It's Pronounced "GOD-oh"

Review: Waiting for Godot
Studio 54, New York
May 30, 2009

"Nothing to be done," Estragon (Nathan Lane) says when the curtain rises--well, after the obligatory look-it's-Nathan-Lane applause. He tugs, discouraged, to remove the shoe from his foot, and the resolution seems like it will never come. While it finally does, we hold our breath from the outset, waiting for something, and knowing--the time for spoilers has long passed--that it will not arrive.

The "it" is Godot, maybe an important man, but no more than a McGuffin in Samuel Beckett's "tragicomedy" (his word). Beckett deliberately evades meaning in his most recognized play, hiding any clue from the audience as to why these men need Godot, or who they even are. Old friends they are indeed, clowns from the vaudeville circuit who trade barbs on existential turf. The stage at Studio 54 was adorned with desolation: not just a country road, but a mountain pass with overbearing rocks into which the playing area has been carved out. As the script--and destiny--requires, there is one solitary tree, blossoming over the evening from a corpse to a nurturing Earth Mother, revived with leaves and shade for the actors.


All the world is a stage, and the quartet of men (plus one little boy) recognize they are presenting to an audience without disrupting the fourth wall. While Nathan Lane hams it up like a Borscht Belt wisecracker, Bill Irwin (Vladimir) matches him with befuddled insights, high-minded but impenetrable epiphanies, turns of phrase that tickle rather than cudgel. That they are not the perfect yin for each other's yang isn't really a drawback. Amid the one-liners, the emptiness resounds. These men are lost, toppling over boulders and the malapropisms on their tongue. The comedy isn't healing but isolating: Vladimir winces at his groin pain every time the laughs fly too freely.

So, on an existential note, why do we allow ourselves to be entertained by Godot only to realize it's half a sham? Even at the end, these characters have learned but have neither accepted nor acted: "Let's go" induces hand-holding rather than walking away. It's as if we have entered either limbo or purgatory, where the innocent float along with the monsters (such as Pozzo, played to the hilt by an excellent, sadly not Tony-nominated John Goodman). Lucky, Pozzo's slave (John Glover), must take his words where he can, and so he regurgitates a learned progression of phrases, snarling at every syllable, salivating down his dusty tunic as a Joycean stream of un-consciousness flows from his mouth. Pozzo, on the other hand, contents himself with the comforts of sitting and lording over all around him. The funniest image I've seen recently is of Goodman, overcome with exhaustion, flopping on the ground like a beached whale. In that moment, even Pozzo is as vulnerable as the other men.

No man wins against nature, and no man can fully control his own circumstances. There may be hope in the end, but Vladimir and Estragon look as if they still await it. You may wonder, if you ever see Godot, whether you've really seen it or if it's still out of reach.