Wharf 1 Theatre, May 9
8/10
The greatest roles allow for endless revelations. The corollary is that no Winnie in Happy Days will ever be perfect, any more than any Hamlet will be. The role’s scope is too vast. Despite playwright Samuel Beckett’s best efforts to corral actors into playing her a certain way, every Winnie is wonderfully different.
Pamela Rabe’s portrayal now joins that list.
While some actors lust after the chance to play Hamlet, I doubt many lust after Winnie. Few roles are more daunting. Not only is there 90 minutes’ worth of essentially solo (and often repetitive) text to learn, there are myriad fastidious stage directions to incorporate, and then there’s being buried in a mound, firstly to the waist, and then to the neck. It’s almost as though – among the piece’s many metaphorical implications – the mound is a foothill of the mountain the actor must climb.
STC’s co-directors Rabe and Nick Schlieper (also the set and lighting designer) opt for a meta-theatrical interpretation in which the mound and its surroundings shout, “This is a stage. Nothing is real.” Rabe’s Winnie, meanwhile, is the most differentiated I’ve seen: like some grotesque attraction in an amusement park. When Beckett, in a delirium of joy at puncturing his own metaphor, has Winnie recount the story of two passers-by who wonder why Winnie’s seldom seen or heard husband, Willie, doesn’t dig her out, you can just about imagine them also shying coconuts at her.
Much stage business, such as Winnie’s brushing her teeth, is extended in length to amplify the visual comedy. But not only is Rabe sometimes a notably clownish Winnie, she’s also a more desperate one. Hallmarks of Winnies across 64 years have been resilience, improbable optimism and a winning smile. Rabe’s Winnie is less resilient; closer to giving into her anguish. She’s more frantic; less serene; harsher of voice and less sweet of smile – often grimacing when she tries. She’s seemingly more knowing of the direness of her predicament, so spasms of terror cross her face – in contrast to the unchanging, sun-scorched blue-grey sky that surrounds the mound.
A starker contrast comes in Act Two. After the transition to Winnie’s being buried up to her neck done in a blackout (with terrifying sounds by Stefan Gregory) rather than the usual interval, the sky’s now black, and Rabe’s head alone is fiercely lit. Now she’s without Winnie’s trademark makeup – how could she apply any? – other than smudged eyes, and any hinted optimism has largely withered to horror and anguish. She’s more bizarre than pitiable, and yet, Rabe’s Winnie, even as she makes us laugh, still lances our hearts. Just less often.
Markus Hamilton quirkily plays the minor role of Willie, and for the Winnie actor, as for Winnie herself, Willie’s presence must be infinitely reassuring. Ultimately, Rabe’s virtuosity offers a Winnie who’s intriguing, grotesque, funny, occasionally trying, almost coarse and memorably unique.
Until June 15.