Rough for Radio I and II by Samuel Beckett (1961)

Samuel Beckett and radio plays

Samuel Beckett is best known for his stage plays (Waiting for Godot, Endgame, Happy Days) and his novels (MurphyWatt, Malone Dies), but he was also fascinated by the medium of radio. Between 1956 and 1963, Beckett wrote no fewer than seven radio plays (six original scripts, and an Irish-flavoured reimagining of Robert Pinget’s French play, La Manivelle). In his words, these are plays designed ‘to come out of the dark’.

To many critics, the radio plays are the quintessential Beckett. Stripped of the distractions of stage settings and decor,  or having to arrange for actors’ positions and movements, the two Roughs consist of voice alone, almost of language alone, performing. As his career progressed, Beckett’s writing became more intimate and experimental, filled with internal monologues and unseen ghostly voices and, at this point in his career, radio allows this stripped-back style to the fullest.

Rough for Radio I and II are two experimental works in this style, attempts to see how what dynamics can be achieved by voice and sounds – and silences, and long silent pauses – alone.

Rough for Radio I consists of 5 pages of text and lasts about 15 minutes when dramatised. It is an incomplete ‘sketch’ of a sort of encounter between a disembodied male and female voice for the first half, which then switches to the male character by himself having a series of three phone calls – each step in the two halves punctuated by bursts of very loud music, as if from a machine or continuum of loud mad sound which never ceases.

Rough For Radio II feels like a very different beast. Although only ten pages of text, it lasts about 25 minutes when dramatised, and has something much more like a conventional setting and scenario, namely some kind of interrogation room in which a female stenographer reads back a record of the previous day’s proceedings to the man in charge of torturing a prisoner tied to a chair, while an unspeaking henchman, Dick, occasionally whips the poor victim. Even so, though it sounds and is grim, it is written in a peculiarly mannered mannered and distancing style, which makes it more absurdist than political in impact.

Rough for Radio I

Beckett wrote this brief sketch (it is 5 pages long in the Collected plays) in 1961. Rough for Radio I is the only Beckett radio play never to be produced by the BBC. He left it untouched for years before translating it into English, and publishing it in Stereo Headphones magazine in 1976 as ‘Sketch for Radio Play’.

None of his plays are conventional narratives or traditional plays, but Rough for Radio I is a more experimental sketch than most. It is an aural and psychological ‘experience’ more than a conventional drama. It weaves together dialogue, music and abrupt sound effects to create a dislocated, distant feel. In its mashing up of music and voices it sounded, to me, like avant-garde opera and music-theatre pieces from the 1960s, and a bit like the sampling that came in in the 1980s music culture.

This is a live recording of an American production. In my opinion the very long silences kill any dynamism or interest the play may just about have.

Plot summary

Two voices, a man and a woman. Huge silent gaps between their fragmented dialogue. She asks if the music goes on all the time. He confirms it all in a bleak Dantesque kind of way (at one point the dialogue specifically references Dante’s Inferno and Paradiso). He continually calls her ‘madam’, in an aggressive, almost facetious way. (I wonder if anyone says ‘Madam’ nowadays.) She asks to sit on a cushion. She asks if these are the two knobs and turns one. Sudden burst of sound. In the olden days this burst would have been from a radio, in the style of John Cage’s early pieces for random radio, but nowadays it could be any type of sound or music from any number of gadgets.

Is it live? she asks. His only reply is to tell her to turn it to the right. This instruction and these bursts of music are repeated a few more times, then, after less than 3 pages, she leaves. There’s a rare moment of comedy, the kind of broad physical comedy which suddenly erupts in Waiting For Godot, when she apparently nearly bumps into the garbage outside the building.

Now alone, the man becomes more desperate and makes a series of staccato outbursts. With the woman departed, the interplay is now between the man and what, in the stage instructions is described as MUSIC. In the American production this is taken as loud bursts of modern music like rock or rap. They all seem to drive the male voice mad. Between these bursts he makes a series of increasingly desperate phone calls.

The phone calls appear to be to a hospital where he is asking of news, the second call mentions ‘confinements’. Obscurely, it seems as if MUSIC herself might be having a baby?? Is this all a satire on the pointlessness of giving birth and the horror of existence? Or an obscure allegory about the state or purpose of music as a form?

