Part one of several, because Samuel Beckett's hundredth birthday means that there's suddenly an awful lot to indulge in, for those who are partial. And it is an indulgence: far from the austere, bleak monotony of common misconception, I find the sheer brilliance of Beckett's finest work, especially his minimalist drama, to be an unutterable joy. How else can you feel but elated, having experienced these dizzying pinnacles of imagination, of artistry, of pure, spare, potent language?
So, here we are, loitering in the bizarre weightlessness (and foodlessness) of the Barbican on a Friday night, like being stuck in an airport in the early hours; here, for the first part of a lengthy season of Beckett's work, performances of Rockaby and Ohio Impromptu. Personal favourites, these...close and special, burdened with especially high expectations.
There's a unique balancing act within this work, contributing to that essential joy. That so much of it projects on your mind's eye in the absence of movement on stage means that it's instantly familiar: the same words, the same images, conjured up from the first breath. And yet, there is remarkable room for variation, for fresh interpretation and discovery. Sure, Beckett constrained the possibilities of these plays by being spectacularly prescriptive about their execution...but that only amplifies the impact of each tweaked nuance, magnifying emphasis and pause and accent to create a fresh mosaic for each performance.
Thus, even the most familiar work can yield revelations. Thus, Sian Phillips' version of Rockaby doesn't quite capture the gorgeous, deathly music in my head; it feels just a little forced, over-stressing the later passages in an unnecessary attempt to distinguish itself from classic performances. Splitting hairs, of course...but you can do that under a magnifying glass.
Thus, Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's reading of Ohio Impromptu is simply breathtaking in its understated perfection, setting the bar extraordinarily high for the rest of the festival. By the end, they've somehow managed to get so close to the sad, sombre essence of the piece that you can almost feel the long cello notes being drawn out, shivers rushing down spine. A piece that I thought I knew so well, yet had never experienced so vividly. Right there, even amid the desolation, there's majesty and magic.
That's Samuel Beckett, if you want it to be.
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