The first two of Conor Lovett's forays into the heart of Beckett-land, as charted in the novels and directed by Judy Hegarty, have been widely acclaimed. Molloy and Malone Dies were again presented last weekend for the Kilkenny Arts Festival, and joined by an eagerly awaited new adaptation of The Unnamable, the final novel of the trilogy.
Given that the lone performer spends over three hours on stage with such abstruse material, it is worth a brief reassessment of the earlier pieces. Molloy is seen trying to visit his mother and encountering a world of obstacles and antagonism. Malone, nearing his end, reflects that he was born grave, as others are born syphilitic, and forgives nobody for his travesty of a life. Lovett is again brilliant, taking his audience into the heart of the characters and their bleak existence.
As a feat of memory and concentration alone, these would be a significant accomplishment. Wedded to the performer's interpretations-in-depth, they are astonishing. This actor has already joined the pantheon of great Beckett interpreters.
And so to The Unnamable, about which I must record a first-night mishap that affected both audience and actor. Shortly after the play began, the sound of a jazz band from the street outside penetrated the small theatre, and continued with brief pauses to the end. Lovett's concentration was clearly dented at times, although his professionalism enabled him to continue. His closing words, "I'll go on", were sardonically appropriate.
His listeners were less resistant to the distraction. Perhaps due to the intrusive music, there seemed to be too many prolonged pauses and cyclic thoughts, and something of the evening's grip was relaxed as art receded into craft. A more measured opinion will have to await a better viewing opportunity.
There can, however, be no reservation about the Beckett niche Conor Lovett has carved out for himself. He is special.