So yesterday I attempted to get back to my cultured roots and went to see Waiting for Godot in Brighton, where it’s been having a week’s run before heading for no doubt unknown glories in the West End with its stars Sir Ian Mckellan and Patrick Stewart.
It’s always interesting to look at the audience of these sort of productions and wonder “Do they love Beckett and all his works? Or are they here to see Gandalf and Captain Picard giving it their all in tattered trousers and bowler hats?”
I must admit, I am not a devoted lover of all Beckett’s works. I do like this one, though. I’ve never seen it on stage before, but I read it when I was seventeen and was intrigued by it. It’s a Marmite play: you either think it has something terribly worthwhile and profound to say about life and the human condition, or it makes you want to throw tomatoes while singing “What is this pretentious tripe?!”
I err to the profound while appreciating that it is, of course, famously a play where “Nothing happens. Nobody comes. Nobody goes.” and if you’re yearning to find out what Mr Godot looks like you’ll be sadly disappointed.
This particular production, with its two principals flitting and bouncing gleefully off each other like your two craziest uncles in a pub on a Sunday afternoon, was sheer joy. The humour of the piece was overwhelmingly evident – laughter from the audience from the very beginning – throwing into very sharp relief some of Vladimir’s darkest, most despairing moments. Patrick Stewart’s dedicated intensity to proving his worth and existance was matched only by Sir Ian’s lugubrious, stubborn apathy of memory - most of the biggest laughs being garnered through his perfectly executed silences and beat moments. The only mid-scene applause, however, went to Ronald Pickup for Lucky’s monologue, delivered with terrifying, relentless speed.
Knowing that Beckett’s dedication to stage direction and set design borders on the anal, does not detract from the beauty of the stage lighting, which moved us from twilight to sun to snow-lit chill, nor the fervour of the performances. A truly satisfying afternoon spent. And having walked past Sir Ian and Simon Callow in the street on their way to the Stage Door, doubly satisfying.
A lesson for all of us, I think – we’re all waiting for Godot – the act of waiting giving us something to do while we wait for our lives to start. In the end, all you can really do is just get on with living.
