Ante Beckett

Eoin O'Sullivan and Paddy McEneaney in Ante Beckett. Image by Al Craig

***

It's a brave soul who’d take on Samuel Beckett. The risk of appearing derivative, of excessive homage, of looking like a tribute act enough to dissuade the most ardent enthusiast. Ante Beckett by Joel Smith, a sincere love letter to all things Beckett, a little of all the above. A tale of two foetus in the womb pondering the Tao like mysteries of something and nothing, Smith’s cleverly quipped script hilariously references Beckett’s absurdist works. Before shooting off on a sentimental, Disney-esque tangent. Less Ante Beckett so much as anti-Beckett.

Divided into two acts, its first part monologue, second part vaudevillian double act suggests First Love meets Waiting for Godot done in the style of Father Ted. Director John Carty spinning serval stylistic plates and doing so with considerable style. Paddy McEneaney’s delightfully articulated Alpha, a something wishing he was nothing wishing he was something, suggesting Father Dougal reflecting on the world with far more information than a foetus should possess. Eniko Hegyi’s four curtained design, realised by Niamh O’Brien, curious for suggesting draped furniture in an abandoned house rather than a womb. Here, Alpha, looking classically Beckett in Maura Logue’s shoeless costumes, asks endless unanswerable questions. Michael Cummins’ lighting superbly evoking Beckett’s shadowy landscapes, with frequent flourishes from Joe Hunt's excellent sound design conveying the muffled world outside. Where life awaits. As does death. Both pointless. As is having to do it all over again over. What could be worse?

Well, there’s reincarnation. And an identical twin trapped with you in the womb when you want to be alone but don’t want to be alone. Eoin O’Sullivan’s superb as the life loving Beta, turning McEneaney’s Alpha into a grumpy, comic straight man. Beta, full of joy and hope, looking stupid next to the articulate Alpha whilst simultaneously suggesting it’s clever to be stupid. Their gentle battle of philosophical and emotional fisticuffs serving up excellent comic moments. Till life arrives and a sentimental end substitutes the absurd for a soppy moment of saccharine tenderness. If the idea is to interrogate that as absurd in itself, it doesn’t land convincingly.

Eoin O'Sullivan and Paddy McEneaney in Ante Beckett. Image by Al Craig

In many respects Beckett is the problem. Setting aside comparisons, Ante Beckett proves warm, engaging, and extremely funny courtesy of two deeply enjoyable performances. But, of course, you can’t. The clue lying in the title. Meaning if Beckett embraces a dramatic vacuum in which characters reflectively pass time as evidence they exist, here the vacuum is physical, time bound and life affirming. If Beckett’s word and phrases are emaciated fingers pointing to an absent moon; Smith’s point at a very present Beckett. Beckett's enlightening and clever word play leaving Smith’s ramblings looking like comic flashes in a rumbling sky of words.

Inhabiting a space in-between, Ante Beckett proves too reverent to be a send-up and too lightweight to possess philosophical depth. Riding on the coat tails of Beckett’s brilliance might produce hugely enjoyable moments, full of in-jokes for Beckett initiates and discoveries for first timers, but there’s another hidden absurdity. Too Beckett to be Smith and too Smith to be Beckett, Ante Beckett is best when Smith slips Beckett’s reins and asserts its own identity. Revealing a smart, funny, deeply human writer you want to hear more from.

Ante Beckett by Joel Smith, presented by Exit Does Theatre, runs at The New Theatre till April 17.

For more information visit The New Theatre