Mewa

Nina: “It was a curious play, wasn’t it?“
Trigorin: “I couldn’t understand it at all, but I watched it with the greatest pleasure because you acted with such sincerity, and the setting was beautiful.
[A pause]
There must be a lot of fish in this lake.“
Nina: “Yes, there are.“

Like in a carousel Anton Chekhov’s characters turn around each other: one loves someone else, someone loves no one. They resemble the whitefish catch: Packed together on a Russian country estate they make art, theatre, literature, with passion but without genius. Generation conflicts, the rebellious cry for new forms, senile sentimentality – all are results of a general standstill. The carousel wobbles and squeals, but keeps turning. No romanticism, no soulful atmosphere: seagulls are scavengers.