Happy Days

I saw my friends Alistair and David in Samuel Beckett's Roughs For Theatre 1 And 2 a few years back and really liked them, but as the curtain went-up and I saw the set of Beckett's much longer Happy Days tonight, the words in my head were "Oh heck, it's this one."

Was I prejudging it? Oh yes.

The first half of Happy Days is almost entirely a monologue by a woman buried up to her waist in sand. In the interval, I managed to down a coffee and briefly escape outside for a brisk walk, before enduring the second act... which she spent buried up to her neck.

Throughout, I found I was torn between trying to concentrate on the performance so as to give it a fair chance, and allowing my mind to wander so as to make the evening easier on myself.

It's certainly a play that's hard to perform badly. How can you not respect any performer who's plucky enough to give this their best shot? I salute the actress concerned, along with every other actress who's ever taken the role of Winnie.

Is there depth to this play that I was completely oblivious to? Yes, definitely. In fact, I am determined to believe so in order to preserve what hopefully still remains of my sanity.

Still, at least it's over now. I'll never have to sit through that again.

Though I suspect that she will, and good luck to her.

:)