The male character’s words are in the familiar Beckett style – fragments of language with a heavy sense of pointlessness, endlessness, decline, collapse, repeated, in this production, against the abrupt, aurally violent backgrounds of the various musical interludes. One time he slams down the phone yelling ‘slut’. Next time he gets enraged and slams down the phone yelling ‘swine!’

The phone rings a third time and he appears to be being told not to expect the doctor before noon the next day; he has two births to attend to, one of which is breech. The voice and music then trail off into silence.

You can see why it isn’t performed very often. Most critics consider that the ‘ideas’ in the fragment, such as they are, were more successfully developed in Words and Music, a radio play he wrote soon afterwards and addresses the interplay of the two forms more fully.

Rough for Radio II

Rough for Radio II is more obviously plot-driven than Rough for Radio I. It is a princely ten pages in the Faber paperback edition.

As so often, it’s a piece for just two characters. In this case the two speaking characters, Animator and Stenographer, appear to be torturing and interrogating Fox, an enigmatic character who says hardly anything and then bursts into frantic, almost meaningless tirades.

The text mostly consists of Animator asking Stenographer to read back an account of the day before’s interrogation, interspersed by his heavy-handed criticisms and repeated commands to non-speaking Dick to whip Fox with a bull’s pizzle. The play opens as Animator instructs Fox’s gag and blindfold to be removed.

The following production was made at the Rocky Mount Imperial Centre, which appears to be in America, featuring Ivan Price as A, Brooke Edwards as S, Ben Griffith as Fox and  and directed by Brook Edwards. It hasn’t been viewed many times but, listening and reading the text alongside, it appears to be a completely faithful animation of the play as written, and is well-acted in the style the play calls for.

From everything I’ve read about torture, this play is nothing remotely like the process. Instead it seems to me as stylised and conventional as a Baroque painting of a saint looking up to heaven with baby angels fluttering in the sky. What I mean is it is full of arch and contrived mannerisms, which bespeak the ideology of a very particular time and place which later ages will find ridiculous.

1. For example, the real relationship isn’t between torturer and victim but the much more mannered and stylised relationship between Animator and Stenographer. Not least when he invites her to take off her overalls and then ejaculates: ‘Staggering! Staggering!’ at the result. Sounds more like a 70s soft porn movie. Animator heartily wishes he was forty years younger. Carry on Torturing.

2. It is peculiar that Fox appears to be whipped and tortured but rarely makes the sound of someone being tortured, no moans, only a few, rare cries of pain. The reverse. The piece is punctuated when Fox gives voice not to screams but to sudden outbursts of demented verbosity:

That for sure, no further, and there gaze, all the way up, all the way down, slow gaze, age upon age, up again, down again, little lichens of my own span, living dead in the stones, and there took to the tunnels. [Silence. Ruler. ] Oceans too, that too, no denying, I drew near down the tunnels, blue above, blue ahead, that for sure, and there too, no further, ways end, all ends and farewell, farewell and fall, farewell seasons, till I fare again.

These don’t sound like the confessions of anyone being tortured but, the reverse, exactly like the meaningless loquacity of the characters in The Beckett Trilogy, that source of much of Beckett’s style and manner which he mined and repeated for the rest of his career. As stylised as a Gothic statue or an eighteenth century wig.

3. The sexual theme is rather surprisingly repeated towards the end when Animator orders the Stenographer to revive Fox by kissing him, which she proceeds to do at great length while he eggs her on. I’m going out on a limb here, but I suspect kissing is not a common torture technique, except maybe in BDSM porn movies. The stripping, the kissing, have infinitely more to do with that mood of stylised sexual grotesquerie which you find in so many avant-garde plays. Same when the interrogation turns a few minutes later to the subject of breasts heavy with milk. Stripping women, kissing, full breast.

4. But above all, the pauses…. It seems as if, in the 1960s and 70s, Beckett and Harold Pinter between them managed to persuade large numbers of theatre goers that having their characters speak in fragments, never utter complete sentences, and punctuate everything with loooooong pauses, created a more dramatic effect, or was in some mysterious way more lifelike. We were forced to read Pinter when I was at school and he drove me to paroxysms of boredom. It seemed to me then and seems to me now the use of these techniques is contrived and lifeless.

