Waiting for Godot at Glasgow’s Citizens Theatre – review

On the surface, there appears little to be cheerful about in Waiting for Godot. Samuel Beckett’s absurdist masterpiece seems to gaze into a void of meaninglessness, posing questions to which it offers few answers, and at first sight, Dominic Hill’s new production for Glasgow’s Citizens Theatre (ahead of transfers to Liverpool’s Everyman and Bolton’s Octagon) leans into the bleakness.

Jean Chan’s design fills the stage with what looks like a bombed-out wasteland, featureless aside from a tree that has a car door wrapped around it (how on earth did that get there?!) and some rusty old chairs. When Vladimir and Estragon emerge, they do so against a desperate road-to-hell back flat, and even that is falling apart.

Yet the most enduring takeaway from Hill’s vision of Godot isn’t cold isolation but the warmth of human connection in even the most difficult circumstances. Hill directs the two tramps with tremendous affection and bucketloads of humour, and he’s helped by two outstanding central performances. Matthew Kelly’s Vladimir, grumpy and slightly pathetic, is enormously sympathetic. When you see him tugging off his boots in the opening minutes, it’s a testament to Kelly’s level of empathy that the audience wills him on to succeed even in so small a task. He’s earthy, lethargic, flat, but never hopeless. Deflated rather than defeated, this Vladimir somehow finds the strength to keep on going, and that’s mostly thanks to the tenderness of his friendship with his partner. Estragon might think there’s “nothing to be done”, but as played by George Costigan, he views the world with upbeat jocularity and determination to go on, playing the part with cheery vim that finds impetus even when shrugging into the void.

But the production works so well because, good as the individual performances are, the two protagonists are a team. Both have very different kinds of deadpan delivery, which frequently produce uproarious audience laughter, but there’s also touching cordiality to their interactions. As he helps Vladimir try on his boots at the start of act two, Costigan gently dusts down Kelly’s bandaged feet, providing a moment of gentle connection that’s the most intimate and hope-filled thing in the evening.

There’s forgiveness and beauty in this nihilistic vision, and both actors bring tremendous naturalism to their parts. The banter feels genuine, never as though they’re reading from a script, and in their delivery, Beckett’s mysteries and allusions become doorways of possibility, not frustrating dead ends.

Next to them, Pozzo and Lucky make dynamic foils. Gbolahan Obisesan’s Pozzo is a riot of flamboyant self-confidence, with a touch of danger to his suave flair, his purple and yellow outfit forming an eye-catching contrast to the monochrome surroundings. Michael Hodgson brings Lucky’s physical plight to life with disturbing immediacy, and he delivers his monologue with quickfire clarity and surprising tragic grandeur. Only the Boy, the play’s most mysterious figure, feels slightly flat and underplayed by Rejoice Ogunyemi.

However, this feels like a small thing to complain about in what is otherwise a triumphant production of the most important play of the 20^th century. It finds freshness and humour in the darkest absurdity, and celebrates forgiveness and love even in the bleakest of settings. In a word, lovely.