Review: Happy Days ***

At the interval my neighbour asked if I had grasped the metaphor. I’m not sure I had or ever would.

With Happy Days, Samuel Beckett nailed the frustrations of women who have to play second fiddle to husbands and children and who are forced to put their hopes and dreams on permanent hold. The woman sitting next to me was clearly impressed.

To me it felt more like a philosophical essay, albeit a brilliant one, disguised as drama. Fortunately Jonathan Humphreys’ production has lots to keep an audience interested and plenty of atmosphere.

Beckett’s near-monologue features Winnie, a woman buried up to her waist in the rubble of life, with only an unresponsive husband, Willy, for occasional company.

It seems strange to say it, given that she spends the first act buried to the waist and the second to the neck, but one of Pauline McLynn’s great triumphs in this production is the sheer physical performance.

It’s not just the facial tics and nuances, but the whole demeanour that gives the impression that beneath the rubble her legs are going like a paddling swan – minus the grace above.

Without a performer like McLynn, still best-known for her portrayal of Mrs Doyle, to inject some much needed dynamism, this is a play which could easily drift off into the unwatchable.

However, in Humphrey’s hands it is not only a well-ordered production, but one which manages to appeal to women – definitely women – and quite possibly a few men.

To June 4.