It's a strange dignity that Samuel Beckett imagines for humanity in his brilliant play Waiting for Godot. In Beckett's view, we're all spiritual paupers, living in the desperate hope that God will take notice of us, and anxiously trying to avoid the conclusion that we've been abandoned.
We'd like to distract ourselves with sensual pleasure, but we've lost the capacity: all our food tastes no better than radishes and turnips and sex is a distant memory, which might be reawakened only if we tried to hang ourselves. True, there are some who, unaware of their condition, revel unthinkingly in their imagined power; but decrepitude and death wait for them just as surely as for the rest of us — like ours, their mothers gave birth "astride a grave."
So finally, we have just our companionship with one another, and the waiting itself. Maybe tomorrow God will arrive, rescue us from this confusion, show us that life was always more than a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing. Until then, well, at least "we've kept our appointment." Tempted by despair, we're nonetheless still here, waiting.
It's one of the many virtues of the current Stageworks production of Godot that all these implications of Beckett's modern classic are plainly apparent, available to even the least philosophical among us. The Stageworks Godot is a little slow-moving — it takes more than two-and-a-half hours, all told — but it's also sharply etched, distinct in characterization and import. Four strong performances — by Brain Shea as Vladimir, Kenneth Noel Mitchell as Estragon, Jorge Acosta as Pozzo and Richard Coppinger as Lucky — make this Godot an excellent learner's version, one that communicates Beckett's intentions with wonderful precision.
All that's missing is a key set piece — the bare tree in Act One that takes on "four or five leaves" in Act Two, suggesting hope, life, rebirth. But even without this celebrated symbol, the Stageworks Godot is an impressive, resonant work. If you care about contemporary drama, you won't want to miss it.
You probably know the play's story: On a deserted country road, two tramps wait for a mysterious Mr. Godot. While waiting, they do their best to keep themselves entertained. They complain, insult each other, exchange information, consider suicide, eat a little. There's an element of performance in everything they do — as if a music hall act had been banished to Purgatory, where it continued to play for no audience but itself.
Their solitude is eventually interrupted by two unusual personages: a domineering, self-satisfied man named Pozzo and his slave-at-the-end-of-a-rope, the hapless Lucky. Pozzo feasts on chicken and wine, smokes a pipe, orders Lucky around abusively, and allows famished Estragon to gnaw at the chicken bones. Then he makes an offer: He'll show the two tramps how well Lucky can think. A few moments later, the heretofore silent slave spews forth a confused torrent of words that might be crudely summarized as a combination of theological argument and discussion of the improving nature of sport.
Lucky is silenced, he and Pozzo move on and the two tramps are alone again, waiting. Now a boy appears with a message from Mr. Godot: He won't come today, but will surely arrive tomorrow. The boy leaves and night falls, ending the act. In Act Two, there's much of the same, but Pozzo, we discover, has been humbled. At the end, the two tramps are still waiting.
Is such an action-less play boring? Not if it's done well — and the Stageworks version is done exceedingly well. To start at the top, I can't give enough praise to Shea for his performance as Vladimir. I've seen several live and taped versions of Godot over the years, and Shea's Vladimir stands out as perhaps the best I've ever witnessed. In his capable hands, the bearded tramp is intelligent, haunted, self-dramatizing, condemned to be alone even in the company of Estragon.
As Estragon, Kenneth Noel Mitchell is a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist who moans loudly every time he's reminded of the waiting, and who depends upon Vladimir as a bulwark against despondency. As Pozzo, Jorge Acosta gives his best performance ever, finding the cruelty and smugness of the character as well as his odd vulnerability. And as Lucky, Richard Coppinger is simply terrific, suggesting exhaustion and obstinacy in equal parts, as if he found the alternatives to slavery unthinkable. (I do think, though, that Coppinger takes Lucky's long monologue too slowly, thereby mitigating its desperate force.) Finally, Remy Geminario as the Boy is just right: innocent, easily frightened, naively incommunicative.
This is a stellar cast, and Anna Brennen's fine direction makes maximum use of the talents assembled.
The set, or rather, the lack of a set, is the only problem. Stageworks puts basically nothing on the deep stage of the Hillsborough Community College (Ybor campus) Performing Arts Hall — just a steamer trunk and a light bulb at the end of a pole. That's it. I'm sympathetic to theater companies that don't have much cash, but how much money could it cost to build that one bare tree and the "country road" on which Beckett places his action? That tree is so important to Vladimir and Estragon's situation: It's where they think of hanging themselves, but it's also a reason for hope, for thinking that they too may experience an inexplicable rebirth.
In the realm of costumes, Robin New and Kenneth Mitchell's creations are wonderfully tattered and mismatched, and the pink body suit that Pozzo wears in Act Two is a witty expression of his much-reduced state.
To sum up: This is an almost wholly first-class version of a modern masterpiece. It's a production to think with, one that proceeds with exemplary clarity, making Beckett's sometimes difficult thought all the more accessible.
Watching it, you can't help but notice that we are the real subjects of Waiting for Godot, we post-Renaissance humans who lack an earlier era's vast confidence, and who can't help but worry that Godot's silence points to some terrible failing of our own.
Nevertheless, like Vladimir and Estragon, we can keep our appointment. We can continue to wait.
And even as beggars, Beckett reminds us, we can find our nobility.
Contact Mark E. Leib at mark.leib@ weeklyplanet.com or call 813-248-8888, ext. 305.
This article appears in Jun 26 – Jul 2, 2002.