Samuel Beckett: Come and Go / Footfalls

Much less familiar to me than the contents of the previous double-bill, these two pieces offer sharper contrasts and harsher edges. A little closer, perhaps, to what people imagine when they think of Samuel Beckett's later drama; a little further away, possibly, from the immediate, instinctive joy that can be found within it.

Indeed, Come and Go is unusually unsatisfying. It's a visually striking piece, to be sure: three women seated in a row, wrapped in pastel shades and veiled by the shadows of their hats. It's beautifully executed too, slow and deliberate and elegant as each figure departs in turn, leaving the others to whisper secrets in their absence. But, in the end, this is an idea, not a fleshed-out play. Of course, there are many who'd level that accusation at far more of Beckett's work, but wrongly: much of its strength comes from marrying brave, stark ideas with astonishingly rich and potent writing. There is nearly always more to a Beckett piece than meets the eye; Come and Go strikes me as being a rare exception. A diverting enough exception (and a short one too), but an exception nonetheless.

Footfalls immediately proves the point. Bare and bleak to the point of parody, this is precisely the kind of miserable nonsense that'd drive quite a lot of people to complete distraction. For five or ten minutes, even I can't quite penetrate the monochromatic blankness: the dull clonk-clonk-clonk of the footfalls as a woman wrapped in rags shuffles back and forth across the stage, occasionally chided by the creaking voice of her elderly mother. Not a great choice for a first date, put it that way.

But these pieces thrive on rhythm, music as much as drama; when you find that rhythm, you can lose yourself in it entirely. From the outside, Footfalls feels awkward, staged, overdone; when you're lost inside it, its ghostly voices and haunting figures make the air seem colder, the hush seem quieter. The writing comes alive, helped by a particularly fine performance from Justine Mitchell as May, bringing a delightful touch of youthful insolence to the daughter's relationship with her mother. There's infinite sadness here...but then, there's a brash smudge of humour near the end, laughter that's immediately overwhelmed by the sadness again. A sudden flash of purple across a canvas dominated by blacks and greys.

From the outside, the appeal is elusive. When you're inside the piece, as one with its heartbeat, Beckett's writing is brave and daring and heartfelt. Its music is stirring and magnificent, even as it is utterly still and deathly. Not for the first time, I wonder: who else can write like this? Who else can draw so deeply upon simple language? Not for the last time, I conclude: it really doesn't matter.