Belinda Giblin in Happy Days. Photo: Robert Catto
Belinda Giblin’s relentlessly optimistic Winnie was a joy to behold and will remain a vivid memory. I have not seen a better production of Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days, directed here by Craig Baldwin. From the moment the lights go up and we meet Winnie, so earnestly bright and gay despite the fact that she is half-buried in a mound of earth, the comedy and tragedy of life is before us. Behind Winne is a faded poster, extolling the charms of a beachside holiday resort. The slogan reads ‘There’s nothing like it’. Nothing being the operative word. Winnie has next to nothing, and will shortly have even less. It’s a great backdrop, the scene is perfectly set (credit to Charles Davis) for this absurdist, apocalyptic examination of life.
Giblin’s warmth invites the audience into her shell of a world. She has little to divert her except the contents of a capacious handbag and the intermittent monosyllabic comments of her husband. We are with her as she extracts and comments on the contents of the handbag. The tooth-brushing scene, and the examination of the toothbrush, was pure comic delight.
Somewhere behind the great mound of earth that will gradually subsume Winnie as the play progresses is her husband Willie (Lex Marinos), a snuffling, crawling being who must keep out of the sun. The days are getting hotter (a perhaps unintentional prophesy from Beckett). Willie doesn’t say much at all, so Winnie keeps up the running commentary of yet another ‘happy day’. With her pearls and lippie, she is also keeping up appearances – and marking out the hours, keeping desolation, if not time, at bay.
It shouldn’t be funny but much of it is. Winnie’s endless chatter versus Willie’s occasional grunts, her determination to include him as a companion, her reminiscences triggered by the objects in the handbag. These are moving, raise the occasional chuckle, but are also irredeemably sad. Winne is afraid of being alone, of being unheard. Once desired, she is afraid of the future. She imagines she people are looking at her (which of course, we are.)
Occasionally there is a crack in that eternal optimism – one of Winnie’s observations ends with, ‘That is what I find so wonderful’, but the bright smile has gone and she looks desolate. But then she chatters on, filling the void of everyday existence. Things are ’No better, no worse, no change.’ She won’t confront the abyss, yet.
By Act 2, life has marched on. Winnie is up to her neck in the earth and keeping disappointment at bay is harder, but she hasn’t given up entirely. Her face is pale and drained now, devoid of colour and make up. The revolver in her handbag is still in her sights, even if she can no longer reach it. Willie finally gets his moment and Marinos’ brief appearance is also memorable. In his straw boater and suit, he attempts to crawl up the mound. What his intentions are we never quite know.
Even for Becket, Happy Days is bleak. Mounds of rubbish bring humans’ destruction of the planet to mind (this mound of earth could be a pile of ash, referencing Australia’s bush fires); Winnie and Willie’s relationship has become sterile; we will all be buried in the earth one way or another. Yet Giblin makes us want to watch her every nuance, every girly trill, every flicker of sadness along with the occasional sharp rebuke. It’s a wonderful performance.
Happy Days by Red Line Productions plays at the Old Fitz Theatre, Wolloomooloo, Sydney until 3 July
