Druid's Waiting For Godot - Theatre in HD

My son John had been studying 'Godot' in French this year so when I heard that the esteemed Druid Theatre Company were coming back to it again in a whole new production… well, we had to be there.

We nearly weren’t though. The tickets went like hot cakes and it was only the addition of two further matinees that enabled me to get hold of some seats. We drove down to Galway last Wednesday, making a day of it. 

Godot has long had a place in my heart. I even read the part of Gogo in The Linenhall for Beckett's 100 Anniversary. We weren't all that bad either. I really don’t get why people complain about it. As a play, I find it completely engaging. Funny when it likes and almost heart-breaking when it needs to be. It gives the actors a chance to exercise their chops too. All four of the adult parts have to work hard to earn their crust in this one, there are no coasters. 

I thought this was the most excellent afternoon of theatre. The cast were the very soul of integrity, playing their parts with unreserved physical and verbal commitment. As far as I could tell, the text was respectfully adhered to, except for a bit of business with Pozzo’s pipe which probably came down to modern fire regulations. 

Marty Rea and Aaron Monaghan brought Didi and Gogo vividly to life. Didi tall and angular – a tattered elegance in spite of his evident waterworks difficulties. Visually, a sort of a Beckett ‘Cat-In-The Hat’. Gogo, a person much more of the ground, worn down, tired, fretful and forgetful. 

Rory Nolan is excellent, playing Pozzo as a sort of semi deranged Uncle Monty. He brings colossal physicality to the performance space, making the front row squirm with delicious discomfort as if, at any moment, he would might sit down and join them.

Garrett Lombard is a broad and a dangerous Lucky, his face a contortion of pain and exertion. His famous ‘think’ speech seemed almost deliberately undermined by the overplaying of the reactions of the rest of the cast. Then again, all of that is in the stage direction.

The production dots in cartoon elements, somewhat reminiscent of a cartoon like quality evident in 'The Lonesome West', years before. The fourth wall is infrequently broken, the characters gaze off into the wings in that familiar exaggerated pose of seeking, one leg extended to the rear and, most notably, whenever they attempt to escape the area via the rear, they painfully encounter an invisible wall and become flattened there, like Wile E Coyote on the windscreen of a tunnel-emerging truck.  

The Druid performance space is intimate. The very proximity of the performance makes it like watching the ultimate HD experience. The very weave of the clothes that the characters wear is there to be inspected. When Pozzo eats a chicken leg, you can smell the chicken itself and hear him slaver over it. It almost made me wish that the sense of smell itself played a little more part in the production, although Vladimir and Gogo and Lucky too would all obviously be quite ripe.

For me, the genius move of this production came at the end of each of the two acts, when the moon rose into view. I loved the way the moon changed both Didi and Gogo. It was as if they almost became drunk on its presence. It emphasised a relief that night and finally landed and the question of whether Godot would come or not was once again put safely to bed. I loved the dreamlike essence of these latter scenes. A masterful detail. 

Many people seem to get their knickers in a twist over Godot. I think most of those people haven’t seen it or at least haven’t seen a world class production like this. On Wednesday afternoon, sitting as we were in the half round, it was plain to see that the audience were fully engaged, amused, horrified, saddened and, yes, perhaps occasionally bewildered. Godot isn’t ‘hard’, it’s easy. It is what it is, right there in front of you. See it. Soak it in. Enjoy it. 

After the play, John and I went around to corner to ‘Fat Freddy’s’ to have a couple of their much loved pizzas. We were only there a few minutes when the cast came in. Being a talker, I told them how great I thought they were and asked them to sign my programme. They were great, chatty and personable, and I knew enough not to trouble them for very long.

As I was going back to my table, Marty Rea, the excellent Vladimir said, entirely without irony, “If you wait for another minute, Lucky will be along.”

And then, suddenly, unlike Godot, there he was. 

The Last Detail

Let me tell you a little story. You’ll probably think it’s apocryphal but I don’t believe it is. The guy who told it to me on Friday last said it happened to him just the day before and he’s not the kind of person who would normally cloak urban legends in false times and dates to make them more authentic. 

There’s also no great hidden point to me telling you this five-line story. I’m not trying to press some subtle agenda or anything. If you want to know the simple truth of it, I love telling little stories and when I heard this one I thought to myself, “That’s great, I’m going to enjoy telling that to people.” I even asked the guy’s permission to tell it and he said okay, just so long as his name was kept out of it. I didn’t tell him I might post it here because I hadn’t a notion of doing so at the time. I was just looking forward to telling it.

So why post it? The answer is simple and a little bit sad maybe. As the weekend has progressed, it slowly dawned on me that I hadn’t got very many people to tell it to. I told Patricia and she enjoyed it, I think, but, beyond that, I haven’t seen anyone or met anyone else who I could try it out on. That’s the way life goes, I think. It closes in a little more all the time. You’ve got to kick a little harder every year to maintain a little hole in the wall that you can whisper through. Or something, I don’t know.

