Word: beckett
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...libretto by Playwright-Film Maker Richard Foreman bristled with the same anarchic spirit. Against a background of film strips and flashing lights, it unfolded a plotless jumble of scenes that might have resulted from a collaboration by Brecht, Beckett and Buster Keaton. "Nobody looks at me," sang one character in a typically enigmatic line, "therefore I retrace my steps." In another episode, a scruffy charwoman incongruously trilled out an aria while brandishing a three-foot wooden spoon at the other characters...
ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN ARE DEAD. If the Bard and Beckett had ever collaborated on a play about what went on behind the scenes at Elsinore, this wry, existential comedy might have been the result. John Wood and Brian Murray are marvelously adept as Tom Stoppard's confused...
...FESTIVAL, Stratford, Ont. Romance runs rampant with Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night's Dream, while Tartuffe adds Gallic spice to the Elizabethan fare. On July 22, The Three Musketeers swashbuckle their way on stage, and on July 23, some Chekhovian melancholy is introduced in The Seagull. Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot provides a 20th century touch beginning Aug. 13. The season ends...
...EXISTENTIAL SLAPSTICK. This genre seems to mix Mack Sennett and Samuel Beckett. A woman, responding to the call "Where's the Open Pit?", dashes across the lawn with a bottle of Open Pit barbecue sauce and disappears into an open pit. A baker, having carelessly forgotten his Vicks Cough Silencers, tosses pizza dough into the air, coughs and catches it splat in the face. Splat again, as the Pond's girl gets schlopped in the eye with cold cream. And whack! umph! and aaagh! as a mousy little guy, sploshed with Hai Karate after-shave lotion, brutally chops down...
...rent asunder. "We must love one another or die," wrote W. H. Auden. Fire! proclaims that love is dead, God is dead, and man is dying. The playwright is a onetime actor now living in Europe who has adopted the pseudonym John Roc; he is a demi-Beckett who does not await Godot but screams at the heavens precisely be cause they are empty. He is sometimes pretentious, often confusing, and lavish with lavender words, but his drama rips into an audience with volcanic force...