On its first visit to the Royal Court
last year, Lisa Dwan’s 40th-anniversary revival of
Not I was publicised as in part as
a kind of attempt on the world Samuel Beckett land speed record. This
monologue delivered by a disembodied mouth in otherwise complete (and I
mean
complete) darkness
usually lasts 14 or 15 minutes; Dwan knocks it off in under nine. This
time it gains in context by being presented with two other Beckett
“dramaticules”, in a triple bill which lasts less than an hour
including changeovers between plays. All three present protagonists out
of control, or out of hope, or out of both.
What Dwan’s
Not I loses in
rhythmical delivery (on the page… it is laid out… phrase by phrase…
like this), it gains in the power of the torrent. As “Mouth” tells the
story – its own, we assume – of a woman who lived most of her life in
silence and suddenly found herself afflicted by a compulsion to speak,
Dwan’s near-glossolalia approaches Beckett’s ideal of utterance at “the
speed of thought”. We grab what intelligibility we can, and for the
rest let Mouth’s condition wash over us.
Footfalls is, at just over 20
minutes, the longest piece of the three, and I begin to wonder whether,
within the Beckett
oeuvre, it
is a little overrated. The visual/physical set-up of dimly seen,
raggedly dressed May walking up and down nine paces at a stretch
outside her mother’s door is characteristically Beckettian, but the
series of dialogues with the disembodied voice of the mother and
monologues by each feel at once overdone and vague, if we can infer no
more than that both may be ghosts.
Rockaby is once again pure
distilled Beckett, as a woman sits in a self-propelled rocking chair
listening to a third-person account of her own decline, despair and
expiration. Here as in
Footfalls,
Dwan succeeds in ageing her recorded voice by several decades, so that
it sounds as dry and ancient as the paper lining the drawers of your
grandmother’s dresser. Here, too, the phrase-by-phrase rhythm meshes
with the rocking: thoughts are slow, short, discrete, repetitive. As so
often with Beckett, we may emerge claiming incomprehension but, almost
unbeknown to ourselves, with an unconscious knowledge of what the oul’
grouch was on about.
Written for the Financial
Times.