Happy Days
written by Samuel Beckett
directed by Andrei Belgrader
starring Brooke Adams and Tony Shalhoub
The Flea Theatre
July 13, 2015

Production website     💉💉💉💉 out of 5.
You walk into the theatre of seventy-five seats and see nothing on stage but a large mount of dirt and an obviously painted scrim with clouds and sky. The lights go down and up and then we see our protagonist, Winnie (Brooke Adams) “planted” in the ground with only her head and torso above ground.  A theatre shaking alarm blares off, Winnie opens her eyes and it’s “just another day.” Winnie spends all of act one  trapped in this dirt mound with only a capacious bag full of toiletries, and a gun – – Brownie – – a gun – just in case . .
Her “husband” Willie (Tony Shalhoub) is (so unlike his charter from the TV series Monk) free from the mound but cowering behind and barely out of ear-reach for Winnie.

What do we do in this play? We watch her just get through a day: grooming and talking and really not much else fill the time. The planning of when to comb one’s hair is a big topic. If it is combed too soon then what is one to do later – and if it is combed too late it may be missed before the bell to bed. What does one do when the lipstick is almost gone, when the sun becomes too hot, when the people stop coming by to talk except to ridicule the woman buried “up to her titties.” What happens when the possibilities of movement are gone and the world stops coming to you? What is left to do? Brush the teeth perfectly, groom oneself immaculately, and fill the silence with your own silly stories and unending monologue of all that might have happened and is certainly NOT happening now.

Sitting in the front row center, I felt like I was on the porch of the steps of the nursing home that become my stepfather’s final home. Winnie became that oh-so-bright but oh-so-stuck woman whose entire life was pouring out of her mouth as one unending monologue. Stuck, for sure, but making the best of her looks and her time in the sun. And god bless that man that she kept always in her sight. He was not so lucky – – mobile he was – – but broken and hiding in the corners – burned every time he comes into the sun.

Act two comes and now Winnie is buried up to her neck in the mound with no hands to even groom herself with tools from the bag.  Even the gun remains pointed at her head – but without the use of her hands it is but now a remnant of choices not taken.  Still – – to the very last bell – Winnie perseveres and smiles, and “to speak in the old style” welcomes each and every day.

Silly play about a woman buried in a hill? Perhaps or perhaps a plea to not let the sand of missed choices, fear, possessions and baggage begin to collect at your feet. Because one day you may not be able to move – – and then the sands really begin to collect.