Word: camier
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Written as a novel in 1946, Beckett's Mercier and Camier is stillborn in its transition to drama at Joseph Papp's Green wich Village Public Theater. One can understand what impelled Adapter Neumann's strenuous and occasionally imaginative effort, since the book was, essentially, Waiting for Godot in its earliest and distinctly embryonic state. The two title characters (Frederick Neumann and Bill Raymond) are as close as barstool buddies, and they stumble and blather about in a bleak inscape of metaphysical despair. Despite intermittent japery, they are triste, petulant atheists who resent the fact that they...
...this novel. The universe here is the biggest of all big tops. Mercier and Camier are unwilling clowns in a performance they do not under stand. They are saddled with props - a reluctant umbrella, a sack, a raincoat and a bicycle - and trip helplessly into Alphonse-Gaston stage routines. They are the butt of exquisitely timed mal functions. Their umbrella refuses to open just as the rain, "acting on behalf of the universal malignity," comes down in buckets...
...their credit, the voyagers treat their predicament with the contempt it deserves. While describing the weather to Mercier, who cannot bear to look, Camier insults it in the careful cadences of French primer prose: "A pale raw blotch has appeared in the east, the sun presumably. Happily it is intermittent, thanks to a murk of tattered wrack driving from the west before its face...
...axiomatic in Beckett's work that the concept of purpose is beyond comprehension. This may not be true, but if granted only for the sake of argument, everything tumbles into place. Waiting for Godot was after all the critical knuckle cracking, simply a play about waiting. Mercier and Camier are waiting under the illusion that they have some place to go, though they do not know where or why. They keep returning home to look for lost possessions or items they have al ready junked as superfluous. Along the way, pub stops and a supporting cast of fellow grotesques...
Beckett's peculiar genius is to set up such Hobson's choices while squeezing them for all the farce they will yield. His is a Buster Keaton, deadpan humor that shrivels in the explaining. Mercier and Camier is as hilarious, in gasps, as anything he has written. The novel's coolly mannered prose disguises outrageous statements until the instant they land. There is also cruelty in Beckett's method (Mercier is comforted briefly by the sight of a dead and bleeding wom an) and surprising moments of compassion. When Mercier and Camier part, they lose...