Cabaret Chekov

It's a long way from a variety night, but Cabaret Chekov has all the satire, sex and scintillating word-play of a mixed bill of burlesque, stand up and acrobatics. An sequence of rarely performed sketches from Russia's tragi-comedy genius, Michael Earley's cast of four supply vaudeville gusto to short, perfectly formed tales of frustrated love, insane families and existential doubt.

Chekov's plays are usually played as tragedy: the comic lurks around the edges, a sardonic, detached smile or an over-played character. Cabaret Chekov goes for the funny-bone: the sketches even have punchlines and gags. The tragedies, of a couple forced into marriage by enthusiastic parents who misread their mutual acceptance of non-attraction, the man caught in an impossible mission to book dinner, the naked double-bassist who looses his beloved, are an undercurrent. Even the slapstick banter of a drunk man and a sober devil unfolds a dark vision of human frailty.

Like the recent Lyceum production of The Cherry Orchard, the zippy pace and superb performances remind how contemporary Chekov's understanding of human nature remains: but while The Orchard was cunningly updated by John Byrne - rumoured to be adding a turn to this late night cavalcade - Earley has held his characters in a timeless limbo. They suggest Tsarist Russia, without being worthily period in dress. The stark costumes, and sparse yet calculated lighting, lend some universality to each individual tale.

Accompanied by Slavansky Bazaar Band, the mayhem rips along to its final punch-line. Chekov may have been bruised and bloodied by reverential restagings, but his humour is as sharp as his intelligence.