What is the current pace of Chekhov’s Three Sisters? Where there is no more nocturnal philosophizing over a bubbling samovar, but instead staring at the cell phone together? Where everything has to be fast, even the tragedy? And even the longings are completely different, or are there still rich people out there who long for honest work? Even the central motif of this drama of disappointed hopes of not being able to return to Moscow from the provinces is difficult to banish in Chekhov melancholy in the course of the home office, rural exodus and motorway construction. The great boredom has become very fast.