Krapp's Last Tape

Okay, so I'm ending the year with a whimper. Seeing less shows, writing about them less frequently, so on and so forth. BUT GODDAMIT IT, I'M FINISHING THIS YEAR!

Ahem.

So.

I saw John Hurt is Beckett's Krapp's Last Tape at BAM. I don't want to say it was blissful. I mean...it's Beckett. It was sad and thoughtful and funny and...lonely. Can a play be lonely? I would (now) argue: yes. One of the things I love most about live theater is the communal experience. You're in a room with tens, hundreds, or thousands of people all experiencing the same thing. There's something beautifully collective about it. Krapp's Last Tape sort of flips that feeling on its ear. Yes, I watched this in a space with about 1,000 people (give or take), but the takeaway really was...we were all there alone.

I remember reading this play in college and having not the slightest idea of what it was about. Either I was dumber in college than I am now or it just greatly benefits from being viewed as opposed to read. Or, frankly, both. Here's the snapshot: Krapp's having a birthday. As he does every year, he intends to record a tape detailing what he's done since his previous birthday. In the meantime, we listens to a tape from the past. On that recording, he discusses a fleeting moment of connection lying in a boat with a woman he (I believe) just slept with.

The end.

No, really...if you don't know it, that's all the play is about. Oh sure, there's a ten minute or so silent opening in which he mostly clowns around a bit and eats bananas. But most of the play's 50 minute running time is watching one man listen to recordings of himself. And if that doesn't sound dynamic, it may just be that you haven't seen John Hurt do it.

With his craggy face and thousand yard stare, he looks not so much old as worn. And the gravelly depths of his voice support the notion that it's not JUST age that's taking its toll. It's monotony and sadness and (most of all) loneliness.

Krapp's Last Tape, as I took it, is like a love letter to romance wrapped in a faux-existentialist presentation. It dares to ask us why we bother living while managing to answer that we probably do it for quiet moments on boats. For shimmering slivers of connection. I won't pretend it's optimistic about our chances of finding those things that truly matter. But perhaps it's simply a cautionary tale.

What I KNOW is that it was lovely. And that a dozen or so years after I read it, I'm glad to finally understand it.