Starring Annette Bening. Rating unavailable

Anton Chekhov’s oft-revived play gets a mild makeover in this take on The Seagull. A set of whirring romantic triangles that overlap in ways that are alternately funny and tragic, it is pure Mozartian farce—minus most of the singing—with a piquant tone that has informed many movies, most notably Jean Renoir’s The Rules of the Game. This one is pleasant without being on that level.

Directed by TV veteran Michael Mayer, it centres on fading actress Irina Arkadina, played with monstrous charm by Annette Bening, and takes place at her rambling lakeside estate not far from Moscow. Irina’s son, Konstantin (Billy Howle), is a classic 19th-century handwringer who writes futuristic plays so full of symbolic overreach, the outdoor summer staging of his latest is halted when his mom won’t stop laughing.

The headstrong youngster is infatuated with his lead actress, Nina (Saoir­se Ronan), who has more ambition than talent, as we see when she gradually latches onto Irina’s latest consort, a famous author named Boris Trigorin (Corey Stoll). Later, Konstantin, who has a thing for guns and moping, shoots a hapless gull out of the sky and presents it to Nina as yet another obscure symbol—an act that surely gave rise to the ageless aphorism “If you love something, set it free, kill it, and offer it to someone you want to intimidate.”

The other would-be, could-be, or used-to-be lovers include an urbane doctor (Jon Tenney) still juggling numerous affairs, including a past one with Polina (Mare Winningham), married to the boorish estate keeper (Glenn Fleshler). Polina’s daughter, Masha (Elisabeth Moss), is crazy about Konstantin. Or maybe just crazy. She drinks away her days and dresses in black—“I’m in mourning for my life” is the play’s most famous line—while ignoring an impoverished schoolteacher (Michael Zegen) who lives for her. Meanwhile, Irina’s elder brother (Brian Dennehy) casts a jaded eye on the white-people problems at hand.

Stephen Karam’s script feels rushed and has a curiously modern ring to it, as does most of the acting. The sense of Romanov Russia on the eve of revolution is lost here. Howle, soon to be seen opposite Ronan in another period piece, On Chesil Beach, seems particularly miscast—too mature to convince as the wobbly, immature Konstantin. Fortunately, Bening isn’t bothered by any of that. Her Irina is an undying swan, and not about to be put off by lowlier birds.