Review: Endgame at Austin Playhouse [theater]

Theatre folk like their little turns of phrase (possibly because they promote a sense of ritual, ownership and history in a field where, historically, the practitioners owned and recorded little). Examples: "Break a leg", "Don't say the M-word", and, most pertinently, "Beckett is fuckin' hard". For a young company to tackle one of his most pitfall-laden works is downright audacious, ostentatious and, in the case of Palindrome Theatre's production directed with savvy by Kate Eminger, a damned blessing.

What sets Endgame apart from other post-apocalyptic musings is that, rather than lauding human efforts for survival, it finds absurdity in the need to continue despite lack of incentive. The primary peril with the piece is the prospect of turning the absurd into the ridiculous and dismissable, one that is frequently averted through dramaturgy geared largely towards affecting moments of deep grace and tragedy. However, the treatment of the piece's humor sometimes sabotages the hard work it's constituents have done by, well, working too hard. The evocation of risibility in the script is so artfully crafted and cerebral (as far as dialogue-induced chuckles are concerned) as to render flourish from actors unnecessary and often distracting. The most graceful tour through this ecosystem is embarked upon by Helyn Rain Messenger, who makes almost questionable Beckett's decision to write only 5 minutes of stage time for her character. She delivers the evening's most artful blend of absurdity and sincerity. Maarouf Naboulsi frequently embellishes indulgently as Hamm's father, Nagg, and performs best when silent and reactionary, giving the patriarch a sense of stubborn dignity that would serve him even better if spread throughout the performance. As for Jarrod King and Gabriel Luna as the play's anti-protagonists: they're two tastes that go better together. Mr. King's comedic sensibilities sometimes betray him, and one wonders how much of his mugging is in compensation for the portion of his face covered by glasses. Luna's trademark "smile-through-the-tears/I-will-survive" vocal tremolo thwarts the soft sear of his eyes, and his paroxysms seem sometimes ill-placed. However, together they move in complimentary tandem, professing tacitly a fantastic understanding of the other's strengths, weaknesses, and needs on-stage.

That's the important thing here: there's a synchronicity throughout this small league, a stalwart dedication to the work that is, despite patina, guileless at the core. This is one of the most auspicious debuts of any young company in recent years, the themes of its first show being emblematic of it's ostensible mantra: It's about the risk and the need.

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