Theatre in Review: On Beckett (Irish Repertory Theatre) Bill Irwin is at home at the Irish Rep these nights, holding forth on one of his favorite topics, his obsession with Samuel Beckett. It is surely stating the obvious to note that if you don't share his interest, or if his particular brand of classic clowning doesn't send you into fits of giggles, this isn't the show for you. Otherwise, you're likely to have a fine enough time at this modestly ingratiating entertainment. As Irwin states up front, Beckett's drama and prose long ago permanently imprinted themselves on his brain: "The stretches of language I want to share with you have gone viral. Perhaps on the Internet -- but certainly inside of: my head, my heart, my brain, my mind, my psyche, my body." He adds, in haste, that he is no scholar: "Mine is an actor's relationship to this language -- it is also a clown's relationship to it." Fair enough; few actors have braved that blasted, scorched-earth territory as frequently as Irwin has. And, arguably, as a clown, Irwin holds the deed to these lands: Beckett's early years were filled with trips to the music hall and movies in the heyday of silent comedy. And there is a long, long tradition of Beckett's works being tackled by the great comics of many eras, from Bert Lahr's late-career triumph in Waiting for Godot to Buster Keaton's star turn in film, and beyond. Irwin himself has appeared in productions of Godot with the likes of Robin Williams, Steve Martin, Nathan Lane, and John Goodman. The first, straighter half of the evening focuses on the novels Watt and The Unnamable, and the prose pieces Texts for Nothing -- "This writing feels to me really like the way consciousness works," he says, interestingly -- but the pieces don't stand up well in excerpts. Even with Irwin's crystalline delivery, when presented in short fragments they start to feel like so much word salad. Irwin provides touching bits of commentary, including his impersonation of the great avant-garde director Joseph Chaikin after his stroke, speaking in a tiny, unsure voice; our host also has some interesting things to say about the innately Irish voice of an artist who, for most of his career, wrote in French. But often this portion of the program descends into shop talk, focused perhaps too intently on the challenges of performing these famously difficult texts. Things pick up considerably as Irwin's natural clown instincts come out. Adding layer upon layer of baggy pants and jackets in which he sometimes appears to be swimming, he becomes the performer we know and love -- struggling to extricate a recalcitrant hand from his pocket; dancing enthusiastically, in moonwalk fashion, to '80s pop music; demonstrating his pitiful golf technique with a cane; and seemingly sinking and rising behind a podium that, he insists, is equipped with an elevator. In this sequence, Waiting for Godot is the topic of discussion, and his many experiences with the play allow for a number of telling anecdotes. (Bewilderingly, he claims that Godot and Endgame are Beckett's only full-length works, neglecting Happy Days, which surely gets as many, if not more, productions than the others.) Among other things, Irwin discourses amusingly on the correct pronunciation of the title character (GOD-oh versus Guh-DOH), noting how the adoption of the former sent shock waves through a Broadway audience, causing Nathan Lane to send him panicked looks. He also offers telling recollections of Mike Nichols' reductive, if not entirely incorrect, conception of the play, and of Robin Williams flinging his body at him onstage at the moment when the script calls for the other characters to silence the character of Lucky, the unspeaking beast of burden whose burst of loquacity is one of Godot's chief set pieces. As a fond appreciation of one man of the theatre for another, On Beckett has its graceful moments, but the trouble with Beckett is that you have to take him as you find him, or not at all. His works defy explanation and resist being taken out of context. The silent, monumental carapace that they present to the world is so daunting that Irwin, in comparison, comes across as a gushing fan. His enthusiasm is laudable, even infectious, but it does little for one's appreciation of Beckett. As you might imagine, Charlie Corcoran's set is a largely empty space, populated by two boxes; the only other significant design aspect is Michael Gottlieb's lighting, which shifts fluidly from stark white looks to Technicolor backdrop washes. A young actor named Finn O'Sullivan makes a couple of delightful appearances in the Godot portion as the boy who repeatedly brings the news that his master is delayed yet again but will surely appear tomorrow. Enjoyable more for its star than its subject, On Beckett is probably the sweetest tribute ever to one of the twentieth century's most mandarin theatre figures. Whether that is a good thing or not is, perhaps, debatable, but Irwin remains a pleasure to spend a little time with. -- David Barbour 
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