Last night we saw Bill Irwin’s Exploring the Work of Samuel Beckett at the Irish Repertory Theatre. The actor and clown you need to see to believe presented pieces developed from Beckett’s writings: Texts for Nothing; The Unnameable; and Watt. The actor’s interaction with the prose–words he said haunt him–elevated dense prose into fast and riveting dramas about struggling to live, claiming to “give up,” (a slump, a sinking, and for a second it appeared he might sink into a grave), but as language persisted until the momentum seemed inescapable, admitting, perhaps not yet. He also acted parts of Beckett’s plays, Endgame and, of course Waiting for Godot, in which Irwin has played the character Lucky and Vladimir. He said that, after memorizing the lines for the roles, he cannot forget them. And his presentation of Lucky’s monologue, along with examples of Vladimir interacting with Estragon, left no doubt that Samuel Beckett’s characters run through his head almost constantly. I learned, too, that while in the U.S., we pronounce Godot as Guh-DOE, in England and Ireland’s it’s GOD-oh. He said when he first appeared in the play in England someone asked if him by saying Guh-DOE, he was trying to seem “French.”
My husband overhead someone saying after the ninety minute performance, “That was a master class.” I wouldn’t know, except that it certainly didn’t strike me as a class. Staggering, funny, and enlightening, yes. But no class ever tapped so deeply into my self-awareness or made the fantastic and hilarious but dire struggle to survive seem so tangible. My five (or six) senses absorbed things that were new to me, things I will never forget.