Waiting for Beckett

2059. This is the year that will mark the 70th anniversary of Samuel Beckett’s death. A death that came soon after he sued a Dutch company for casting female actors in their performance of his play. Interestingly, the undoubtedly liberal court in Haarlem ruled that the play’s integrity was maintained despite the actresses lacking a prostate. This ruling, however, did not prevent Beckett’s legacy to prevail, as if he built a statue of Pozzo cast in iron, rusting as his thick rope tightens its grip around the neck of artistic expression.

It is said that his rigidity is part of his genius but how can a female mind be too rigid to comprehend the hidden meanings? Perhaps an actress cannot portray an everyman, as there is something inherent about her that distracts the viewer from the minimalism of the scene. Perhaps the presence of boobs defines the character as no longer relatable and universal. Or perhaps the prejudice is in the eye of the beholder who perceives women as an object and not a subject.

If it was really the prostate, why would legal threats be made because a male cast ‘’injected race into the play’’? Is white skin also a condition for a timeless portrayal? Is Beckett’s genius so elusive that too much melanin can prevent you from fully grasping the philosophy lurking from behind tree branches? Or perhaps he was like us, human, susceptible to hardwiring and conditioning overly present in a conservative Irish village, which creeped into his work and locked it in the ice-cold shackles of its context. That context grows and spills and spreads like a slowly developing infection to finally spoil the entire play by stamping it with an expiration date; signaling the death of universality and timelessness.

Shakespeare only survived the trial of times because of the countless retellings, adaptations, multi-medium approaches, legends, tales, songs, and raw emotions poured into the lifeless words by professionals and amateurs alike to breathe life into them. Art lives as long as there is someone to interpret it. Meanwhile, Beckett’s legacy is to fear and tremble as two lines are rewritten, intending to shock, to move, to adapt to the audience. As Shakespeare, Wilde and Brecht shout with a cacophony of voices, Beckett continues to monologue in monotone. If Kafka had such a loyal executor of his will, his legacy would leave this world with the smoke of the burning manuscripts.

I am waiting for 2059. The year when the shackles break and I can realise my dream of directing Beckett’s play. A play that inspired my love for absurd and theatre, and theatre of absurd. When I can cast women, men, and non-binary people to act as everymen, not bound to choose only those who possess distinct characteristics. When I can re-imagine the scenery — the tree, the road, the costumes, or even the underlying message to fit our context and not someone else’s. And I believe Samuel Beckett is waiting too. Waiting for his iron statue to rust away and allow his art to breathe new air. Waiting for Godot who does not bring hope only to the privileged.

Written by Julia Kubiak, a dedicated member, an actress and HoA from the 10th Board!

You can find Julia on Instagram: @toreisvogel