A Rather Excellent WAITING FOR GODOT — Review

There are no pregnant pauses in Jamie Lloyd’s Waiting for Godot, no long silences spent waiting around for the endtimes. For its notoriously immobile protagonists, played here by Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter, the end has already come.

It’s a startlingly contemporary approach that meets our accelerationist moment; we’re no longer wondering when the bombs might go off, as audiences were when Samuel Beckett’s tragicomedy premiered in 1954, we see them every day. But even at a brisk two hours, plus intermission, Lloyd’s approach doesn’t feel rushed, dumbed-down or contemptuous of the material (as I felt his Sunset Blvd. did). Rather, without sacrificing the play’s essence, his signature minimalism removes its original theatrical experiment – What if we made a play where nothing happens, for no reason? – which might have seemed to be its entire point, and finds in its inherent absurdity something closer to a farce.

Reeves and Winter are excellent in this mode, and Lloyd also does not sell out his leads’ established connection for cheap recognition. As Estragon (Reeves) and Vladimir (Winter) – two men beholden to an inexplicable notion that soon, an enigmatic figure named Godot will arrive – the metatextual bond that, for better or worse, forever ties these old friends together suggests that there can be joy in fraternal recognition, even in the face of oblivion. Winter’s broader stage experience and ease matches Vladimir’s slight dominance over his companion, and the Zen-depression aura Reeves has lately cultivated works perfectly for Estragon, who here feels like a fun dude who’s seen the End, can’t shake it but tries to keep things light.

Their finely tuned performances are unshowy and completely in service of the production. They’re neither vaudevillians clowning for our enjoyment nor thespians hamming up each ponderous line. Reeves and Winters’ work is quiet and grounded entirely in their genuine chemistry. When they share a quick hug at the top of Act 2, after a whole day of waiting has come and gone fruitlessly, it reveals a profound knowledge that they can find comfort in each other.

They put us at an ease which is brilliantly disturbed by the appearance of the imperious Pozzo, played with chilling Southern gallantry by Brandon J. Dirden, and his wheelchair-bound slave, Lucky (Michael Patrick Thornton). Dirden’s honeyed drawl betrays the cold, dehumanizing demeanor of his commands for Lucky. They’re not bombastic: he knows (or thinks) he owns him, and it’s terrifying. The absurdity is not that one man could own another, but that his assertiveness stuns onlookers into bewildered complacency. Vladimir and Estragon’s stasis makes stomach-churning sense in the face of a fascism that is completely sure of itself. On the eve of AI technology’s victory over human thought, their shock at Lucky’s ability to eloquently philosophize, prompted by his master to “think” for their enjoyment, is gutting.

Lloyd’s vision takes place within a massive vortex (designed by Soutra Gilmour) that suggests an internet-age existence both futuristic and, by dint of its looking like a submarine cable, perilously tactile. It’s not the country road Beckett calls for, but the information superhighway. As in the best opera sets, it’s simple, gorgeous, effective and relentlessly watchable. Its brutalism creates some fantastic tableaux and allows for great moments of physical comedy, as the men run up its walls and slide back down, Sisyphus style, or stand on its curve with their feet comically slanted. At one point, while Thornton shines in his speech, Dirden peeks from outside of it, clinging to its edges like a Grand Guignol villain, bowler hat and all, with mustache-twirling delight. (Gilmour also did the costumes, which include a rather kinky muzzle for Lucky; all leather and straps.)

A small boy in a hoodie brings with him an unease that evokes contemporary child atrocities. Eric Williams (at the performance I attended, alternating with Zaynn Arore) is angelic without being cloying – not a cypher for easy empathy but a genuinely ghastly cry from a future generation. His appearances go for the Lynchian, underscored by a persistent, ominous hum (by Ben and Max Ringham) and followed by the awe-inspiring moonrises (lit by Jon Clark) that end each act, bringing the leads into indelible silhouetted relief.

Plunged in that darkness, you can still make out Reeves’ gaunt, Greco Christ-like face and Winters’ grizzled demeanor. Their relationship is built to last, even in a Buñuelian hellscape that will, we know, keep going and going.

‍Waiting for Godot is in performance through January 4, 2026 at the Hudson Theatre on West 44th Street in New York City. For tickets and more information, visit here.