Theatre in Review: Waiting for Godot (Cort Theatre)

	Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen. Photo: Joan Marcus

Just because we live in an unfathomable void, should life be devoid of laughter? The answer is a categorical "no" in Sean Mathias' production of Waiting for Godot, the first of two revivals starring the astonishing double act of Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. These two brilliant classical technicians prove themselves to be equally brilliant clowns in a production that draws a direct line from the early 20th-century music hall to the bleak modernist vision of Samuel Beckett. In the world of this Godot, the news is so terrible, you simply have to laugh.

The lights come up on Stephen Brimson Lewis' set, which, as in almost every production of Godot, presents a grim, nearly empty landscape populated by a single tree. The deck curves upward as it moves upstage; a single hand appears as McKellen's Estragon struggles to hoist his body into view. When he does, he is a sight to behold: an unkempt beard, a mangy mane, tattered pants, and filthy shirt and coat; he executes the famous business of struggling to remove his boots, revealing ravaged, dirty feet. This Estragon is a walking health hazard, desperately in need of a shave and a bath, and quite possibly a delousing. A feral creature, and also slightly decrepit -- consider his extravagant wheeze when exerting himself -- he is also capable of assuming a modified lotus position, just to show us that he, too, has an inner life. He is possessed of a smile both beatific and baleful and a penetrating stare that occasionally liquefies into something more haunted as he wrestles with the mystery of why he occupies this blasted heath, why he is partnered with the equally benighted Vladimir, and why the mysterious Godot never, ever shows up. At the same time, he has a sly sense of humor; pressed to remember an event from a few minutes earlier, he draws himself up and says, scornfully, "I'm not a historian."

You can't say that Stewart's Vladimir is any better dressed, but he is nevertheless the nattier of the two; he's free of facial hair and is capable of giving his hat a slightly rakish, Frank Sinatra tilt as he dances his way over to Estragon. "Together again at last," he says. "We'll have to celebrate this," offering an embrace that Estragon irritably refuses. There are moments when Vladimir's jollity is so infectious that he seems like a male of version of Winnie, the indomitable heroine of Beckett's Happy Days, her cheerfulness undimmed by the fact of being buried up to her neck. He's perfectly at home with the broadest comic business; for example, there's the stricken look he assumes after sniffing Estragon's boots, or the astonished face with which he greets the appearance of a handful of leaves on the tree. Then again, there's a penetrating intelligence at work; waxing theological, he comments about the Crucifixion, "One of the thieves was saved," adding, "It's a reasonable percentage," the second comment nullifying the warmth of the first. And when he launches into a song, he croons so suavely that it takes you a few seconds to realize that the lyrics are about digging a tomb for a dog.

"This is not boring you, I hope," says Vladimir. Estragon replies with a shrug, as if to say "maybe, maybe not." Nevertheless, boredom is impossible when these two are on stage. Still, as always, Waiting for Godot is a piece that suffers from longeurs. It is, of course, the play that transformed Beckett from an obscure novelist and poet into an international cultural figure. (Interestingly, Terrence McNally's And Away We Go, now playing at the Pearl Theatre, is in part about Waiting for Godot's disastrous American premiere in, of all cities, Miami.) Nevertheless, I submit that two and a half hours is a very, very long time for a play about stasis, emptiness, and the sheer mystery of existence. As the recent local productions of Play and All That Fall demonstrate, as Beckett's plays shortened, they grew in power. In the last analysis, he was more poet than playwright and his vision benefitted from being so thoroughly distilled.

The duller parts of Godot are those featuring Pozzo, the overlord figure, and Lucky, his largely silent beast of burden; even in Mathias' otherwise-ideal staging, their scenes can be a bit of a chore. This is nothing against Shuler Hensley's Pozzo, on outsized caricature of privilege, dressed in an enormous hound's-tooth suit, outfitted with an elaborately hideous wig, and full of bluster in a southern accent that brings to mind Foghorn Leghorn, of the old Warner Brothers cartoons. (This accent plays interestingly against McKellen's North Country vowels.) Billy Crudup also makes the most of Lucky's single monologue, a cataract of nonsense. It begins with "Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua...." -- that is Beckett's pointed satire of academic discourse. And it must also be said that Pozzo and Lucky's second-act appearance leads of an amusing four-man pileup on stage that offers proof positive that there is nothing funnier than futility.

But McKellen and Stewart are the whole show here, converting Beckett's text into a kind of graveyard vaudeville, producing laughter that is sometimes rollicking and sometimes like the rattle of bones. (Their execution of the old Laurel and Hardy hat-switching routine is perfection.) And when night falls and Godot has once again not appeared, their anguish and confusion is honestly dismaying. Their deft handling of Beckett's comic crosstalk is so deft, their sense of intimacy so complete, they constitute the most extraordinary on-stage partnership, in my experience, since Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy exited forever.

In addition to Lewis' fine work, Peter Kaczorowski's lighting is nothing less than stunning, producing a remorselessly hot daytime look that seamlessly fades into night. There are no gimmicks here, just superb technique informed by a thorough understanding of the text. The giant moon effects at the end of each act are produced by projections, courtesy of Zachary Borovay, who also contributes a bare-branches look on the show's scrim during the intermission. One can imagine Beckett spinning in his grave at the idea of such technology being deployed on his play; admittedly, the projections are effective, but one wonders if the lighting department might not have managed to do the same job just as well. [I have been reliably informed that I am in error. Borovay's projections are seen only in No Man's Land, with which Godot is playing in repertory. The effects mentioned above are part of Kaczorowski's wizardry; Beckett can rest easy.] Rob Milburn and Michael Bodeen have deployed a handful of extremely discreet sound effects -- including birdsong and a persistent wind -- that contribute to the sense of desolation.

Even if you aren't the biggest fan of Waiting for Godot, this production is an opportunity not to be missed, for the privilege of seeing what two of the world's greatest actors make of it. In one of my favorite passages, Vladimir says, "That passed the time." Estragon adds, "It would have passed in any case." Maybe, but it wouldn't have passed so transcendently. --David Barbour