Good Godot, That Was Awful

Play Review:
Waiting For Godot

by Samuel Beckett

Company: Innovation Theatre Works
Venue: ITW Main Stage
Run: 3/5/12 - 3/22/12

While I don’t pretend I’m so old as to know everything about myself, I do know what kinds of plays and movies I am likely to enjoy. Upon reading the promotional material for Waiting For Godot at Innovation Theatre Works in Bend, Oregon, my gut reaction was of non-interest. Wikipedia and various essays described it as “absurdist” and “existentialist”, two words that characterize the genre of art for which I have the least appreciation.

However, for a handful of reasons I suppressed that initial reaction and decided to give it a go. For one, it was touted by multiple sources as a pivotal moment in modern theater. As a cinema enthusiast, I have known the trials of getting the uninitiated to understand why Citizen Kane is an essential cornerstone in the foundation of film history. So as a theater hobbyist, I felt I should at least give “the most important play of the modern theater” a chance to speak for itself.

For another, one of the cast members essentially dared me to see it. And third, a friend offered to enable my completion of the dare by purchasing my ticket at a time when I could not afford the ticket price.

Given the script’s lack of forward momentum through a traditional A-line narrative, the play defies a standard plot synopsis. It revolves around two men, Estragon and Vladimir (informally addressing each other as “Gogo” and “Didi”), who are waiting by a dead tree for someone named Godot (“GOD-oh”, not “g’DOH”). Apparently they have been requested by Godot to wait there for him, though neither of them can recall for certain what time Godot will arrive, or if they are by the correct tree, or even whether they will recognize Godot when they see him.

They pass a long and tedious day by talking, sometimes agreeably and sometimes less so. They ponder things like Gogo’s too-tight pair of boots, and whether the nearby tree would support them if they committed suicide by hanging, and other topics I cannot recall because I forgot my notepad. As the day rolls on, a man named Pozzo passes through, along with his tethered lackey Lucky. They stop and join the other two in conversation, pondering such things as why Pozzo keeps Lucky in slavish service to him, and what twilight looks like in that part of the country.

Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. The two men head off to find sleep, with the knowledge that they must return the next day and continue waiting.

That’s Act One.

Act Two is more of the same, though the tree has sprouted a few leaves, Pozzo shows up blind, and Gogo has a curious lack of memory regarding anything that happened the previous day. Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. Imagine Groundhog Day, only without Bill Murray’s ever finding a happy ending.

And at this point I am not sure how to proceed. Given the bizarre nature of the entire thing, it’s a bit tricky to critique any particular aspect of it. The performances were certainly capable – having worked with cast members Andrew Hickman, Liam Mykael O’Sruitheain, and Alastair Morley Jaques in the past, I expected no less. I can’t even really comment on Brad Hills’ work as the director because, knowing the caliber of three of the four main performers first-hand, I’m quite sure they all brought a great deal of collaboration to the table.

Tim Blough and Hickman, as Gogo and Didi respectively, are well-matched counterpoints. Blough brings out the dour skepticism of Gogo, who is far more ready to give up on ever meeting Godot than Didi is. Ailing from tight boots and foot lesions, Gogo makes many attempts to leave, only to be stopped by Didi; Blough’s deeply resonant voice and long face enhance Didi’s pessimism nicely without being so overtly depressing as to make us want to join him in hanging from the tree.

On the other side, Hickman makes Didi a fraternal twin of Stan Laurel: His hands constantly fidget with his short necktie, he deftly twiddles his hat, and he walks with feet turned way out in a bouncy waddle. Didi seems the more confident in the imminent arrival of Godot, and maintains the sunnier disposition throughout most of the play. Such optimism is brought out by Hickman’s lilting tenor tones and animated physical features.

Liam O’Sruitheain never fails to intrigue me. I have seen him on four occasions now, and he always manages to make his characters far richer than the scripts suggest. Though I cannot for the life of me figure out what Beckett’s script is even trying to suggest and therefore cannot decide whether his performance here was richer or not, O’Sruitheain is watchable as always, pretty much stealing Act One out from under everyone else with his wide range of emotional choices.

Alastair Morley Jaques plays Lucky, who carries around Pozzo’s belongings, and spends every waking moment on stage looking utterly fatigued by the load. Apart from one excessive outburst akin to the Monty Python skit where Eric Idle drove Michael Palin to insanity by complaining about travel agency package deals, Lucky is silent, a character of pure physicality, and Jaques handles it ably.

I started with the performances because I want to differentiate them from the play itself: It is possible to deliver a flawless and expert performance of a script, at the same time that the script itself is not even worth performing. And that is the situation we have here.

The easiest way I can think of to describe what I saw is “doodling”. A person sits and doodles to entertain himself. (I might add that’s why I blog about the theatrical arts, though I do appreciate anyone who stops to read.) It matters not if he doodles anything resembling a decent picture; it’s not really meant for anyone else to look at. And this is the impression I am left with: A play full of doodles.

Samuel Beckett’s script jumps from topic to topic, with or without rational motivation in the dialogue. What portion of page ten requires it to come before page eleven? Would the audience notice if the two pages had been switched? Doubtful. Apart from one hint at an attempt to be deliberately philosophical about the brevity of life (which Beckett also covered in his play Breath), none of the dialogue carries any significant weight or lasting resonance. Some humorous lines are good for a chuckle for their own sake, but they are just chuckles adrift, not serving any larger purpose. There is physical schtick reminiscent of a Mel Brooks film, but it comes and goes with stark inconsistency. Like a child doodling on page after page of blank paper and then throwing them all in a meaningless pile, Beckett doodles out a few dozen theatrical sequences that add up to nothing intriguing whatsoever.

The actors inhabit these doodles consistently and even creatively. O’Sruitheain’s brief discourse on the difficulty of sitting on his stool a second time is delivered with a sly twinkle. Blough and Hickman have volleys of patter that develop a nice rhythm. The list of such individual doodles is long, but doodles they remain: Even when all bundled together, they are still just doodles.

I am told that all this doodling is actually a play wherein Beckett uses the absurd setting to toss out to the audience several thought-provoking questions about the human condition. Indeed, this is the reason cited for the play’s standing as a landmark in modern theater: Never before had a play asked the questions and assigned the audience to ponder their own answers. From everything I have read, it is safe to say existentialism in theatrical form was born right here in Waiting For Godot.

And that is certainly a plausible explanation for my complete lack of enjoyment. I disagree with existentialist philosophy, and with existentialist art. Every play I consider a favorite was written before Waiting For Godot, back when playwrights actually had, you know, something to say. Back before modern art disguised Western culture’s growing relativism and skepticism in a cloak of pseudo-intellectualism.

The director’s program notes invite us to open our minds to the questions being asked. But even disregarding my belief in the presence of absolute truths and the rejection of existential thinking, I still did not even get the impression I was being asked any questions at all, let alone thought-provoking ones I was being burdened to answer. I cannot, a mere two hours after leaving the theater, name for you a single issue about the human condition I am now supposed to be mulling over. If I did not know better, I would say the whole experience felt like a big practical joke by Beckett, who went to his grave laughing quietly about how he duped every producer, director, actor, and receptive audience member into thinking that the play was actually significant. I have no idea what it is about this play that would intrigue any director into staging it, or any actor into auditioning for it. I’m not trying to be snarky, I’m just being honest.

And it’s not that I’m hopelessly shallow: I don’t mind a play or movie that gives me something to think about. But I want to know that the author had a specific assertion in mind, even if I have to dig for it, and even if I disagree with it. Waiting For Godot is none of these. Beckett refused to assign meaning to the play, which makes sense given its existential purpose, but in doing so he completely alienates me.

I think by now I’m beating a dead horse. Waiting For Godot is, for my taste, the worst theater script I have ever seen performed. I would hire any of the performers I saw, who all proved themselves skilled in creating and delivering consistent characters. But the play itself is useless. The fact that Innovation Theatre Works is having a hard time filling the seats for this production suggests I’m not the only one completely put off by its incomprehensible inanity.

When I was a kid who would grimace at some new dish placed before me at the dinner table, my mother would ask, “How do you know you don’t like it? You haven’t even tried it.” Whatever else you may think of my opinion of Waiting For Godot, you cannot say I didn’t even try it.

Basic Ticket Price: $15-$20
Value for Money: Not worth it