Why are some of the world’s best actors so content to be Harold Pinter’s bitch? It must be the challenge of the material and the chance to chew a bit of scenery because it isn’t the plot. Right now through August 31, 2013, director Sean Mathias is giving Pinter’s 1974 absurdist play, No Man’s Land, a pre-Broadway shakedown cruise at Berkeley Rep, with Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart, Billy Crudup and Shuler Hensley filling out the small, excellent cast. This October, Daniel Craig and his real-life spouse, Rachel Weisz, star in the Mike Nichols-directed Broadway revival of Pinter’s tiresome, 1978 infidelity drama, Betrayal. And then, in November, No Man’s Land opens on Broadway, where it will run in repertory with Waiting for Godot, which Mathias directed with McKellen as Estragon and Stewart as Vladimir in 2009.
Is Pinter really worth all this fuss? I’ve never thought so, and No Man’s Land, for all its moments of clever wordplay and flashes of farce, doesn’t trouble itself too much to convince audiences otherwise. From an actor’s perspective, it must be great fun to deliver all that sparkling Pinteresque dialogue, and witnessing the delivery by this cast in particular is an obvious treat, but something’s amiss when a play about the unreliability of memory leaves no indelible impression of its own. As for the ending, it’s deliberately, even defiantly, flaccid, which I suppose is at least in keeping with the spirit of a dark comedy about two old men reminiscing about their glory days.
Ian McKellen (left) and Patrick Stewart in No Man’s Land at Berkeley Rep.
When we meet Hirst (Stewart) and Spooner (McKellen), the pair has just returned from a pub. The ambiguous nature of their relationship is telegraphed immediately, as the effusive and rumpled Spooner tries to draw his taciturn, exceedingly prosperous host into conversation. Hirst prefers to drown himself in drink, sinking deeper and deeper into his easy chair, his face doing its best to impersonate a pair of clenched buttocks.
Not offered a chair of his own, Spooner stands for fully two-thirds of the first act, which McKellen accentuates by occasionally rocking back on his heels and up on his toes. Not even offered a hanger for his coat, Spooner carries it on his arm for almost the entire first act, as a waiter would a bar towel. At one point, we sit transfixed as Spooner juggles his coat, his half-full glass of Scotch, a bottle from his host’s well-stocked bar and his host’s glass, too, which he somehow manages to fill and hand to Hirst without spilling a drop.