First things first, no matter what one thinks of the show, it can’t be denied that it is a truly extraordinary, possibly career-best performance from Stevenson. Buried from the waist down for the first half in an almost gold-mine like setting (glitteringly designed by Vicki Mortimer) and then from the neck down after the interval, she manages to portray a huge vivacity from both the outpouring of thought and word typical of Beckett, but also from the most searching set of eyes which peer out unnervingly into the audience, connecting directly with us all and providing the listening ear that Winnie so desperately craves.
But despite the quality, Michael Beames as her near-silent husband is also strong, the cumulative effect just proved too wearing for me. The cacophonous klaxon ends up serving a purpose for half the audience as well as marking time for Winnie, jolting the attention back onto the stage but could I say that I took anything away from the writing about the human condition, that reflects the esteem in which so many others hold it, I cannot.
