In Which We Say Farewell to the Beckettfest
Well, it was fun while it lasted, but the Beckettfest is over. Whilst it was going on -- from August 17 to September 10 (tonight) -- you could, if you lived in or around Pittsburgh, actually see every single one of Beckett's plays. No, really, you could. Except for Waiting for Godot, which is coming in a few weeks.
Really, I'm not kidding. Every single damn play. Even that one where the three actors are standing in funeral urns, mostly all talking at the same time. Even that one in which the only thing on the stage is a talking mouth, except for the shadowy figure you can't really see. Even that one which lasts 35 seconds, and has no actors, only a bunch of props strewn about the stage. (In this production, it ran overtime -- it was 38 seconds.)
Some people actually DID see all the plays; such a one was my blogging cohort Cindy, who not only saw all the plays, she saw some of them twice. She is awesome. I myself missed a couple, but I saw all the tiny little plays you never get to see -- witness funeral urn, mouth, and props, above.
Now you might scoff at the idea of a "fest" full of the darkness that is human existence, reiterated over and over in various dark ways (at the talk-back session tonight, I noticed that ALL the actors were wearing very dark colors, which was only right, since they were embodying the darkness that is the human existence in which we are all STUCK! STUCK, I tell you, with no way out, as was made VERY clear to me over the course of the last three weeks) -- indeed, my brother, bless his heart, actually LAUGHED at the idea of a "Beckettfest" -- "What are you going to next?" he asked, "Cromwellapalooza?" Scoffer. Unartistic scoffer. Clearly, he does not truly understand the nihilistic repetitive darkness that is us.
But Beckett did, and now I do, too.
So do the actors, who looked so relieved during the talk-back session tonight I thought they were going to pass out. They'd spent weeks standing in jars, and sitting motionless in chairs, and saying the same things over and over and over and over only with slight variations, and acting in the dark a lot. They're exhausted. They've been having nightmares. Nice that they were being given Samuel Beckett Birthday Cake afterwards. Hope it was tasty.
And you out there, living in San Francisco and New York and London and whatnot, well, you missed out on one of the most important theater events ever in the history of theater, and so I will share some bits with you, from out of the program, so as to ease your pain. Though not your humanly repetitive darkness, see above, from which you cannot find relief, no, no, except by fooling yourself, repetitively. (Cindy, by the way, has explained to me the excellence of the repetition, which was going up my nose; "It's like jazz," she says. Ah. Thank you. As mentioned above. Awesome.)
Concerning Play (1963), the one spoken by funeral urns with heads sticking out of them:
In "Play," the fragmentation of the monologues, the pieces intercut as if they were musical motifs, makes special demands on the spectator's sense-making skills, as we try to piece together the content of the story itself...
Yep. Too right.
And, concerning Breath (1971), the Really Short Play:
In a tableau of the stage littered with miscellaneous rubbish, a birth cry is heard, a single breath is drawn as dim light rises to just above half-light, breath is released as light dims, the death cry indentical to birth cry.
I can say, in all honesty, that Breath could have been longer. The only Beckett play I will say that about. Indeed, I think it could have used some repetition.
Really, I'm not kidding. Every single damn play. Even that one where the three actors are standing in funeral urns, mostly all talking at the same time. Even that one in which the only thing on the stage is a talking mouth, except for the shadowy figure you can't really see. Even that one which lasts 35 seconds, and has no actors, only a bunch of props strewn about the stage. (In this production, it ran overtime -- it was 38 seconds.)
Some people actually DID see all the plays; such a one was my blogging cohort Cindy, who not only saw all the plays, she saw some of them twice. She is awesome. I myself missed a couple, but I saw all the tiny little plays you never get to see -- witness funeral urn, mouth, and props, above.
Now you might scoff at the idea of a "fest" full of the darkness that is human existence, reiterated over and over in various dark ways (at the talk-back session tonight, I noticed that ALL the actors were wearing very dark colors, which was only right, since they were embodying the darkness that is the human existence in which we are all STUCK! STUCK, I tell you, with no way out, as was made VERY clear to me over the course of the last three weeks) -- indeed, my brother, bless his heart, actually LAUGHED at the idea of a "Beckettfest" -- "What are you going to next?" he asked, "Cromwellapalooza?" Scoffer. Unartistic scoffer. Clearly, he does not truly understand the nihilistic repetitive darkness that is us.
But Beckett did, and now I do, too.
So do the actors, who looked so relieved during the talk-back session tonight I thought they were going to pass out. They'd spent weeks standing in jars, and sitting motionless in chairs, and saying the same things over and over and over and over only with slight variations, and acting in the dark a lot. They're exhausted. They've been having nightmares. Nice that they were being given Samuel Beckett Birthday Cake afterwards. Hope it was tasty.
And you out there, living in San Francisco and New York and London and whatnot, well, you missed out on one of the most important theater events ever in the history of theater, and so I will share some bits with you, from out of the program, so as to ease your pain. Though not your humanly repetitive darkness, see above, from which you cannot find relief, no, no, except by fooling yourself, repetitively. (Cindy, by the way, has explained to me the excellence of the repetition, which was going up my nose; "It's like jazz," she says. Ah. Thank you. As mentioned above. Awesome.)
Concerning Play (1963), the one spoken by funeral urns with heads sticking out of them:
In "Play," the fragmentation of the monologues, the pieces intercut as if they were musical motifs, makes special demands on the spectator's sense-making skills, as we try to piece together the content of the story itself...
Yep. Too right.
And, concerning Breath (1971), the Really Short Play:
In a tableau of the stage littered with miscellaneous rubbish, a birth cry is heard, a single breath is drawn as dim light rises to just above half-light, breath is released as light dims, the death cry indentical to birth cry.
I can say, in all honesty, that Breath could have been longer. The only Beckett play I will say that about. Indeed, I think it could have used some repetition.
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