It is entirely appropriate that a production staged in memory of Samuel Beckett begins with the sound of an anonymous person popping their cheek with an index finger. Beckett himself was hostile to analysis of his work that espoused the theological dilemma confronting Christianity when pelted by the existential horrors of the 20th century. Inherently theatrical, a finger popping a cheek can be interpreted as a sardonic representation of time; its cruel seepage dripping away at a monotonous rate, and taking our lives with it. But perhaps it also was a simple action that Beckett himself performed. Famous for desiring nothing more than to sit on his arse and think and fart, a similar desire is present and repeated in much of his theatrical writing. Humour is the essence of Beckett's work. Popping a cheek with an index finger is an action a naughty schoolboy might perform. Alternatively, one of Beckett's ruined leech gatherers, several of which are present in this production, may be marking time as each sits on the cusp of death, waiting for life's cruel joke to end, listening to the relentless chatter of Watt's word haunting the hypothalamus, as each prepares for the grave.
It should be said that this very stylish production is equally troubled by the words of the so-called wise Mr Watt. Beckett's estate makes extraordinary demands upon those wishing to perform his plays. Along with the sound of finger popping there is projected upon a length of fabric a thunderous Absolute in words structured like an act of parliament. Furthermore, rather than leave Beckett's excruciating stage directions on the page, the two performers extract a subtle yet sardonic delight in delivering these to the audience. In Breath, these stage directions have been meticulously followed. Beckett's demand for scattered rubbish is minimalised as 10 or 12 fragments of crimson paper collected in an unsettling pile. And even though the director's desire for each performer to verbally express that which can already be seen is a cohesive device, it also assaults the nerves. No director appreciates being told how to stage a production, especially when this dictum is spouted by the Director's arch rival, the writer. But ridiculing the requirements of Beckett's estate, his writing, and Beckett himself, no matter how subtle the scorn, contains the same surly demeanour present in that same adolescent schoolboy. An unintended consequence perhaps, but a consequence nevertheless. Yet I live in hope that ridicule wasn't the only intention.
There is much to admire in this carefully crafted, contemplative show. The problem posed by the monologue of Not I being entirely performed by a mouth is solved by an economic use of light. And even though there is the odd moment or two when each performer seems unsure of exactly what they are saying, the production's images counterpoint any generality of words. Dark space, lonely and despairing. Yet space providing moments of humour and self illumination as each character's is seen at their most vulnerable. An outrageous grey wig swamping the forlorn head of That Time's fumbling male protagonist. The tragedy of a death foretold in the sumptuous black lace belonging to a dress worn for the final time in Rockaby. (If you have never watched a person die alone, as we all ultimately will, no matter who or how many surround us as the eyelids fall, see Rockaby and experience the inexplicable finality of death as it slowly unfolds). Or the seductive, yet chilling counterpoint present in A Piece of Monologue, in which a cranky old geezer wearing long socks and nightshirt is accompanied stage right by a slender, yet silent lamp; the lamp saying nothing and everything simultaneously, simply because of its spatial configuration and objective presence. The shining light of Modernism slowly fading, only to be replaced by the incandescent brilliance of the technocratic, Postmodern world.
Beckett had a lot to say about the so called digital revolution. From wheelchairs to tape recorders, or interior voice partitioned into separately positioned speakers, as they are in this production. Always, it seems, there resides in his plays characters in need of augmentation. Shuffling about in the dark or buried in an incremental pile of purposeless shit. Individuals born into this world with specific wants and needs, only to discover an arbitrary existence that cares not for our petty vanities and egotistical dribble. I have read descriptions of Beckett's work, plays, novels, poetry, film scripts and criticism, as antihumanistic. And why not ? The world we live in may be conducive to human existence. But watch a lonely old woman die in Rockaby, or the metaphorical grasp of a solitary wheeze contained by 2 party whistles in Breath, one in birth the other in death, and the inexplicable understanding that accompanies the knowledge that you yourself are one person among 6.5 billion people, on a planet populated by organisms that live and die along with the sound of an index finger popping a cheek, and you will understand the essence of Samuel Beckett. And so it is with this very stylish and successful production of 6 of Beckett's short writings for the stage.
Beckett's Shorts: Breath, Not I, That Time,
Rockaby, A Piece of Monologue &
What is the Word
Performers: Uschi Felix & Dion Mills
Director: Andre' Bastian
Set Design: Peter Mumford
Lighting Design: Stelios Karagiannis
Stage Manager, Light & Sound
Amanda Prado
Costume: Olga Makeeva
Photography: Jodie Hutchinson
April 14 - 25, La Mama, Melb.
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