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May 6, 2003 It's the end of the world, as Beckett knows it You wouldn't expect to see a play by Samuel Beckett at the Very Little Theatre, and "Endgame," now playing in theater's Stage Left space, can hardly be considered community theater. As directed by young actor Johnny Ormsbee (recently seen as Jesus in "Godspell"), "Endgame" could hold its own against numerous professional productions. The four-person cast is excellent, the set is artful, and the costumes and makeup are right on the mark. Beckett wrote the play in 1957, and it was first produced in France. The world at that time might have looked hopeful from the vantage point of the new American suburbs, but Europe was still recovering and rebuilding after a devastating war. Beckett, like so many of his literary colleagues, found little to cheer about in the human condition. In "Endgame," virtually nothing happens. Civilization is slowly and inexorably sinking into oblivion. Few people seem to remain, and the ones we meet cannot comprehend why they're still alive. Hamm - crippled, blind and sadistic, but an intellectual of sorts - is the alpha male. Clov is his slave, and maybe his son. Hamm's aged parents, Nagg and Nell, live in trash cans. In this case, the cans are like small, individual Dumpsters. Hamm feeds them an occasional biscuit, which they can't chew. The whole family inhabits the ruined skeleton of a house. Its windows are too high to look through without a stepladder, giving the impression that the house is sinking along with civilization. Hamm constantly nags Clov to look out the windows and see what he can see (nothing much), while all the time, conditions worsen. There is no future, and the present is so bad that you can't really trust Nell's plaintive sighing for better days in the past. "Ah, yesterday," she reminisces; her drawing out of that word holds more expression than pages of dialogue in a lighter play. At this point in civilization, fighting with other humans is apparently a thing of the past. No one is capable of waging war anymore; the only opponents are insects and a rat in the kitchen. Hamm is still vigilant about battling them, but it's clear that the critters will prevail in the end. "Endgame" is similar to "Waiting for Godot," but it's darker, more bitter and not as fully developed. It's also less humorous than "Godot," although I found plenty of opportunities to chuckle or grin. A play in which nothing happens, no matter how well directed and acted, can have its tedious moments, and "Endgame" does. Nevertheless, there is something comforting in its hopeless downslide, something horrifying but familiar and even beautiful in its slow crawl toward oblivion. David Stuart Bull is a powerful presence as Hamm. He's a frightening, fascinating creation of Shakespearean grandeur. Dan Pegoda is funny as the stunted Clov, eager to leave but probably incapable of doing so. Clov is wily and ironic, in spite of his ignorance and limited brain power. Mike Hawkins as Nagg and Kim Donahey as Nell are surprisingly moving in roles that could be merely obnoxious. Trapped as they are in their trash cans, all focus is on their faces, hands and words. In a play by Samuel Beckett, every word counts.
Dorothy Velasco of Springfield reviews theater for The Register-Guard.
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