The Toronto Theatre Review: Coal Mine Theatre’s Waiting for Godot
By Ross
The pointlessly profound point of En attendant Godot or Waiting for Godot, the much-admired absurdist play by Samuel Beckett (Endgame), is to explore and expand the absurdity and futility of the human condition. Beckett’s 1953 tragicomedy is both radical and wise, diving into the seemingly meaningless world that we all live in. These two desperate souls; Vladimir, beautifully portrayed by Alexander Thomas (Coal Mine’s Between Riverside and Crazy), and Estragon, carefully delivered by Ted Dykstra (Coal Mine’s Hand to God), return, almost against their will, to stand, day after day, waiting by a willow tree for a mysterious figure to appear, and endlessly dreaming for some salvation or purpose. Or possibly, it’s not the hope that holds our symbolic signposts, our two woebegone men, in the same patch of dirt, but an end to all the suffering and pain, in their heads, bodies, and feet.
The vagueness of meaning is both thrilling and hilarious, and as directed with a clarity that is subtle and deliberate by Kelli Fox (Soulpepper’s Top Girls), Coal Mine Theatre‘s Waiting for Godot is a triumph of vision and depth, playing with their pathos while tipping their dusty hats to all the layers of humility, humanity, and hilarity that keeps us completely tuned in and entertained. The dustbowl emptiness mirrors the existential trap confined on the well-trodden Coal Mine stage, designed impeccably by Scott Penner (Broadway’s Job), with superb fluctuations of light by designer Louise Guinand (Shaw’s Wait Until Dark), a distinct sound design by Michael Wanless (Coal Mine’s Appropriate), and perfectly ragged costuming by Ming Wong (Crow’s Rosmersholm). In that bleakness and beauty, the play finds its meaning in the meaninglessness of it all. And we can’t get enough.
Fox’s riveting production reveals the inert comedy and sublime terror of waiting through every design choice and performance beat. “Nothing to be done,” is the opening, as these two forlorn, ragged souls engage in an endless battle against boredom and frustration. The two actors’ faces expertly unpack the care and carelessness of their stuck struggle, dragging out their paradoxical personalities with a brilliance that is both hilarious and compassionate. It’s as brilliant as can be, as the two continue to hope for unknowing betterment in life while doing little to nothing to discover it. With nothing to be done, nothing is resolved, as we join with the two magnificently embodied characters who repeat the same patterns of waiting, talking, and waiting, ironically living within the cyclical and repetitive nature of life and the futility of their desperate search.
In Fox’s deceptively funny production, the search for meaning and deliverance by and between Estragon and Vladimir, who are tied most compellingly together in an unspoken act of bondage and love, wait and wait, never remembering or forgetting the regret for the little things in life. The more despondent Estragon sits slumped under the branches of a bare-boned tree, forever forgetting reason and desire beyond a carrot dangling in front of his face. Vladimir is more mercurial, always relieved to reengage, pushing the idea of happiness on his fellow foolish wanderer and companion. They are dynamically deflated and reignited in a sad unity, time and time again, as they wait for a man or menace that they do not know beyond the idea. In that diabolical framing, Godot could be anything or anyone. Who they wait for could be a religious entity, a saviour, a symbol of hope, or a prophet of relief. That idea in Beckett’s mind is yours to play with. And we do, over, around, and back again, like these two.
The sniping and yammering of verbal distraction is epic and magnificently crafted, playing with words and repeated framings with clever consumption. Silence sneaks in, but doesn’t remain long enough for slumber to overtake Estragon or us, with the two expert actors working together in a wickedly “très bon” manner, worthy of our attention in all the dusty madness of it all. And then, the rhythm and rhyme are upended with the arrival of two other souls, the pompous Pozzo, dynamically portrayed by Jim Mezon (Buddies’ Angels in America), and his slave, Lucky, fantastically portrayed by Simon Bracken (Coal Mine’s The Antipodes), leading the way, dead in the eyes and weight in his hands and body.
They are a sight to be seen in their master-slave dynamic, with Pozzo’s apoplectic, unhinged anger unleashed on the leashed Lucky. Hollow-eyed and silent, until he is commanded to do otherwise, Lucky exudes the heaviness of the world in his long-limbed labour, until he is forced to deliver a dance that is vivid, tense, and gloriously extreme, before he is ordered to think, which is a wonderment to behold in itself. Bracken flies into an act of wild abandonment, leaving behind sense and sensibility to launch into a famous 500-word-long monologue which is as powerfully unstoppable as a ghost train without brakes.
And as night falls and time slides forward, Beckett reshuffles his deck of characters in the most clever of constructs. The second act arrives much like the first, but the changes are apparent. There are now a few leaves on the tree, and the smell of those boots center stage remains just like before. Was it the night before, or a thousand nights before, when a small boy, lovingly portrayed by Kole Parks, did appear to tell them that Godot will not arrive this evening, but he will tomorrow. Looped around one another in a way that even we, the audience, don’t fully comprehend, most magically, the revival of hope hangs in the air along with the fear of nothingness. There are more moments of overt clownishness in their return, with more physical comedy in the hat-swapping routine, and the lying about asking for help. The hobo routine, mashed up with the revisiting of Pozzo and Lucky, gets broader and more personal.
The cast play off each other in abundance, blathering on about nothing in particular, and finding force in their framing. They find amusement in their distractions, much like we all do every time we look down at our phones. We hope for salvation and deliverance, like these two, whether it’s for life to have meaning or to find a solution for the madness we have to endure. With those brilliant eyes bugging out in desperation, we feel for their futile formulations and find endless humour in their approaching madness within the human condition. Especially when Pozzo lays it all out for them bleakly and defiantly, echoing Beckett’s worldview:
“One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we’ll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.“
Beckett, and this captivating and wildly wise production of Waiting for Godot, deliberately leaves Godot; the persona and the play, undefined, forcing us all to question what they are waiting for and what it all means. The play, as delivered to us on that vast and confined roundabout space, magnificently explores the fundamental desire for purpose and structure, forcing us to look straight into those desperate eyes of these two hobo vagabonds and wonder about the ironic debate between death and deliverance.
The last lines of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot are telling and true to the play’s thesis: “Vladimir: Well, shall we go? Estragon: Yes, let’s go. They do not move.” It’s delicious and deliberate — exciting, engaging, and heartbreaking. It makes us laugh and lean into the absurdity of it all, and the abstract complications of wanting to move forward but doing nothing at all to make it happen. In Coal Mine’s Godot, thanks to director Fox and these brilliant actors, we too find ourselves on the edge of rising from our seats but staying still, caught between laughter and despair, the absurd and the sublime — and in that moment Beckett’s masterpiece becomes our own wantonly wicked waiting place, to savour with delight
