Review: Samuel Beckett’s Endgame Comes to New York in a Fine-Tuned Revival

Samuel Beckett was famously particular about how his plays were done. He insisted on fidelity to his dialogue and precise stage directions, and in 1984 he even sued the American Repertory Theater for its production of Endgame because of its significant departures from his minimalist set description (“Bare interior. Grey light”) in favor of a derelict subway tunnel littered with trash. The show went on, but its program was required to include an angry denunciation from Beckett, who called it “a parody of the play as conceived by me.”

No such criticism can be leveled against the Endgame now running at Irish Arts Center. Staged by Tony-winning director Garry Hynes, this Endgame is probably as faithful a take as you’re going to see anywhere, certainly regarding the “bare interior” of the set (designed by Francis O’Connor). With a brilliant cast that includes Tony winner Marie Mullen, who founded the Druid theater company with Hynes, it’s a tribute to Beckett’s vision and an apt piece to celebrate Druid’s 50th anniversary. Despite an ominous, rumbling sound effect (by Gregory Clarke) that occurs late in the play and, as far as I can tell, doesn’t appear in the script, I’m guessing Beckett would approve.

The 90-minute one-act comes a distant second in popularity after Beckett’s best-known work, Waiting for Godot, which is receiving a starry revival right now at the Hudson Theatre. Endgame, by contrast, has never run on the Main Stem, but it has remained an off-Broadway staple. Though Beckett’s plays are often funny, they can be bleak as hell, and Endgame surpasses Godot in that department.

Still, Hynes, a self-described “Beckett purist,” wrests humor out of this very gray play (lighting designer James F. Ingalls nails that stage direction). The situation is grim for Clov (a comically agile Aaron Monaghan), the servant of the tyrannical Hamm (Rory Nolan given startling eyes by makeup designer Gráinne Coughlan). Immobile and sightless in a tattered recliner and dressed in a robe so filthy you can almost smell it (costumes by O’Connor and Clíodhna Hallissey), Hamm snarls away his days like a grizzly in a cage.

Still, Clov keeps house and unflaggingly obeys Hamm’s commands, which include looking after Hamm’s parents, Nagg (Bosco Hogan, endearingly funny) and Nell (Mullen, exquisitely sad), who live in trash bins. The four inhabit what looks like a postapocalyptic bomb shelter, and they may just be the only humans left on the planet. Clov reports on the unchanged desolation of the world outside as seen through two dirty windows, and the minutes pass in boredom and agony (Hamm waits for a painkiller that never comes). For all of them, the idea of staying alive begins to seem increasingly futile and absurd.

Not cheerful stuff—and yet Endgame gets you laughing, in part because of the sheer absurdity of it all (the idea of aged parents being relegated to garbage cans seems a little on the nose in an ageist world). And then there’s Monoghan in his ridiculous, almost Chaplinesque performance as Clov, who covers himself (and the stage) in powder as he tries to rid himself of a louse. Beckett also provides some darkly funny banter that this cast knows how to deliver: “Scoundrel!” shouts Hamm at his father. “Why did you engender me?” “I didn’t know,” replies Nagg despondently, “that it’d be you.”

One of my favorite relationships in the play, though, is that of Nagg and Nell. Hogan and Mullen give endearing, poignant performances as the couple look back on their past happiness and think about the passion of their youth. “Ah … yesterday,” sighs Nell, her fingers gently gripping the rim of the trash bin as she stares wistfully into the audience.

In the end, Endgame encapsulates Beckett’s strangely beautiful philosophy about nothingness in a dark, hopeless world, and the life-force that keeps us, somehow, hoping and going on. Druid has done a fine job exploring Beckett’s mysteries, and if you want to see him done well, head off-Broadway. This one is a must-see.