This is all padding and filling because the story itself, as I’ve already mentioned, is very short. I think it’s also part of the point too though. How we communicate. The extraordinary joy of chatting to someone face to face and the whiskey-belt of a good story being heard. Social Media has a little of that but nowhere near as much as we sometimes think. There seems to be a price to pay for the stories we get on here. A price extracted in ennui and an occasional sense of isolation.

Sorry? Oh, the story!

Right. 

This week this man, the man I was telling you about, reached that amazing moment in his life when his mortgage was finally all paid off. He got a letter in the post and it was all very exciting. There was only one tiny glitch. There was still eight cent left to pay. The man couldn’t understand why the final automatic debit could not just have taken the eight cent and be done with it but apparently debit instructions are debit instructions and adjustments, however small, are not an option.

Craving closure, and perhaps a little fun, the man assembled eight one cent coins and descended on the bank. The teller at the main counter couldn’t help him but there was a lady in a back office at a more formal looking desk who seemed to have the authority to complete the deal.

The man sat in at her desk and arranged his eight penny coins in a careful row in front of him while she computed the transaction. He eased the money gently across the desk.

“There you go, eight cent. The mortgage is paid.”

The woman consulted her screen and then smiled a rather watery, probably embarrassed, smile.

She said,

“It’s nine cent now.”

That’s the story. The man paid his nine cent (he found another coin) and went home. I don’t normally bother with ‘moral of the story’ stuff or neat little summaries at the end. Mr. 'Get Into The Story Late, Get Out Early', that’s me. But, in this instance, I thought the man’s final though on his little experience was pertinent and apt and memorable so here it is.

He said,

“I’d always heard that the fuckers would get the last penny out of you but I’ve only just found out for myself that it’s true.”

The Rent Man Cometh

When your Dad is dead and gone, there isn’t much you can do on Father’s Day. Cards seem foolish and a phone call would either be pointless or very strange indeed, such that one would rather hope for the former. Even the customary annual bet on a soccer tournament would bring little pleasure and even less if, for the first time ever, it actually paid out. There is really not all that much you can do.

Except remember.

So here’s some random things about Eddie Snr. Things that may not be written down anywhere else. A small act of remembrance for a guy who was a very good man and, in terms of the day that’s in it, a very good Dad too.

Dad was the ‘Rent Man’ for the local authority for our part of town. When he had some heart trouble, around the time I was seventeen, I spent a long hot Summer doing the Rent Man job myself. That was how I learned about all the little kindnesses he did on his weekly round of the council houses. 

For instance, one particular woman used to call to our house on Tuesday evenings, every Tuesday evening, promptly at seven. If Dad wasn’t there, she would leave a five pound note for him, neatly folded into a tiny rectangle. I thought it was her rent but it wasn’t. I found out what it was when I did the job myself. Every Monday morning, while on his rent collection round, Dad would call to this woman's house and give her a fiver then, on Tuesday, she would come to our house and give it back. Her husband, you see, had a drink problem and, over the course of every weekend, he would find, and drink, every penny in the house. So, on Monday, when all the money was gone and the husband was in his bed, Dad would give her the fiver to tide her over until she got her weekly social payment on Tuesday. Then she gave it back. This frustrated me for a little while. 

“Every Monday you give her the note and every Tuesday she gives it back. Why don’t you just let her keep it one week?” 

Dad explained it to me. If the fiver was in the house at the latter part of the week, when the drinking was bad, it would be found and spent. Having it between Monday and Tuesdays when the drinking was quiet after the weekend and when there was no money around, was the saving grace. I carried on this practice during my own Summer. It actually seemed to work well.

That was typical of Dad. He was always quietly doing stuff. Nice stuff.

Many other things spring to mind whilst recalling this. Silly things.

How he would bring comics home on Friday night and we would lie on the floor and read them.

How the altered accents of the poor American Emigrants bugged him whenever they came home to visit. How he would sit out on the stairs and say “Riight, Riiiight” to himself until he calmed down a bit.

How, when fishing out on the lake, he could do a wee out the back of the boat and never ever hit the outboard motor.

How he would extend his left arm away from his torso to counterbalance the weight of a petrol can carried in his right hand.

Brylcreem and Old Spice.

Always managing to get a second dessert at Weddings.

How he went to the cinema seven nights consecutively to see ‘The African Queen’ when it came to town.

How he stayed up all night looking at the river on the night before he got married.

How we were never supposed to make him angry and how we never once saw him angry.

Random things, often silly things, but it’s Father’s Day and he's gone on ahead and all that is left to do is to remember them and smile.

Once, when I was fairly small, I walked home from town behind two chattering housewives. I didn’t have any interest in overhearing their conversation but I did anyway.

“I hate that Eddie Armstrong, coming around looking for the rent laughing and smiling all the time.”

I can’t remember what the other woman said, I was too angry.

I like to remember how I cut in and berated that lady, telling her that that was my Dad she was talking about and that he was a good man and she was damn lucky to have him as her rent man. But, of course, I didn’t. I was just too little to be arguing with the ladies of the town.

Can I do it now? God knows, I’m not too little any more.

“Hey missus. Yes, you with the scarf. That’s my Dad you’re talking about. Eddie Armstrong Senior. You just stop there for a minute and let me tell you a few things about him…”