Dundee Rep
4 stars
Words never failed Samuel Beckett. He simply chose to use them differently, either paring them down to bare-bones monosyllabics or else letting rip with the sorts of streams-of-consciousness splurges culled from internal monologues that have to be expressed. This 1961 masterpiece falls somewhere between the two, as Winnie, buried to her belly, then her neck, in sand, chatterboxes her way through the day as a way of holding onto dear life itself, filling up the void created by her near silent, rarely sighted partner Willie.
Winnie is a terrifying gift of a part for an actress, and, in Dominic Hill’s new production, Alison Peebles rises to the occasion, investing an unforced levity into every breath uttered and motion gone through while revealing the full extent of Winnie’s brittleness. Rosy-cheeked, clad from head to midriff in faded emerald and wielding a parasol like some music hall turn at the end of the world, Peebles’ Winnie is a heartbreaking study in one woman’s enforced barren-ness. The mound that surrounds her is arid and swollen, her relationship with Willie resembling an ageing suburban couple who long ago replaced love with habit and cursory grunts.
It’s a brilliant study of self-preservation, and by Act Two Winnie’s increased hysteria becomes increasingly heartbreaking in her inability to even clutch after air anymore. When Robert Paterson’s Willie, done up to his shabby nines and clearly believing himself to be on a promise, finally shows face, heart and soul, rutting impotently at the scorched earth of Tom Piper’s set like the spent force he is, the spirit may be willing, but the flesh, like Winnie’s submerged and suffocated body, is weak indeed.
The Herald, June 4th 2007
ends
4 stars
Words never failed Samuel Beckett. He simply chose to use them differently, either paring them down to bare-bones monosyllabics or else letting rip with the sorts of streams-of-consciousness splurges culled from internal monologues that have to be expressed. This 1961 masterpiece falls somewhere between the two, as Winnie, buried to her belly, then her neck, in sand, chatterboxes her way through the day as a way of holding onto dear life itself, filling up the void created by her near silent, rarely sighted partner Willie.
Winnie is a terrifying gift of a part for an actress, and, in Dominic Hill’s new production, Alison Peebles rises to the occasion, investing an unforced levity into every breath uttered and motion gone through while revealing the full extent of Winnie’s brittleness. Rosy-cheeked, clad from head to midriff in faded emerald and wielding a parasol like some music hall turn at the end of the world, Peebles’ Winnie is a heartbreaking study in one woman’s enforced barren-ness. The mound that surrounds her is arid and swollen, her relationship with Willie resembling an ageing suburban couple who long ago replaced love with habit and cursory grunts.
It’s a brilliant study of self-preservation, and by Act Two Winnie’s increased hysteria becomes increasingly heartbreaking in her inability to even clutch after air anymore. When Robert Paterson’s Willie, done up to his shabby nines and clearly believing himself to be on a promise, finally shows face, heart and soul, rutting impotently at the scorched earth of Tom Piper’s set like the spent force he is, the spirit may be willing, but the flesh, like Winnie’s submerged and suffocated body, is weak indeed.
The Herald, June 4th 2007
ends
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