50 / CHRONICLESnNow that 30 years have elapsednsince Beckett penned Krapp, we cannsee that it is his most significant work.nHardly anyone would dare respondntoday as Kenneth Tynan did in 1958nby writing his review for The Observernas a parody of the play itself calledn”Slamm’s Last Knock,” complete withnironic props and irreverent stage directions,nwhile depicting the process ofnhis writing a review of the play. On thenother hand, I don’t know if anyonenother than Robert Brustein recognizednit then for what it was and remains:n”… Beckett’s latest, and very possiblynhis best, dramatic poem about thenold age of the world.”nAs a self-contained autobiographicalnstatement, Krapp boasts of no loopholes,nevery loop of the tape and everynjump ahead accounted for. Krapp presentsna man regarding himself who isnin turn regarding himself again; and tonthis apparently enclosed circle must benadded Beckett regarding/conceivingnthe first man, and our regarding thenentire enterprise. The dilemma, fornBeckett, is our propensity to regard atnall. He resents our self-appointed missionnto wonder, to wander, to ponder,nto question, to hope, when all that henfinds is despair.nOn a more mundane level, Krapp isnto Beckett what Prufrock was to Eliot:nIn each of these works the authornprojected himself into the future lookingnback (” . . . before embarking on annew retrospect,” says Krapp). In keepingnwith the comparison, the peachnPrufrock would only “dare to eat”nbecomes Krapp’s banana just as it hadnbeen Estragon’s carrot before.nIn this latest production of Krapp’snLast Tape, Beckett the director has leftnnothing to chance—which must benviewed as a typically Beckettesque paradox,nsince Beckett the writer apparentlynbelieves there is nothing beyondnthe random and the arbitrary. Even anparticle of dust floating and noticeablenin the flood of a theatrical spotlightnseems calculated and preordainednwithin this context. And Rick Cluehey’snperformance is so studied andnaffected (whether he’s methodicallynpeeling the bananas, shuffling to thenrear room to collect his canisters ofntape, or overreacting to hearing hisnyounger self) that it does a disservice tonthe script. Only Bud Thorpe, whondesigned a painterly set and enhancednit with striking lighting, has succeedednhere.nStill, Krapp’s Last Tape may verynwell be Beckett’s last important work.nIn subsequent years, he has focusednhis attention on writing prose monologuesnthat have become ever moreninternalized, wending their way intonan interior that knows no bottom asnthey duplicate with uncanny precisionnthe way one “talks” to oneself whennone is thinking. Appropriately, thensyntax is chaotic, the vocabulary isnlimited, the grammar is inelegant, thenthoughts are fleeting, fragmentary andnonly amount to something throughnrhythm, pattern, and redundancy, thenaccumulation and index of impulses.nIn his discussion of Beckett’s HappynDays in 1961 (or 26 years ago), RichardnOilman wrote: “The miracle lies innthe fact that here every element thatnhas been thought to be necessary to thentheatre’s conquest of life—plot, character,nmovement, linear revelation,nthe resolution of struggle—has dwindlednto a set of notations and gestures,nif anything at all remains; and yet lifencontinues to rise from Beckett’s stagenas it does from few others.”nSome of the more recent attempts tonrender Beckett’s recent monologues onnstage, albeit monologues that were designednfor the written page, have notnproved as resurreetable. Nearly fournyears ago, Mabou Mines-membernFrederick Neumann delivered a stagednreading of Beckett’s prose monologuenCompany, which was an exercise inntedium and inadvertently symptomaticnof the pointlessness that is Beckett’snpoint. Now, and to much more winningneffect, Neumann is back with anstaged version of Beckett’s 1983 opus,nWorstward Ho. The differences maynhave less to do with what is inherent innthese works, however, and more to donwith the stunning visual effectsnachieved by Mabou Mines in realizingnWorstward Ho (there were none tonspeak of in Company).nThe autobiographical narrator ofnWorstward Ho is still steeped in “Thensame dim, the same narrow void”nwe’ve visited him at before; but ifnanything, he seems closer to death andnwishes for it that much more. Henspeaks of the failure of words (“Hownalmost true they sometimes almostnring”), the failure of failure (“Failnagain, fail better”), the price of lifennn(“Remains of mine where none for thensake of pain” and “all cannot go fill thendim go” and “Nothing ever unseen ofnthe nothing to be seen”), as he fades innand out of consciousness (“Blanks—nhow long till somehow ‘on’ again?”nand “No dim go, then all go”).nWhat makes this dim, grim 50 minutesnendurable are the theatrical eff^ectsnof Mabou Mines. John Arnone hasnprovided a set of a black mound thatnlater comes into view as a pyramid. Atnfirst with a shovel as if he were diggingnhis way to the surface, Mr. Neumannnemerges through an opening in thencenter to narrate the piece. He’s likensome ghastly humanoid version of anhedgehog or a burrowing creature, butnhis usually mellifluous voice does justicento Beckett’s fragmented language;nhis pauses and reflections guide usnthrough some of the more incomprehensiblenpassages. The remains of anhuman skeleton are imbedded in thensurface of the mound near the cavernousnopening, a skeleton which directlynfigures in the narration as well asnsuggests that, as usual, the time is afternsome nuclear catastrophe. When thennarrator refers to “a body somehownstanding in the dim void,” the recollectednbody gradually assumes shapenbehind him as if it were floating ornhovering just above the mound. JennifernTipton’s brilliant lighting designnmakes the performer appear as if shenwere a hologram. Even more effectivenis the visual realization of “The oldnman and child” recalled by the narrator,nwho “plod on as one . . . handsnheld.” Their backs to us behind thennarrator who is facing us, they arenwalking slowly, perpetually, towardsnthe top of the mound which now is anpyramid resembling a road in a surrealistnpainting by Dali or Magritte.nWhether or not the old man andnchild are Beckett’s dim memory ofnEstragon and Vladimir, the key tonBeckett remains what it always was—nautobiography. He has been too obsessednwith beating the cosmic void atnits own game, by submitting to it, tonexpend any energies manufacturingnfictions. Beckett understood soonernthan his followers that the design ofnone’s life, the situations and the circumstances,nare fictions. In retrospect,nit seems like the progress of Beckett’snwork will have documented the deteriorationnand death of his own mind.n