Waiting for Godot

I have no excuse for never having visited the Jungle Theater. It's a short 10 minute walk from my apartment and I'm a (mildly) recovered thespian so how I've managed to live three years in this apartment without a visit is just a mystery.

Fitting, I suppose, that while tangled in that absurdity I took my seat in that theater to watch Beckett's Waiting for Godot, a play famously (absurdly) about nothing.  To be honest, I've always been partial to Ionesco over Beckett, although I don't think it's necessary for that affection to be mutually exclusive.  Waiting for Godot always seemed a bit more heavy-handed in its drumbeat of meaninglessness, while Bald Soprano seemed a bit more deft at sliding that feeling of pathos slyly under the skin.

But after last night's performance, I really feel like I just hadn't ever seen Godot in a forum, and in the hands of such talents, that properly enabled me to enjoy that meaninglessness.  The pathos is still there, the occasional break in hilarity to show glimpses of genuine pain, but the actors are so skilled in juggling the conflict of agony and apathy, the audience cannot help but recognize themselves a bit in the banter. You laugh at the inane slapstick of it all and then catch yourself wondering how far off that slapstick actually is from reality.

Jim Lichtscheidl and Nathan Keepers effortlessly collide physically and in dialogue as Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo).  Didi's incessant optimism takes shape as an almost lazy personality quirk, one gets the sense that his comfort in waiting for Godot is less a facet of genuine optimism and more a what-else-is-there-to-do habit. This balances Gogo's whining and continual forgetfulness perfectly.  Is it forgetfulness or a game to pass the time? Does it matter? Is the whining legitimate or another crafted ploy to simply give the mind a way to adapt and survive in a tenuous circumstance?

Allen Hamilton and Charles Schuminski round out the cast as Pozzo and Lucky, providing not only a diversion but further proof of the meaninglessness of the wait. While any number of commentaries can be dug out of Lucky-the-Slave and his tyrannical master (and Allen Hamilton's famous voice perfectly settles into that booming quasi-monologue), what struck me most was, again, the purposelessness of each action.  Even Pozzo often stumbled with the most minor of desires.  He wants to sit but does not know how to go about it.  He wants to leave but does not know how best to do so. There's a loss of momentum internally within each character that is only restored by dialogue with external forces, namely, the equally frozen humans that inhabit their shared space.  It's exhausting and enthralling to watch.

Exhaustion aside, this is how I should have seen Beckett years ago.  Ionesco may still hold my heart, but Beckett is a worthy slice on the side for my wandering thespian eye. And regardless of your love or apathy as relates to absurdist or postmodern theater, this is fantastic acting, and fantastic acting deserves an audience.  See this show.

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