The Coast of Utopia
I've recently seen the first two installments of The Coast of Utopia, Tom Stoppard's much-discussed trilogy.
From a recent Ben Brantley review:
How could Americans, with their notoriously short attention spans, be expected to thrill to long conversations about the relative merits of German philosophers, conducted by historical figures (Michael Bakunin, Alexander Herzen, Vissarion Belinsky) who are hardly household names? (This is a play full of throwaway lines like, “We were discussing transcendental idealism over oysters, and one thing led to another.”)
Well, the plays are dazzlingly energetic and beautifully done, full of quick sketches of characters traveling through their lives in the mid-19th century while dreaming of a changed Russia. I went off and read two Isaiah Berlin essays because Berlin is a hero of Stoppard's and his essays prompted (to some extent) Stoppard's writing of these plays. What comes through, in the essays and the plays, is a deep appreciation for the unpredictability and dynamic nature of what happens next. No single truths, no simple beliefs end up succeeding.
For most of the second installment, Shipwreck, everyone is living far from Russia. A critic, Vissarion Belinsky, can't wait to get back home — because in Moscow, unlike in Paris, literature means so much. Political speech and discussion of ideas is suppressed in Russia. In Paris, everything is noise, nothing rises to be heard. But Belinsky dies of consumption when he returns to Russia.
Although the Times recommends a long reading list, you can understand what's going on without much background. The plays are visually arresting, immensely talky, full of portent, and mostly sad. The characters often dwell on Russia's backwardness, something Belinsky says is relieved only by the Russian novelists springing up. People stumble through their time together, doing their best to muddle along, forgetting what effects high-mindedness can have on their friends and relations. Michael Bakunin, in particular, keeps crying for action and revolution, and puts himself in the middle of tussles all over Europe. Turgenev stands stock-still and talks about the stunning visual moments that he constantly notices in his life — he should notice, he's a novelist.
These are big, turbulent, beautifully-lit plays. They're more like a wash of sound than a tightly-knit paragraph. I'm looking forward to the third one, and then to reading them (and reading up on them).