually forced the violinist to spend time with his wife, who had recently taken up the piano again. Very soon Pozdynyshev’s jealousy overwhelms him, leading to tragedy of the most sordid order. Directed by Natalie Abrahami, The Kreutzer Sonata is essentially a one-man show, a virtuoso performance by McRae, who addresses the audience directly, not asking for forgiveness as much as just explaining himself. As he talks about his wife — he regularly begins sentences by calling out, “My wife,” infused with emotion and memory, before going on — and Trukhachevski, they appear either projected on a screen or live behind a scrim, flashbacks come to life. Chloe Lamford’s set, an open train car, practically places the audience on board, as if they are sitting next to Pozdynyshev, traveling companions who will be enraptured for this eighty-minute journey into one man’s soul.