Waiting for Godot – Octagon Theatre

“Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It’s awful.”

These eight words, spoken by Estragon, neatly distil the themes of existential stasis and quiet despair at the heart of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. And yet, despite the clarity of that diagnosis, and the evident skill of this production’s leading performances, I left the theatre once again unconvinced, admiring more than engaging, and respecting more than enjoying.

Godot has, of course, divided opinion since its 1953 premiere. Early audiences were baffled, even hostile, and critics were scarcely kinder: Kenneth Tynan’s oft-quoted complaint that it possessed “no beginning, no middle and no end” was delivered with both frustration and reluctant admiration. In the decades since, its influence has been profound, shaping the theatrical language of writers such as Pinter, Stoppard and Edward Albee, and helping to legitimise a form that privileges mood, rhythm and philosophical inquiry over narrative momentum.

The premise remains disarmingly slight: two ageing itinerants wait beneath a barren tree for the arrival of the elusive Godot. Time stretches and loops, marked here by Lizzie Powell’s striking lighting, which charts the passage from sunrise to sunset across a bleak, faintly post-apocalyptic landscape. No explanation is offered for their vigil, and none is resolved; they wait, they talk, they consider leaving, then ultimately remain. “Nothing happens. Twice.” It is precisely this refusal of meaning that has long invited directors and actors to impose one.

Dominic Hill’s production, created with Glasgow Citizens and Liverpool Everyman, largely sidesteps overt political or religious readings in favour of a more intimate focus: the long, weathered friendship between Vladimir (George Costigan) and Estragon (Matthew Kelly). It is a sensible, even appealing approach. Their shared history is etched into every exchange, their familiarity yielding both irritation and tenderness. Estragon grumbles, physically and existentially uncomfortable; Vladimir, though hardly more certain, adopts a slightly more resilient, even playful stance. Their conversations circle, fragment and repeat, as much habit as necessity.

Costigan and Kelly are accomplished guides through this terrain. Both bring precision and timing to Beckett’s rhythms, and their occasional breaking of the fourth wall—perching among the audience, drawing them into the joke—adds a layer of self-awareness that suits the play’s meta-theatrical leanings. There is no doubting their command. If the evening sometimes feels effortful, it is not for lack of craft on their part.

Yet the production rarely quite escapes the sense of dutifulness that can shadow Godot. The text’s self-consciousness—its repeated acknowledgements of boredom, futility, and theatrical artifice—lands as knowingly as ever, but not always as freshly. Lines such as “What are we doing here?” and “We are bored” raise a faint smile, though perhaps more in recognition than surprise. At times, the experience edges towards endurance, with even the actors’ dexterity unable to entirely disguise the longueurs.

The arrival of Pozzo (Gbolahan Obisesan) and Lucky (Michael Hodgson) injects a burst of energy, their dynamic vividly drawn, but their presence ultimately deepens the enigma rather than clarifying it. Interpretative avenues—religious, political, existential—are gestured at but left largely untouched. What remains is a gently melancholic double act, closer in tone to a wistful buddy comedy than a sharply interrogative piece of theatre.

Verdict: Thoughtful, well-performed, and intermittently engaging, but ultimately more admirable than affecting—an evening that invites contemplation without being compelling.

Reviewer: Paul Wilcox

Reviewed: 16th April 2026

North West End UK Rating: