‘A modestly radiant show that somehow illuminates the whole of existence’: Alison Croggon on Barry McGovern’s Watt
Anyone who has read Samuel Beckett’s second novel Watt – which I highly recommend, although it must be one of the most maddening books ever written – will have wondered, as I did, how it could possibly be adapted to theatre. But Barry McGovern’s presence, intelligence and bewitching vocal skills make it look easy.
This is the second Australian iteration of this performance. I first saw it in the 2013 Perth Festival, and festival director Jonathan Holloway has brought it back for Melbourne audiences. This is a slightly dressier version of the show: Sinéad Mckenna’s set hovers a slanted skylight above McGovern which permits some very beautiful lighting, and I don’t remember the musical interludes in the first, although my memory may be betraying me. But everything focuses on McGovern’s masterly performance.
Watching it this time, Watt seemed like a perfectly rendered glimpse into a past that was being smashed into smithereens when Beckett was writing: not only of an Ireland that was vanishing under the pressures of the 20th century, but of the kinds of linguistic and theatrical experiments that arrived with European modernism. Yet Beckett’s work remains vital in a way that can’t be said of many of his contemporaries, perhaps in part because of its insistent refusals of nostalgia.
The book was written during the Nazi Occupation of France when Beckett, who was working for the Resistance, was forced to flee Paris and hide in the country. On the evidence of Watt, he was bored out of his skull. The novel is an extended joke, in which Beckett’s characteristic questions about language, human existence and the nature of reality are enacted through a narrative which can at best be called unstable. Watt and Knott represent a question and its negation, a movement dramatised throughout the text, although, as Beckett waspishly notes in the novel’s last line, “no symbols where none intended”. Which symbols Beckett “intended” are, of course, open to endless speculation.
McGovern has filleted the novel to create a 50-minute monologue which frames the complexities of the book in a structure of crystalline lucidity. The show opens with a statement – “the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something” – which the performance then elucidates. Watt, the first of Beckett’s many enigmatic tramp figures, arrives in an Irish village to be a manservant for a mysterious figure called Knott. He encounters various characters – other servants, such as the morose gardener Mr Graves, and visitors, such as a father-and-son duo of piano tuners, and he pursues a peculiar romance with Mrs Gorman, the fishwoman. And then he leaves.
Among the things that McGovern wisely left out of his adaptation are two pages of frogs croaking, written like a musical score; paragraphs and sentences that run backwards; and ellipses where the MS is allegedly “illegible” or where the author simply inserts a question mark, as if he has run out of ideas. But McGovern’s adaptation doesn’t traduce the knotty complexities of the writing: it simply makes them clear.
Beckett’s sentences are ground out with a pedantic precision that employ a hypnotic repetition. To take an example at random: “The ordinary person eats a meal, then rests from eating for a space, then eats again, then rests again, then eats again, then rests again …[and so on, for several lines] and in this way, now eating, and now resting from eating, he deals with the difficult problem of hunger…” In Watt, Beckett is beginning to hone the vocabulary of internal alienation which he later extended in his Trilogy and the plays: language becomes a thick, opaque medium as perplexing as the objects and rituals which it fails to depict or symbolise.
This insistent mundanity induces a rising hilarity, which McGovern fully exploits in his performance. Alone on stage with a chair and a hat stand, and directed with parsimonious tact by Tom Creed, he holds his audience in the palm of his hand.
Beckett’s instinctive ear for the rhythms and sounds of language, later extended in his meticulous stage directions, is acutely rendered in this performance. McGovern seamlessly theatricalises the shifting narrative voice – sometimes he is Watt, sometimes he is Watt looking at himself, sometimes he is a God-like, anonymous third-person narrator.
It’s a performance rich on nuance, every gesture and expression clarifying the sly, mordant comedy and slippery ambiguities of the prose (it’s no accident that Beckett is so fond of puns and music hall jokes). The comedy creeps up from behind, ambushing the audience as Beckett’s outrageous sentences pursue their tunnel-vision distractions. It seems at once too short and exactly the correct length, a modestly radiant show that somehow illuminates the whole of existence. Don’t miss it.
Watt, adapted from the novel by Samuel Beckett, directed by Tom Creed. Set and lighting design by Sinéad Mckenna, costume design by Joan O’Clery. Music by Barry McGovern after Samuel Beckett, perfomed by Tonnta, conducted by Robbie Blake, recorded by Ivan Birthistle. Performed by Barry McGovern. Playhouse, Arts Centre Melbourne, Melbourne International Arts Festival. Until October 13.
Wheelchair accessible event
Sound amplification systems available
6 comments
Alison suggests that Watt is a ‘radiant show that somehow illuminates the whole of existence’. How does that square with Beckett’s language as ‘a thick and opaque medium’? In fact his language is marvellously thin and transparent; and instead of illuminating the whole of existence, it allows faint glimpses far beyond the quotidian banalities, of another existence that might – just! – have meaning.
Hi there Peter – thanks for your comment! For me these two things absolutely do square, although perhaps I put it badly in the review. The main reason it’s not a contradiction is that language is not existence, but something we’ve invented that sometimes we use to try to talk about existence. For my part, I found Watt (the novel) the reverse of thin and transparent: I thought you could absolutely tell that it was written on a typewriter, you can almost hear the clack of the keys behind the rhythms of it (eg, those pages of frogs croaking, or those backwards sentences!) I get this overwhelming sense of words as material things, things that often get in the way of perceiving existence, things that are confusing and knotty, while existence is something that his creatures/characters are always in some kind of struggle toward, or away from (given that so often in Beckett the choice seems to be between nothing or traumatised consciousness). For me, Watt is a struggle of a read, much more so imo than the Trilogy, and it’s like that because he makes it like that deliberately. And yet…there is always an illumination – and I mean a lightness – in my experience of Beckett, as you say, a kind of transparency. Sometimes I think it’s because its refusal of any of kind of transcendence makes me feel as if this is someone speaking a truth, maybe it’s a sense of a broadly lit compassion that touches all of his characters, a luminous lack of judgement, so that somehow they attain a kind of innocence. But really I’m not quite sure what it is, only that it’s what happens when I encounter his plays and writing. I’ve never understood those who say he’s a miserablist.
Hello Alison, thanks for your thoughtful and extensive response. I’ve read the trilogy and most of the plays but not the novel. I went to Friday’s performance and resolved to read both the novel and the play if it’s available.
You’re right of course about how words ‘get in the way’ of meaning and insight – but we must have them anyway! I thought the play’s language did its best to remain transparent – gesturing in that agonised way of Beckett’s at the elusive ‘something’ that the totality of repetitive and banal acts might constitute.
Yes, someone speaking a truth; a relentless honesty.
I wonder what that choir was conveying!
I’m not sure, though it was certainly beautiful: maybe it was the frogs! One thing I thought of also was the act of performance: in a good production (I’ve seen some bad ones) the presence of the actor in front of me adds to that feeling of lightness, the insistence that there’s only the present moment and nothing more (or less). You can tell in his plays that he loved writing for actors, and certainly he was beloved of actors.
Hi Alison (and Peter)
Thanks for the thoughtful discussion on a wonderful show and apologies for jumping on the thread so late. I was working in the same theatre in the show after Watt, so came to watch it (and see the space) and loved it so much I came back a second time.
I agree that the presence of this particular actor created a lightness – there was simply him, the story and the listening crowd around me in the dark. The delight for me was in the simplicity of being in the presence of a master craftsmen making something surprising and wonderful in front of us with precision and ease.
What was so interesting for me was watching how the audience bent the performance ever so slightly out of shape (or at least into a different shape) the second time. I could see the actor register bigger reactions to the humour in the show and begin to lean into this ever so slightly – to let us know that he knew where the funny moments in the script were. What I had loved on a first viewing was that the ‘punchlines’, if you can call them that, seemed invisible. The story as I first experienced it was simply shared with an awareness of its absurdity which it seemed as if we as an audience were discovering for ourselves at moments that broke out into laughter. It was a very subtle difference between the shows and in fact made me appreciate Barry McGovern’s lightness and deftness with language and gesture even more.
And I loved the choir moment! I experienced it as an extended setup for an insight into Watt’s essential character. We hear two verses sung at length and then, in a sublime delivery, with an ever-so-slight pause before the last two words of the sentence the actors says: “of these two verses Watt thought he preferred… the former”. In a nutshell we have the whole character of a man who thinks carefully about life and his experience of it all is that things are not improving.
Thanks Matthew: how interesting! I would have loved to see it again – my partner booked to go back after seeing it with me, and made similar comments on the subtle shifts in the performance.
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