ARTS EMERSON
Waiting For Godot
Gare St Lazare Players ( Ireland)
Co-produced by the Dublin Theatre Festival
The Paramount Theatre
559 Washington Street
Boston, MA
October 31 –November 10
Tickets: 617-824-8400
ARTSEMERSON.ORG
Reviewer: Amy R. Tighe
Indeed, I too have been waiting. Since my 80 year old mother died last year, I
have been waiting to hear her voice again, even as upsetting as it had been to
hear it for the past thirty years. I am
deeply impatient, waiting for her to tell me if she finally found out about God
for herself, instead of making me take all those pilgrimages. Just because she is dead does not mean it is
over between us. Somedays, quite the contrary. I only need from her the sign I can believe.
There are very few phrases in the English speaking word that
have this much power. “I have a dream,”
“Houston, we have the technology, “ once upon a time,” and “Waiting for Godot.” I am hard, pressed to find new things to say
about a phrase that imprints so many of us at the very moment we learn to
speak.
I am surprised to see that I myself, who always tries to
maintain an inner clarity in order to be able to inhale new imprints, I feel the trance of Beckett as well. I am waiting. For my mother’s empathic caress,
for my deceased brother who told me about the play he read in 11th
grade 45 years ago. “Get it kid? God-
ot—its GOD, stupid.” I am waiting for
the government to collapse, for my country to arise, and to hear his voice
again at my table.
The current production of Waiting for Godot , a world premiere from the Gare St Lazare Payers, (from Ireland) and playing at the
Paramount this week is that rare and delicate ritual you cherish and don’t allow yourself to
perform enough. Sitting in a full house,
in the transcendent renovation of the Paramount, it seemed as if each and every
person was quietly quoting their
favorite line in sync with the actors, if not repeating the entire play as if in
common prayer. Excited exhales are heard all night long.
And yet, there are several deep moments when the actors
stop, face us as audience, and wait.
Then, the historical hall becomes
a timeless meditation room, completely still for a minor eternity. I stopped
breathing once or twice during the night, I am sure.
Even the set is waiting.
In the background, the enormous full moon faints and revives throughout
the play. The stage itself is a mirror
of the moon, but it’s also not—it’s off-kilter, has a barren tree, and one
small crater that Gogo (Estragon) uses
as his personal throne. The set is uncomfortable and
tranquilizing. The moons do not wane or
crescent. They are unhappy reflections, either stark or dark, yet always whole.
The over-60 couple in front of me are retired, and now are writers,
and “have seen Becket for decades and Godot 10 times.” In all their years of going to
theatre, this is their favorite play. The young Hong Kong Chinese woman next to
me has never heard of Becket and is bored, and I tell her that is the point of
the play. She ignores me for the rest of
the evening.
The actors have lost their edge because the audience knows
these characters so well that there is little the players can do
except—well—play. And so they do. Simple and startling performances glitter brilliantly
on stage. I still feel Lucky’s rope and carry
the sound of his chronic shuffling. Estragon’s
foot still annoys me. Against an ageless
and endless overly intelligent discussion of meaning, interpretation and
inquiry, these players show us that what is real stays real: Cruelty to each other, pain in the body, a
profound desire to comfort and encourage. In the experienced shadows of the Gare St
Lazare troupe’s moon, we can lilt.
During intermission, a group of students from Concord
Academy are chittering away, and I ask “What do you think of God-oh versus Goe
doe?” What is sweetest is that they don’t question a random stranger asking
questions, and they instantly respond, “Oh do we even have to know? I mean,
isn’t the not knowing a way of knowing?”
This is what I wait for, and here I am finally found. In this brick and mortar building, the
conversation about our theatre of every day life is available with any other person.
Hosted by the eternal Muse Beckett,
played out by finely tuned performers, and held in place by Arts Emerson, we
have come, and every one of us is asking.
As Estragon says “There is nothing to be done.” And so, here, at ARTS Emerson, we do just that, all of us, together.
