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Incapable of keeping silent
Apr. 7th, 2006 03:43 pmBeckett Shorts
ADC Theatre, 11pm, Tuesday 7th March
I've found that when going to the theatre to see plays by Samuel Beckett, everything seems to add to the Beckett experience: the darkness, the queue, the snatches of overheard halfsensical conversation, the empty seats to one's left or right. One's life becomes, albeit temporarily, a Beckett play; there is nothing to be done but sit and watch the events (their events, their lives, not ours, no) unfold. Or the lack of events. Which may, in the end, be the same thing.
I could also claim that this review is being posted a month late for suitably Beckettian reasons: that it, like everything else in life, has been subject to the countless pointless delays that slowly grind down our motivation; that in typing and retyping the words I've lost faith in their ability to mean anything. Or perhaps I could claim that it doesn't matter; that a day late, a month late, a lifetime late, is all the same thing; that in the face of certain death, the difference between one step and three steps to the scaffold is an absurd distinction to be making.
I suspect you'd rather I just got on with it, though. ( texts for next-to-nothing )
There may seem no point in recommending a performance which is no longer being performed; but what could be more Beckettian? Ah yes: just as I'm searching for the bon mot, the power goes out all over the building. The light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
ADC Theatre, 11pm, Tuesday 7th March
I've found that when going to the theatre to see plays by Samuel Beckett, everything seems to add to the Beckett experience: the darkness, the queue, the snatches of overheard halfsensical conversation, the empty seats to one's left or right. One's life becomes, albeit temporarily, a Beckett play; there is nothing to be done but sit and watch the events (their events, their lives, not ours, no) unfold. Or the lack of events. Which may, in the end, be the same thing.
I could also claim that this review is being posted a month late for suitably Beckettian reasons: that it, like everything else in life, has been subject to the countless pointless delays that slowly grind down our motivation; that in typing and retyping the words I've lost faith in their ability to mean anything. Or perhaps I could claim that it doesn't matter; that a day late, a month late, a lifetime late, is all the same thing; that in the face of certain death, the difference between one step and three steps to the scaffold is an absurd distinction to be making.
I suspect you'd rather I just got on with it, though. ( texts for next-to-nothing )
There may seem no point in recommending a performance which is no longer being performed; but what could be more Beckettian? Ah yes: just as I'm searching for the bon mot, the power goes out all over the building. The light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
