The character of Winnie in Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days was described as a “summit part” akin to Hamlet by Dame Peggy Ashcroft, one of the earliest Winnies. Only a daring actor would attempt the role: essentially a 90-minute monologue of looping, repetitive prose, and a prescriptive list of stage directions encompassing pauses and facial expressions. All while buried in earth – first from the waist, then the neck. But the rewards of scaling this mighty peak are extraordinary; it’s hard to think of a more intriguing female character on stage, or a better scaffold for technical and emotional virtuosity.
Who is Winnie? Beckett stipulates that she’s “about 50”; she’s married to the taciturn Willie – who is seen sporadically on stage with her, generally crawling. She’s well-educated, judging by her literary references. Her daily routine is dictated by a bell, for reasons undisclosed. She is at all times partially buried, in a scorched mound of earth in an unbroken landscape, for reasons undisclosed. The sun is hellish, the bell is relentless, and her helpmate seems thoroughly unhelpful. Despite this, she persists. She keeps talking; she recalls her youth; she counts her blessings. Keeps herself tidy.
Beyond this, her psychology is contested territory. Is she stoic? Heroic? Pathetic? Deluded? There are myriad ways to play Winnie, and myriad ways – as an audience – to read her.
Pamela Rabe’s Winnie, immured in Sydney Theatre Company’s Wharf stage for the next five weeks, seems pretty well broken by the time we meet her. Beckett writes his heroine’s performance as a kind of tragic clowning routine: peppered throughout her monologue are the stage directions “smile on” and “smile off”, as Winnie switches abruptly between the bright, cheery mask of extreme optimism, and a more doubtful, melancholic and even pained persona.
In this production, co-directed by Rabe with veteran lighting and set designer Nick Schlieper, this oscillation between contrasting moods and affect is more muted. Rabe is not convincingly bright; you don’t get the sense that Winnie really buys into the fantasy of an imminent “happy day” – or that she truly experiences the moments of relief written into the script.
It’s an aching performance that speaks of a woman repeatedly bopped on the head by life, driven gradually downwards into her earthy confinement. Rabe gives in to full-throated anguish in the course of the play; her Winnie weeps. When she scolds Willie (played here by the wonderful Markus Hamilton, perhaps a little too young and vital to convincingly conjure the broken Willie) resonant notes of bitterness and contempt hint at their unhappy history.
But without the light and shade, the play is tougher viewing – and less satisfying for an audience, who doesn’t experience the full arc of Winnie’s journey as we watch her mask progressively slip off.
There are fewer laughs in this production, too. Beckett’s play has comedy as well as tragedy, and Rabe has great comic sensibilities as an actor – which shine through in several glorious moments – but many opportunities for comic relief are lost. At these times, the theatre can feel uncannily quiet.
Similarly, Beckett’s language – described by many actors and directors of this play as inherently musical in its rhythms and repetitions – is muted, with Rabe’s delivery of lines leaning naturalistic. This adds to what is overall an oppressive atmosphere; beyond occasional bursts of music from a wind-up music box and Winnie singing, there’s no soundtrack.
The design feels similarly airless, with Schlieper – taking set and lighting duties – presenting the most claustrophobic version of Beckett’s prescription for a “trompe-l’oeil backcloth to represent unbroken plain and sky receding to meet in far distance”. The backdrop is a flat, unmodulated monotone, and the stage space is enclosed in a dark box. Beckett’s “expanse of scorched grass” is rendered as a dull grey and slightly gritty papier-mache-like surface. Winnie and Willie’s universe is thoroughly devoid of contextual references, and thoroughly drab.
In the second act, the directors boldly disregard Beckett’s direction for an unchanged setting, instead turning down the lights and casting the stage in an inky blue wash, with only Rabe’s face spotlit, and protruding from the earth mound in which she is now almost entirely buried. It’s a gorgeous and striking tableau – peak Schlieper – though this aesthetic “cool change” arguably undercuts Beckett’s intimations of an interminable cycle of repeating days.
Overall, this is a tough space to exist in for the show’s run-time. Perhaps appropriately so – Beckett is not big on consolation – but this production may struggle to bring first-timers or sceptics of his work along for the ride.
Happy Days is at Wharf 1 theatre, Sydney Theatre Company until 15 June.
