Samuel Beckett: Eh Joe

In which Samuel Beckett hits the big time. Or, to be more precise, our Samuel Beckett hits the big time. The Beckett of Waiting for Godot and Endgame is no stranger to the West End, to names in lights, to being part of a proper, dressed-up night out, albeit a slightly left-field one. But to find our Beckett - sparse and minimal and very much not everyone's cuppa (which is not-everyone's loss) - at the distinctly swanky Duke of York's theatre, quotes from newspaper reviews plastered all around, is odd indeed.

There's a glossy programme with staples and everything, for heaven's sake. Three quid too, purchased for its novelty value more than its content. And there's an elegant bar, which, absurdly, is open for an hour before...a performance that lasts for only half that time. And there are people in...well, the word "frocks" springs to mind, and it has never done so at any other point in this Beckett season. We make our way up to our seats in a state of considerable bewilderment, and the culture shock isn't greatly soothed by a precipitous drop from the front row of the circle. It's an awfully long way down. We spend the minutes until kickoff hanging on for dear life and praying that no-one tries to squeeze past us.

Then the lights dim, and the opening isn't promising. On stage, all is fine: Michael Gambon sits in gloomy silence for a couple of minutes and then potters around his room, checking for ghosts behind the doors; the scenery, only visible in this opening sequence, shows a lovely attention to detail. But there's too much distraction as a packed theatre settles in for the duration; behind us, glasses are collected at the bar, people fidget and cough, and you wonder whether this simply won't work in the context. Perhaps such intimate, still writing requires a similar setting.

And then, magic. Penelope Wilton's voice - so perfect for Beckett, as previously noted - strikes up, and the words fill the gigantic space. She has the pace just right, the rhythm and the music, and you don't need anything more than that; you're drawn in as you always are. This being our Beckett, nothing's happening; there's nothing to look at except the detail of Gambon's face, enlarged on a stage-front screen, as he sits on his bed, haunted by the memories that haunt so many of these characters. But, at the same time, there's everything to look at, paintings on the mind's eye that could be the work of nobody else.

It is compelling drama, and the silence crystallises into something clear and concentrated as that voice torments poor, beaten Joe with harrowing images of his lover's suicide. With images that he can't rid himself of. With images that we see as clearly as we see the face on the screen. I've seen the original television production on a couple of occasions, but this a much more painful, powerful piece than it appeared then. It leaves its mark, and it doesn't fade quickly.

And so, Beckett hits the big time...and you still sit there, focused on every word and forgetting to breathe. So does everyone else, it seems. Maybe it's not so strange, after all. Maybe it's how things ought to be, perhaps without the vertigo....