Apparently the long untitled play (generally known after the central character Platonov), written by Chekhov when he was very young but put aside and only found after his death, is a treasure trove for Chekhov scholars, jammed packed with the motifs, themes, plot situations and character types that he would return to in his later writing, but the play itself is generally thought of as an unwieldy mess, too many things stuffed into it in a higgledy-piggledy manner. I don’t know if the original play has ever been staged, but it has often been adapted. Wild Honey is an adaptation and translation into English by Michael Frayn. The original was vastly shortened, characters and sub plots were thrown out, but I don’t know the original so cannot make any comparisons, I can only respond to Wild Honey as a work in itself, a collaboration between Chekov and Frayn. (Interestingly when originally staged in London in the 1980s, starring Ian McKellen, it was a critical success and a hit with the audiences, but when the production was transferred to Broadway – with a largely different cast, although McKellen still starred – it was a flop with critics and audience.) Chekhov’s mature work is often described as tragicomic – I’m not sure if tragic is the right word, but there is often a mix of humour and quiet desperation. Wild Honey, however, doesn’t so much blend the comic and the tragic, it’s more a mix of farce and melodrama. Frayn insists the farce is in the original text and he has left a lot of the melodrama out. Overall I found the farce the more successful. There is a complex plot where the men love the women but all the women love Platonov – I don’t know why, he’s not the most likeable of characters and it feels as though the young Chekhov was trying to provide a profound insight into the character of Woman. And the play is full of entrances and exits as the characters reconfigure their relationships – I imagine in a good production it is all very light and amusing. The melodrama works less well: Platonov, for instance, has bouts of self disgust and wishes he was dead while the women burst into tears – maybe this can also be treated as farcical, but otherwise it is the sort of stuff that gives melodrama a bad name. I suppose it is all quite fun, but I’m not sure it’s that much more than a frothy footnote to Chekhov’s career.