“Here’s a play on nothing and everything”
WAITING for Godot is a 1952 play, a tragicomedy, by Irish author Samuel Beckett. I had known of it since university days, many years ago, but I had never read it or seen it. I had always been daunted by its reputation – absurd, complicated, philosophical. I had always feared I’d be too dumb to get it.
I finally saw it last week. The performance was staged by Teatro Meron at the Mind Museum, and was directed by Ron Capinding.
“Stunning simplicity” is a phrase that easily comes to mind. On the stage is a tree. Two tramps sit by it, stand beside it, and walk around it. They are waiting for somebody named Godot, although it was not explained who Godot was or why they are waiting for him.
Didi is Vladimir, the more imposing of the two. He urinates frequently and with great pain. With him is the smaller, more comical Gogo, or Estragon, who hobbles because of a foot injury. The two go back a long way, and appear to have no families of their own. Gogo easily becomes frustrated at the idea of waiting, while his friend keeps him in check. It appears Godot did not appear the previous day, so they are waiting again, hoping he would show up this time.
They lighten up when they get caught up in conversation or meet other people, because it helps them pass the time. They meet Pozzo and Lucky, a master and a servant, respectively. Pozzo flaunts his entitlement while Lucky does his master’s every bidding, carrying his things, even to his own great pain. Lucky is almost catatonic, speaking only when asked to “think,” and even then spewing incoherent babble. Soon after master and servant leave, a boy comes; Godot is sending word that he would not be able to come but that he would do so the following day.
Didi and Gogo pass the night, looking forward to the next morning.
The following day, they happen upon Pozzo and Lucky again. But Pozzo has gone blind and has no memory whatsoever of ever meeting them. The boy returns and tells them Godot cannot make it, but denies he was ever there the previous day. Godot will be there the following day, he assures the men.
The friends become desperate and ponder hanging themselves from the tree, but they have no rope and Gogo’s belt snaps easily.
In the end, Godot does not come.
***
This is a sobering show to see days before one’s 50th birthday, when thoughts about meaning and mortality creep into one’s daily, worldly concerns. It is quite plausible I am already more than halfway through my life.
Waiting for Godot is also known for being so open to interpretation because of so many vague elements. But I was immediately drawn to the idea of waiting. I wondered, thus: if we did not have anything to wait for, would that still be called waiting? Didi and Gogo liked it when they forgot that they were waiting, even momentarily. It helped them pass the time. Still, “passing time,” needs an object, doesn’t it, because one always passes time until something?
The sense that Godot’s coming is akin to death was so strong. It led me to ponder how much of a factor the idea of death is in how people conduct themselves. Would we live differently if we knew our death was there, staring us in the face? Coming tomorrow, or the day after?
As for the no-show Godot, would Didi and Gogo have been better off doing other things instead of wasting their time waiting? Should there have been a more suitable rope?
The play answers no questions and makes nothing clearer. In fact it makes things murkier and more problematic. In the end, what it leaves us is a reminder that everything is futile and inconsequential, and that we come and go with no discernible dents on the world.
This is the gem, at least for me. Nobody is exempt from irrelevance, despite our affectations. People, really, should thus not think so highly of themselves. We really must just do what we can while we are here. adellechua@gmail.com
