Samuel Beckett - Krapp's Last Tape

There's an awful lot to say about Krapp's Last Tape. An awful lot. In some ways, it's easily lost amid the numerous landmarks in Beckett's canon, bridging the distance between the surrealism of his early dramatic works and the refined, still minimalism that later became characteristic. It's neither and both, and so much more than a necessary bit of process.

Indeed, its structure - shifting memories and images from three ages of the same man, recorded, played and replayed via his taped diaries - is audacious and inspired, even by Beckett's remarkable standards. A kind of theatrical cubism, if you like. Or something. In lesser hands, this could've been an innovative shambles. These are not lesser hands, though: the effect is a portrait of a lifetime, drawn bold and harsh and yet with exquisite tenderness. It doesn't feel like an idea.

There is so much humanity here. In the opening stages, Beckett outlines his character with wonderfully gentle, kind touches: his addiction to bananas, his creaking shoes, his digestive problems, his playful toying with words. It's almost as if he allows Krapp to hold up the play until he's ready to begin...or until he's ready to go, perhaps. From all of this, something is created that couldn't possibly have been conjured up by a conventional narrative: in less than an hour, you know this old, broken man like a close friend. The parting is virtually unbearable.

There's an awful lot to say about John Hurt's performance too. His name draws a packed house to see a role that he's played many times before, but there's no sense of complacency; rather, it's hard to believe that this incredibly demanding part has ever been played with such bravery, such absolute determination. Such undeniable heart. Ghosts of great performances wander through many of Beckett's plays, often dominating new interpretations; Hurt has left another of those ghosts. He is truly, truly magnificent.

An awful lot to say, then. And yet, nothing at all to say. Beckett's work, in any form, is often wondrous, often capable of making language achieve extraordinary things. But it's rarely as emotionally raw as this, rarely as profoundly moving; here, the light goes out on Hurt with tears lining his lower lids, just held back from spilling. Christ, I'm trembling with the effort myself. There are moments when it's difficult not to look away, not to flinch from such complete heartbreak. And yet, that humanity keeps drawing you close again, reaching out to the lonely, shattered figure on the stage.

There is nothing to say, in the end. All of Beckett's genius, put into bringing one poor, frail, dying man to flickering life. Simply, it is beautiful and moving beyond all words.