There are a few truly indestructible plays. And Samuel Beckett’s “Happy Days” is one of them. Having survived sour reviews at its premiere at the Cherry Lane Theater in Greenwich Village in 1961, the work has steadily increased in theatrical value in 45 years. Thus, I felt duly optimistic entering BAM’s Harvey Theater this week to see the latest revival of the Existential comedy. And I wasn’t disappointed. Starring Fiona Shaw, and under the alert direction of long-time collaborator Deborah Warner, the new production is meticulously executed, epically staged, and lush to the ear.
Shaw is no stranger to BAM audiences. She won our hearts with her star turn in “Medea” at the Harvey Theater back in 2002, and the show later transferred to Broadway. But playing the blood-lusty Medea doesn’t necessarily prepare an actor for the “summit” role of Winnie.
Visualize the dedication of the actor in playing this Mother Earth figure. Picture the hours the actor must invest in literally rooting herself to the role. Winnie is buried up to her waist in a mound of earth throughout Act I; throughout Act II, the earth rises right up to her neck. Is there another role in the dramatic repertoire more challenging for the female actor of a certain age? Hardly.
The show opens on what might be a scorched heath, or perhaps the aftermath of some apocalyptic battle. It is the kind of place into which the late Beckett would delightfully agree to place the leading lady, preparatory to committing her to a slow death in a mound of rubble.
The play, as you should know, has no real plot, and revolves around the incessant chatter of the protagonist. First actions? Winnie opens her eyes into blazing light, and murmurs, “Another heavenly day.” She stretches, intones a half-forgotten prayer and rummages through her capacious bag. For the rest of the playing time, she will ritualistically return to the bag, which gradually reveals a serious-looking gun (named “Brownie”), a toothbrush and other sundry articles of her sorry existence. There’s the parasol to shield her from the blazing sun, which will later ignite by spontaneous combustion.
The other character is Willie, her husband (competently played by Tim Potter), sleeping behind the mound. He will intermittently mumble lines from want ads and obituaries from his newspaper, or scuttle into our sight. Willie is sadly just out of Winnie’s vision. Too bad. Her raison d’etre is merely to communicate with her uncommunicative partner.
This play is a treasure for anyone who has lived long enough to fathom the meaning of not going gentle into that good night. Aging, lost youth, mortality, and all kinds of losses are potently accumulated, and sometimes transmuted, in this brief (100 minutes), two-act show. Although Winnie literally loses ground during her incarceration, she achieves a magnificent Pyrrhic victory. Without totally giving away the surprises, one learns that whistling in the dark — when there’s no option — can elicit valid hope.
This production hails from the National Theatre of Britain. It has already played to audiences in Greece, Paris, Madrid and Washington, D.C., amassing an impressive run. True, New York remains the toughest theater town, but I take this show to be one happy hit, noting the non-Pavlovian applause on the evening I went.
To be sure, the real draw is Shaw’s acting. And she scores big as an authentically Irish-born Winnie. She delivers a vocal tour de force, making you listen — to even the schwas — in her monologue. Granted, her character has no mobility on stage. Nonetheless, Shaw has exemplary facial play, even acting with her cheekbones, and any available feature from the waist — or neck — up.
No Pollyanna, this Winnie! Shaw goes well beyond the wife with a soul of sunshine into a dominatrix of her strange plight. She measures up to her formidable predecessors — Ruth White, Madeline Renaud, Dame Peggy Ashcroft, Irene Worth — and places her own signature on the role.
Robert Brustein famously dubbed Winnie as that “hopeful futilitarian.” And she is. In her chronically futile situation, she peers out to the audience, and seems to happily invite us into her confidence. She primps, dithers, scrutinizes the maker’s guarantee on her toothbrush, and recites from the English poets. She is, of course, only killing time, but not as fast as time is killing her.
However well you know “Happy Days,” you must see this production, staged by Warner with resourcefulness and effervescence. Complete with an almost-hallucinatory set by Tom Pye, the show has pictorial excellence. It not only holds your attention, it burrows into you.
National Theatre of Great Britain’s production of “Happy Days” will run through Feb. 2 at the BAM Harvey Theater (651 Fulton St. at Rockwell Place in Fort Greene). Tickets are $25-$75. For information, call (718) 636-4100 or visit www.bam.org.
