Review: Steve Carell Leads an All-Over-the-Place Uncle Vanya at Lincoln Center Theater

File this one under “it sounded good in theory.” Lincoln Center Theater’s entry to the 2024 Tonys contest is a new production of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya with a to-die-for assortment of talent. The unpretentious new translation, written by Heidi Schreck of What the Constitution Means to Me, is directed by Lila Neugebauer, also represented this season by her barnstorming production of Appropriate. And among a star-studded ensemble of actors, comedy icon Steve Carell makes his Broadway debut. Vanya is a perfect role for Carell, whose cinematic drollery is often layered with an undercurrent of Chekhovian despondency. But this Uncle Vanya is only enjoyable in fits and starts. It’s modern, but not completely; brisk, while still feeling too long.

There’s little ensemble-like cohesion in this melancholic tale of Russian weariness; a group of people who should be relating to each other seem like they’ve just met. And that’s bad considering the play is about an extended family. Middle-aged Vanya runs his late sister’s estate with her daughter Sonia (Alison Pill) and struggles to get the 2 percent financial return on the property necessary to keep Sonia’s famous author father, Alexander (Alfred Molina), living in clover in the big city.

Vanya’s simmering rage over wasting his life so someone else could sit pretty is compounded by his crush on Alex’s young wife, Elena (Anika Noni Rose), while Sonia pines for the local doctor, Astrov (William Jackson Harper), who is far more focused on how humanity’s carelessness will impact future generations. Festering resentments and long-standing crushes come to a head when Alex and Elena come for a visit during a long, rainy summer in the country.

The designers take advantage of the vast Vivian Beaumont Theatre. While most scenes are pitched close to the audience, Mimi Lien’s expanding and contracting set utilizes the full depth of the stage. A looming 20-foot mural of trees in the wind turns out to be a fake wall that slowly moves backwards to reveal a barren forest. A living room comes to life as it descends from the flies, revealing a wallpaper tapestry that (depending on your interpretation) is either in the process of being woven or unravelling. Lap Chi Chu and Elizabeth Harper create shadows in the woods with their ghostly lighting, which creates some striking pictures during an onstage thunderstorm.

There’s an interconnection to the design — extending to Mikhail Fiksel and Beth Lake’s gentle sound effects and amplification, and Kaye Voyce’s hippie-chic costumes — that fits with Schreck’s unassuming textual adaptation. Clocking in at just over two hours of playing time (not including intermission), Schreck’s script is digestible for modern ears, while still retaining the requisite ennui and romantic yearning. Longer isn’t always better if you can get the point across more economically, and Schreck does so with an appreciated brevity, even if some nuance is sacrificed here and there.

Neugebauer should be taking advantage of this swiftness but makes the whole thing quite languid instead. None of the furniture is automated, so transitions take forever (it’s glaring late in the second half). A variety of extended pauses beg to be sped up. Staging-wise, she is directing her own florid version of Chekhov, not Schreck’s, and nothing really ends up getting illuminated sufficiently.

Trapped in the middle are the actors, who deliver performances in a variety of styles that also rarely mesh. While his vocal fry signifies an actor who isn’t used to projecting eight times a week, Carell really is an ideal Vanya, his clownish self-effacement masking the kind of despair that comes with the realization of one’s mortality. Pill and Harper are the closest to delivering “real” Chekhov, where angst speaks louder than words. Rose plays up the boredom, which makes her seem over the whole thing, and Molina’s role has been reduced to the point of superfluousness. As ancillary characters, Jonathan Hadary, Jayne Houdyshell, and Mia Katigback seem to have escaped from Shady Pines and landed in a country house somewhere in the woods.

If I had to choose the style that suits my own interests, it would be Carell’s. His Vanya, and especially Harper’s Astrov, find that razor’s edge of humor and pathos in a way that the rest of the production does not. If you prefer your Chekhov more traditional, you might just find yourself crying uncle long before the lights come up.