You may think Anton Chekhov has been shat upon, considering the title of Aaron Posner's deconstruction-reconstruction of The Seagull. But while Stupid Fucking Bird does have fun at the expense of Chekhov's famous ennui, it not only maintains the spirit of the Russian playwright, but also adds to it with a meta-theatrical remove of the fourth wall. The characters know they are in a play – or perhaps they are trapped in the play that endlessly feeds upon itself.
San Francisco Playhouse is presenting a first-rate regional premiere of Posner's 2013 play that ensnares not only the actors but the audience as well. The dialogue directed toward us is not always flattering, but it does flow organically from the characters who want to make us part of their world. The effect can be disconcerting at times, but it is most certainly bracing.
You don't really need to be on familiar terms with The Seagull to clue into what Posner is up to, but it is helpful to know that Chekhov is famous for his mastery at evoking melancholic stasis. It doesn't take long to realize that Posner's characters, contemporary versions of Chekhov's originals, are destined to lives of disappointment. Chekhov always wanted his plays to be seen as mordant comic takes on the human condition, although he was often disappointed by their stolid first productions. With the help of director Susi Damilano's astute production, Posner makes sure that comedy takes center stage, while not denying the aching heart beneath the surface.
Unrequited love dominates the action, which takes place at a country home during a gathering of family and friends. The play opens with the son of a famous actress trying his hand at performance art on a makeshift stage, which seems intended to offend his mother and succeeds in that mission. Con loathes traditional theatrics, labeling Cirque du Soleil as "the handjob of theater" and ridiculing "clever-y little plays that are being produced by terrified theaters just trying to keep ancient Jews and gay men and retired academics and a few random others" at the ticket window. He strikes even closer to home in a final-act diatribe directed at a hushed audience.
While Chekhov's plays are ensemble pieces, and Stupid Fucking Bird follows that format, Con emerges as the angry conscience of the play. Adam Magill is terrific as the fulminating Con, when his anger is a comically childish tantrum or a harshly honest reflection. When he is not angry, Con is usually in a romantic mope because Nina, the star of his performance piece, does not share his ardor.
Martha Brigham's performance as Nina takes an intriguing journey from limp ingenue to fierce seductress to world-weary troubadour. The object of her seductions is a famous writer who is the current consort of Con's mother. As Emma, star of stage and screen and careless motherhood, Carrie Paff is so vibrant that she can make her character's selfish superciliousness seem appealing. Johnny Moreno gives her author-lover a pomposity that he delivers in little packets of carefully enunciated dialogue.
Also on the scene is Emma's brother, an aging, rueful doctor that Charles Shaw Robinson warmly plays with the resignation of the family also-ran. Providing additional sides to the play's various love triangles are the morosely wonderful El Beh as a cook who sings woe-is-me ballads and a handyman that Joseph Estlack delivers with an infectious guilelessness.
Both Bill English's set and Abra Berson's costumes play off contemporary and 19th-century styles that connect the play's attitudes. And attitude is something Stupid Fucking Bird has in abundance, starting with that I-dare-you title.
Stupid Fucking Bird will run at San Francisco Playhouse through May 2. Tickets are $20-$120. Call (415) 677-9596 or go to sfplayhouse.org.