Samuel Beckett: Prose and Poetry

Not exactly the most high profile events in the Beckett Centenary Festival programme, these two hour-long selections of prose and poetry readings appear to exist mainly to reward the brave, prepared to take a punt and pay fifteen quid (twice) for something entirely mysterious. Blind faith tells us that we won't be listening to a jobbing actor mumbling incomprehensibly into a book for an hour, while we shift uncomfortably and gaze longingly at the exit. And blind faith is duly rewarded....

It's a shame, in many ways. Were the uninitiated present, there would be few better introductions to the lesser known reaches of Samuel Beckett's work than these relaxed, mildly jovial strolls through various novels, short stories, plays and poems...and it does no harm at all that stars of stage and screen have turned out to be our guides.

John Hurt, it transpires, looks exactly like John Hurt, to the point of caricature. If you bother to think about it, you already know what clothes he was wearing; I need not waste our time with a description. This is somehow comforting. Charles Dance is a more elegant presence, albeit therefore a slightly incongruous one; Beckett's language feels resistant to his strident, confident voice, whereas it fits the Irish tones of Alan Stanford and Barry McGovern like a battered, comfortable old shoe, and you get the impression that both have been tramping around joyously in these passages since childhood. And then, on both evenings (and in the same outfit, I note on behalf of my companion), there's Penelope Wilton. The presence of someone who's been in Doctor Who adds a certain gravitas to proceedings, in our eyes.

The beauty of the format - sixteen readings on each occasion, none out-staying its welcome - is that it allows you to feel Beckett's astonishing range, his sublime blending of comedy and tragedy at the very edges of existence. It may be black as black can be, but his humour sparkles and twinkles delightfully nonetheless; there are moments of pure, daft, for-the-hell-of-it hilarity when only the need to listen on prevents you from rocking back and cackling uncontrollably at the absurdity of it all. And then, from exactly the same pen and sometimes even within the same excerpt, come moments when silence descends and a deep sadness rushes through the room like a chill draught. Very few writers could master one of these.

Not everything works, of course. But there are countless treats nonetheless, both known and new. And there are, as so often with Beckett, a couple of utter revelations, both courtesy of Wilton's gentle, insistent delivery. There's a brief glimpse of Winnie from Happy Days, captured so perfectly - hopeful, fragile, deeply tragic - that the role could've been written for her; nothing is more wonderful than when Beckett's work suddenly comes into piercing focus, fresh and vivid and alive.

And, even better, there's an ambitious attempt at the complex, dense prose of Stirrings Still, in which Wilton pushes the limits of her homespun charm to astonishing effect. Shifting images of death, love, regret, and echoes closing in on each other, it's truly mesmerising. You forget to breathe. There's much that's great here, and even more that's splendidly entertaining. There's perfection too, momentary but unforgettable. And priceless, for the brave.