Back to the bookshop, mercifully rather less stifling than last time. And back to the start, for Ohio Impromptu was one of the pieces that kicked off this Beckett marathon at the Barbican back in March.
The first of many highlights, in fact: Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's rendering of an old, firm favourite was genuinely sublime, reaching deep into the heart of the writing to find something mournful and musical. To expect similar things of a small-scale production in the back room of a shop would be unreasonable, I suppose. And yet. And yet....
It is patently absurd that a very simple, very sparse play which, including stage directions, barely covers four pages of its creator's collected works should continue to reveal itself on, from memory, the fifth viewing. Absurd, and true. Even more absurd is that Ohio Impromptu doesn't feel especially elusive: it is an enigmatic piece of work, certainly, but it's also one of Beckett's most visually striking stage paintings, and it leaves a strong impression after just one viewing.
In many ways, this returns us to one of those old, tired clichés: that by being so specific in his instructions, Samuel Beckett left no room for anyone to interpet his work. That's utter nonsense: he just didn't let them interpret his work by messing about on the margins, rearranging the furniture and changing the costumes. Instead, there is enormous scope for any actor who concentrates on the language, finds how it works with their own voice, discovers where the music can take them. These are subtle variations, of course...but great writing means that such variations can be deeply significant, deeply felt.
Here, Michael Howarth, whose tones are rich and peaty, takes the role of reader and Peter Marinker is the silent listener. The whole thing is so familiar that I could pretty much recite it along with them...and yet. And yet, they've found something distinctive, another layer down. The variation is typified by what we refer to as "the joke", a little piece of gently twinkling humour amid the general sobriety. Here, though, it appears to be something quite different: a moment of genuine intimacy and shared kindness as the listener stays the hand of the reader as if to spare them both the pain of remembrance. Such a tiny detail, yet it reverberates through the performance. A sombre, sad performance, full of pauses that seem to allow the air to thicken and gather closer in the gloom. A truly memorable performance.
After which, The Old Tune, Beckett's adaptation of a Pinget play, provides an interesting but probably unnecessary counterpoint. Beginning with, and punctuated by, the lunatic seesawing of a broken fairground organ, it offers occasionally amusing thoughts on the passing of time, and a particularly daft moon-based gag that, without knowing any better, one is tempted to attribute to the adapter rather than the adaptee.
That's the problem, in essence: without knowing the original work, it is impossible to see where Robert Pinget ends and Samuel Beckett begins. So, we're left with a fairly ordinary, generally unremarkable play, one whose essentially conservative style contrasts extraordinarily with the main attraction. Crucially, you discover this: that Pinget's play deals solely with externals, with dialogue and scene-setting and character. Its only memories are shared: old friends, family, remembered and misremembered names. And that's partly why Beckett is still so precious and still so powerful: for his capturing of internal spaces, of the bit between your ears and the bit behind your left breast. The bits that really matter, when it comes down to it. The essentials.
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