The current National Theatre production of The White Guard comes complete with a heavy luggage of versions, previous lives, and the admiration of a somehow mysterious fan. Much has been made, in the weeks before the opening, of this overloaded history, so you have probably heard by now that the original title of the play is The Days of the Turbins; that Bulgakov adapted it from a novel, itself called The White Guard, which had in turn been born as the adaptation of an unproduced play, The Turbin Brothers; that the play in its final version had to be rewritten three times before being approved by the censors; that, however, once it was put on stage at the Moscow Art Theatre, it was an incredible success; and finally, that its biggest fan was no one less than Comrade Stalin, who saw it, according to some, more than twenty times, and who also took the trouble of calling Bulgakov personally, partly to compliment him on it and partly to let him (implicitly) know he was being carefully observed. What we see at the National is a different version again, adapted by Andrew Upton, and only its third British production ever.

The play is set during the final days of the White Guard’s resistance in Kiev; here the Revolution has been the spark for a series of frantic changes of government and, ultimately, for a Civil War. Bulgakov lived the chaos from the inside, and he depicts it by alternating domestic scenes with action in the field and in the headquarters of the two main parties involved. The Turbins whose days are being told are three siblings: two brothers - the elder, wiser and braver Alexei and the sweeter and more naive Nikolai -, and one charming and clever sister, Elena. They love to read and write and play music, and host vivacious dinners with their friends; they dislike Elena’s slimy husband, and Communism - or perhaps only its Ukrainian version, embodied by a nationalist party leaded by Symon Petlyura. Perhaps the Turbins don’t really hate the Bolsheviks, but they do love the Tsar, whom they can almost be persuaded has somehow escaped death - at least this is what they hear from The Hetman, the puppet leader appointed by the Germans, who at the start of the play are holding the Ukrainian capital.

All of this sounds quite confusing, and so it can appear on the stage. Not because the play does not indulge in explaining its historical context, as this can be grasped, with concentration, through the initial scenes; rather, it is confusing because it is not at all clear who the Turbins are, who they stand for, from a political and social and cultural point of view. Of course, they officially belong to the White Guard, but what ideals are they fighting for, and what do they make of the Bolsheviks, and which views do they hold on the state of their great nation? This political haziness might appear to be a liberating ambiguity, an honest abstaining from moral judgment on either position from the part of Bulgakov. However, one cannot help but wonder whether the censorship-fueled rewritings haven’t perhaps ended up draining all the blood out of the text, depriving Alexei, Nikolai and their friends from their real motives and their real opinions.

At the beginning of the second act, Bulgakov takes us into the field headquarters of Petlyura’s army, where we see his officials mistreating their soldiers, shooting a Cossack in the back because he had been trying to get to a hospital to cure his feet, and stealing some boots from a poor cobbler. Yet they don’t come off as particularly cruel or violent, considering we are in the trenches of a Civil War - of course, the Turbin brothers would never shoot a Cossack in the back, but then again, the Turbin brothers plan their military actions in a warm and elegant living room. During the various censorship procedures, Bulgakov was forced to cut a scene in which Petlyura’s army tortured and murdered a Jew, arguably an interesting indication as to how much more passionate the author’s judgment of the events might truly be. As it is, all we have left is a speech by Alexei, explaining to his fellow White Guard fighters that truly, their real enemy is ‘this modern world’, built out of loneliness and frustration, and that in spite of any resistance ‘all that we define ourselves with will be eradicated’.  Alexei will still lead the fight, of course, but from within his full disillusion with it. Here as in certain characters of some Dostoevsky’s novels, as in Chekov’s The Cherry Orchard, the real and true menace is not Communism, nor the new government, but the Future, and it the Future which has its thundering cannons pointed firmly against the sentimental bourgeoisie.

Nevertheless, aside from any considerations and speculations on the text, this production is a thing of beauty. Howard Davies directs it on an underlying suggestion of sepia-tinted heartbreak, remindful of his work with Burnt by the Sun last year, but with an added feeling of historical momentousness.  Bunny Christie’s sets are all enchantingly evocative and brimming with references, but also perfectly eloquent in themselves. Within an overall stellar cast, I was most impressed by Richard Henders’ rubicund, innocent Nikolai, and by Paul Higgins’ Captain Victor, his fiery Scottish accent and savory swearing making him the Malcolm Tucker of post-Revolutionary Ukraine. Conleth Hill’s feline Shervinsky is at his most memorable once the cause is already lost, and he has bought himself an overcoat which is ‘essence of prole’ to fit in with the new regime. Looking at him and listening to his consoling words to Elena, we end up forgetting what’s happening outside the tall windows of this beautiful flat.

And then, at the very final moment, Nikolai’s terrifying, ghostly presence interrupts what seemed to have been verging on acceptance and serenity, just a few seconds after the cannons of Kiev have saluted the announcement that the Reds have won the Ukraine. Nikolai’s broken cry is more effective and powerful in conveying the full purport of this political chaos, and the terror underneath the middle class’ new clothes, than any speech or explosion could ever be.

Till 12 April 2010