Samuel Beckett’s Endgame – Bleak, But Superlative

Disconcertingly relevant at a time both humanity and nature increasingly erupt in the face of inadequate or helplessness response, Samuel Beckett’s post apocalyptic dramady Endgame is being given perhaps its best production yet at Irish Repertory Theatre. Whether or not you’re a fan of the existential playwright (I myself fugue off periodically), consummate acting and direction offer a marvelous theatrical experience.

Like Sisyphus eternally pushing the boulder up a hill, bodily misshapen Clov (Bill Irwin) serves blind, immobilized Hamm (John Douglas Thompson) in a hellish, mutually dependent limbo. The latter’s unprovoked, Shakespearean hostility is rarely amended by muttered remorse. An ear-piercing whistle he uses to summon is as painful to audience as it is to the ameliorating Clov whose occasional bitter, resentful asides sound spunky but provoke no action.

John Douglas Thompson (Hamm)

“Why do you stay with me?” Hamm presses. “Why do you keep me?” Clov counters. “There’s no one else,” comes the reply. “How are your eyes?” Hamm asks. “Bad.” “How are your legs?” “Bad.” None of this for the first or last time. “We’re getting on,” Hamm comments metaphorically shrugging.

One might think the ersatz servant, who can if with difficulty walk, might escape, but where would he go? As to taking control on premises, there’s reference to Hamm’s withholding the combination to a locked food cupboard. Who else but Clov could open it? Who else would bring pain meds or push the large man in an armchair whose wood base has wheels – briefly changing perspective? “One day you’ll be like me except you won’t have anyone with you,” Hamm goads when he runs out of ammunition.

“The bigger a man is, the fuller and emptier… it’s time it ended and yet I hesitate to end…” Hamm says infectiously yawning. A veteran classical actor we saw as Irish Rep’s superb The Emperor Jones, Thompson’s stentorian tone is only one in a sequence of varied timbres employed as thoughts zigzag like a pinball machine. A particularly long monologue showcases fluent modifications that make its rambling nature more bearable. As the literal axis around which this play revolves, Thompson is both repellent and magnetic.

John Douglas Thompson (Hamm), Bill Irwin (Clov)

Selfish and imperial, Hamm taunts legless parents Nell and Nagg (Patrice Johnson Chevannes and Joe Grifasi) who “live” in two metal trashcans. Despite circumstances, a single parenthesis of marital banter is wry and sweet. “Do you remember rowing on Lake Cuomo?” Alas, they can’t quite reach to kiss or scratch one another’s backs. Chevannes’ sinuous, astringent voice is both flirty and distinctively right. Grifasi’s understated delivery and the way he looks at his monster son is compelling. The actor’s laugh contains consternation, puzzlement and resignation.

Anything to which virtuoso actor/clown Bill Irwin lends his talent is worth seeing. Looking like something out of a Renaissance painting, Clov enters with bags on what might be clubbed feet, squalid and undoubtedly putrid. He’s folded in on himself as if just after a hard punch in the stomach, arduously moving around the room, forced to hold on for balance. Transporting a step ladder employs head, neck, and shoulders as well as arms. Climbing it, he hops up step to step, throwing a leg over the top for stability. Clov has the ladder but is missing the spyglass then vice versa.

Patrice Johnson Chevannes (Nell), Joe Grafasi (Nagg)

I recall seeing Irwin as a member of the ensemble in Broadway’s last The Iceman Cometh. Though he never upstaged, it was difficult to look away from humming presence and deftly tuned reaction. (Partnered clown shows were a joy; his turn in Virginia Wolf powerful.) Standing behind Hamm, we see misery, hate, calculation, a flicker of defiance and submission. There are moments the character appears ready to pounce, but refrains.

Every object Clov is commanded to fetch – at least one of which could neatly kill his tormentor – necessitates physical negotiation. Handling a stuffed dog, we observe unusual disdain. Irwin’s voice also fluctuates on a wide scale – grousing to eruption. When asked to check whether Hamm’s parents are dead, he tips half way into trashcans as if on the verge of tumbling to serious depth. (Similar to Irwin’s “trick” of walking down nonexistent stairs.)

Days pass with rituals that create a kind of Chinese water torture. There’s humor but no hope. The play’s end is provocatively ambiguous. On the one hand, you won’t be cheered. On the other, the production is masterful.

Bill Irwin (Clov)

Director Ciaran O’Reilly excels at nuance. Stage business is pristine. Use of the small stage enhances a feeling of being trapped. And timing, oh timing is extraordinary.

Charlie Corcoran’s end of times set shuts us in when three curtain panels (one wants to cough) are pulled aside to reveal brick walls with only two, small, high, boxy, prison-like windows ostensibly looking out on desolation. Picture and window frames, a pile of bricks, the garbage cans, and walls having withstood God knows what create an environment without alternative.

Costuming by Orla Long is wonderfully conceived – the handkerchief over Hamm’s face a piece of art, his bathrobe filthy enough to evoke itching. Sound/music (M. Florian Staab) and lighting (Michael Gottlieb) are so integral you may not even notice estimable contribution.

Photos by Carol Rosegg

Opening: Bill Irwin (Clov), John Douglas Thompson (Hamm)

Samuel Beckett’s Endgame
Directed by Ciaran O’Reilly

Irish Repertory Theatre
132 West 22 Street https://irishrep.org/
Through April 9, 2023