Reading Anthony Lane's review of The Letters of Samuel Beckett, Volume 1: 1929-1940 (odd concept, really, having your letters reviewed), I was reminded that Waiting for Godot had its premiere at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. Lane writes: "Advertised, perhaps unwisely, as the laugh sensation of two continents," the play closed after two weeks.
It is hard to think of a more inappropriate place for a play of spare existentialism than the lush subtropics. Saturday night Hania and I walked past the playhouse - now sadly closed (while Godot goes on) - but didn't see anything else remotely melancholic. Beckett's bleak vision would seem appropriate to this time of layoffs, foreclosures, bankruptcies, thrift, but the cafes were full of blithe young people all seemingly unaffected by the crisis. And probably unfamiliar with Godot.