Mannerisms

Taken together, Rough For Theatre I and 2 strike me mostly as being excellent examples of how long, long, loooong pauses between would-be portentous fragments of dialogue kill everything we usually mean by drama, dialogue or character, completely stone dead.

This collection of mannerisms – not obvious or abstract scenarios, unnamed characters, fragmented dialogue, long silences, bursts of manic music or speech (as in Fox’s frantic tirades) – was, I think, genuinely revolutionary and wildly innovative in the theatre of the 1950s dominated by the stiflingly realistic drawing room dramas of Terence Rattigan and Somerset Maugham. This experimentalism became more popular and widespread during the 1960s and, by the time I started reading seriously in the 1970s, it had become the dominant style of not only much drama but of the films Pinter wrote scripts for, heavy with portentous fragmented dialogue.

It had become a heavy, claustrophobic manner and, when we were forced to read it at school, I found it much more alienating and unreal than Milton or Chaucer or Shakespeare who spoke to me far more directly and immediately about my actual life and feelings. Plus, the Beckett / Pinter style was smarmily approved by my middle-aged English teacher, who nodded approvingly at its fragmented dialogue, wilful repetitions, long pauses. It was the cultural equivalent of the approved polytechnic radicalism which Malcolm Bradbury satirises in The History Man. Dad drama.

In this respect the Absurdist or Beckett style was very much like post-war serialist or International Style of serious music, as promoted by Stockhausen, Boulez, Xenakis et al – which was astonishingly radical in the late 1940s and 50s, spread across universities and music colleges in the 1960s, was used as the jagged soundtrack to umpteen experimental movies, but had become a formula and an over-dominating manner by the mid-1970s, and so was ripe to be replaced by minimalism and returns to more traditional forms and harmonics by various individual composers (Gorecki, Ligeti et al).

These fragments are interesting as examples of Beckett experimenting with the International Style he helped define in Waiting For Godot and Endgame, experimenting with its elements in the relatively ‘pure’ medium of radio, uncluttered by visuals. Possibly they are both failures, but they’re interesting failures, and studying them informs your understanding of, or feel for, a lot of the drama of the 60s and 70s, notably the GCSE set text plays of Harold Pinter.


Related link

Samuel Beckett’s works

An asterisk indicates that a work was included in the Beckett on Film project, which set out to make films of all 19 of Beckett’s stage plays using leading actors and directors. The set of 19 films was released in 2002 and most of them can be watched on YouTube.

The Second World War 1939 to 1945

*Waiting For Godot 1953 Play

Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature 1969

Bridget Riley @ Hayward Gallery

This is a major retrospective of the work of the celebrated British artist Bridget Riley (b.1931), covering 70 years of her career, and featuring over 200 works and 50 huge and wonderful paintings.

Movement in Squares by Bridget Riley (1961) Arts Council Collection, Southbank Centre, London © Bridget Riley 2019. All rights reserved

  1. It is a big, bright, light, beautifully arranged exhibition for which they’ve removed walls and partitions to make the gallery space as open and light as possible
  2. What’s not to love? Riley’s paintings are large and joyful, life-affirming, wonderfully inventive and teasing and striking and bold and imaginative works

To shake it up, the exhibition is organised thematically rather than chronologically, in order to draw attention to the interests and themes that recur throughout her oeuvre, themes such as ‘Stripes and Diagonals’. ‘Curves’, ‘Black and White’.

An explorer

As you progress through you learn that Riley is a sort of inventor, or explorer, or analyst, of the effects of pattern and colour on the eye and mind.

This becomes clear in what is chronologically the beginning but has been arranged to be the ‘final’ section of the show (though you can wander round it in any order), and is titled Beginnings.

It includes a large selection of drawings right from the start of her career. Some go as far back as her secondary school, the phenomenally posh Cheltenham Ladies College which she attended after the war. Others are from her time at  Goldsmiths College (1949–52) and the Royal College of Art (1952–55).

What we see is a very gifted student doing scores of life studies, nudes, portraits, and some landscapes. She was a good drawer and is quoted as saying drawing remains central to her practice – ‘an enquiry, a way of finding out’. I was particularly captivated by this woman’s head, whose beady features reminded me of Daumier.

But the point of showing the early work is to bring home how she was fascinated by the impact of lines and shapes. There are landscapes with detail filled in, and next to them the same landscape but sketched only as parts of lines, leaving the eye to complete the design and also to fill in the volume. Looking at them you realise how she was restlessly investigating the impact of shapes, patterns and design.

Seurat

The post-impressionist painter Georges Seurat is so important to Riley’s art that he merits a section to himself. Seurat pioneered the use of pointillism i.e. reducing the entire painting to blobs or dabs of colour. The aim was to make the colours vibrate against each other and so to capture the effect of light.

But in doing so Seurat discovered that deploying colour like this – not in the long smooth strokes of traditional painting, but in dots placed next to each other – created a curiously dynamic and energetic image. Riley was early on fascinated by the use of contrasting colours, patterns and sapes to create a completely deceptive sense of volume and depth.

So much so that in 1959 Riley made her own, larger version of Seurat’s classic painting The Bridge at Courbevoie. The aim wasn’t to reproduce it but to get right under the skin of Seurat’s method and vision. She’s quoted as saying:

I believed – and in fact still believe – that looking carefully at paintings is the best training you can have as a young painter.

Copy of Le Pont de Courbevoie by Georges Seurat by Bridget Riley (1959) © Bridget Riley 2019

The subject matter isn’t really the pint for either painter. It was the way design and depth and volume and shape could all be created by arranging dots. What came next was a breakthrough.

Black and white

She threw out colour. She chose to concentrate on black and white alone, in order to focus on the perceptual potential of the work – in order to explore the nuts and bolts, the bare bones of perception, to explore what goes on when we look at an image. And the results surprised even her.

Blaze 1 by Bridget Riley (1962) © Bridget Riley 2019

From 1961 to 1965 Riley worked only in black and white, exploring a wide range of visual effects, including many which create optical illusions of depth, of the picture plane folding away from the viewer, or emerging from the canvas, or shimmering.

She said at the time that she began with a basic geometrical shape (square, circle, line) and then ‘put it through its paces’ – subjecting it to systematic distortions and experiments.

She was immediately recognised as an exciting new voice and included in a 1965 collective exhibition, The Responsive Eye at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, which featured many exponents of what was becoming known as Op Art (short for optical illusion art), so she found herself grouped with them, though she has always disavowed connection with the movement.

There are several rooms full of these wonderful optical illusions from the 1960s, many of which look like they could be on a polka-dot mini-skirt modelled by Twiggy.

Coloured lines

Then, in 1967, Riley first introduced colour into her work. Since then, the way that colour behaves and the way that different colours interact has been one of her main concerns.

At the core of colour is a paradox. It is simultaneously one thing and several things – you can never see colour by itself, it is always affected by other colours.

In particular her analysis led her to realise the importance of lines and edges.

A long line of colour, essentially an ‘edge’ without a large volume to carry, is the ideal element to work with this elusive relationship between colour and light.

It’s fascinating to share with her the discovery that colour is inherently unstable. The colours we see are defined by the other colours we see them with. Hence her work in the later 1960s and throughout the 1970s which explored a wide range of effects created by long, apparently straight, ‘edges’ of colour and the way they bleed and reverberate against each other.

Chant 2 by Bridget Riley (1967) © Bridget Riley 2019

May sound improbable but many of these vast collections of coloured strips do shimmer and vibrate against each other. And I realised that some of them created colour-based optical illusions. Lines of only red and green, viewed at the right distance, create additional lines of yellow which, in reality, are just not there. But you can see them, loud and clear.

In the early 1980s she expanded her palette to include more colours. Ra from 1981 is the first of Riley’s large-scale ‘Egyptian palette’ paintings, inspired by the colours found in ancient Egyptian art. You can see how much richer and deeper it is than something thinner like Chant 2. That’s also because she began using oil paint instead of her previous staple of acrylic paint, oil giving a richer and deeper effect.

Ra by Bridget Riley (1981) © Bridget Riley 2019

Curves

Curves were present in some of the early black-and-white paintings such as Kiss (1961) and Current (1964) but very much within the geometric simplicity of those early works.

In the 1970s she reintroduced curves as a compositional element using a limited number of colours that cross over each other in twisted curves, such as Aubade (1975), Clepsydra (1976) and Streak 2 (1979). You can see how these compositions lead logically on from – or certainly derive a strong visual debt to – the edge and line drawings. She has taken the discoveries of the use of multiple coloured parallel lines and subjected them to wave-like undulations.

Some of them, huge affairs hanging on the Hayward’s big white walls, are quite wonderfully hypnotic.

Stripes and diagonals

In the late 1980s a major shift occurred in Riley’s work when she crossed the stripe with a diagonal thrust of colour. The exhibition features four of these large ‘rhomboid’ paintings which create visual effects far more complex than the earlier Op Art or line paintings.

High Sky by Bridget Riley (1991) © Bridget Riley 2019

To be honest, paintings like this felt a long, long way from the works of the 60s and 70s. They had a very different vibe, and I didn’t warm to them as much. The Op Art stuff feels cool and stylish, sleek and slick like the original James Bond Aston Martin.

This feels more… well, how would you describe it? It is a natural progression from the line paintings which they’re exhibited next to but… some kind of line has been crossed into a different visual universe.

Even more so when, in the 1990s, Riley returned to the idea of interlocking curved shapes but combining them with what she had discovered about the power of diagonals to create more complex but also more zoomorphic or relaxed or curved patterns. And gone are the lines. These are experiments with blocks of colour as shapes, or with the way shaped colour effects us.

Painting with Verticals 3 by Bridget Riley (2006) © Bridget Riley 2019

What there was of hard angles and linear energy in the diagonals paintings has now been almost entirely lost. These rhomboid paintings are more… decorative. If they have a visual energy it is much more diffused.

Something about their sheer size and their bright bright colours reminded me of David Hockney’s last decade or more, both displaying a late-in-life love of big big brightly coloured, blocks of patterned or abstract shapes for their own sake. There were references to Matisse and his late-in-life highly-coloured cutouts. Maybe it is a state some artists arrive at after 50 years of painting – a sense of complete freedom.

Dots

And just when you thought she’d earned the right to hang up her brushes, Riley surprised everyone with another drastic change of approach – coloured dots. Black and white dots had featured in the early Op Art works, but now she set out to investigate the impact of using quite large coloured discs arranged in regular patterns.

The result was a large painting titled Cosmos and a series painted on canvas and on walls known as the Measure for Measure series, and the wall painting Messengers which was recently unveiled as a permanent decoration to the Annenberg Court in the National Gallery, just across the river from the Hayward.

It’s not just the shapes – it’s another experiment with colour as Riley deliberately pared back her pallete to just purple, orange and green. Then in 2018 she added turquoise.

Measure for Measure by Bridget Riley (2017)

Inventor and superviser

At some point one of the wall labels casually mentions that from quite early on Riley designed her pieces and then had assistants actually paint them. This professional and rather detached, scientific approach to the work is reinforced by the Beginnings section which, alongside the early drawings, includes quite a lot of studies for the early abstract works, cartoons or preparatory sketches, which are covered in notes and instructions and she suggested moving various blocks of colour around to experiment with the effects.

It’s somehow rather wonderful and inspiring to think of her as this chief, boss, head designer, experimenter, analyst and visual scientist, paying others to actually make the work so that she can continue her alchemical investigations into the visual power and patterns, designs and colour.

What I really really really missed from the exhibition is any summary of her findings. After a lifetime devoted to experimenting with visual effects – what conclusions can she share with us? She’s quite liberally quoted on the wall labels, but generally only in respect of particular works or series. Are there no general conclusions which she could share with us? I’d love to know.

Life enhancing

The Director of Hayward Gallery is quoted as saying that Riley’s work is not just vision-enhancing but life-enhancing’ and that seems to me absolutely right. This is a wonderful, inspiring and deeply enjoyable exhibition by a great and lovely artist.

I’ve managed to get to the end without conveying that some of the art has really genuinely hallucinatory optical illusory power. I found myself walking back and forth in front of a series up on the first floor of the curved line paintings from the late 60s. They really did shimmer and billow as you walked past. Maybe you get a little of it from this image on your screen, but imagine something like this only ten feet tall. It’s transporting!

Cataract 3 by Bridget Riley (1967) © Bridget Riley 2019

Interview

The exhibition was first staged at the Royal Scottish Academy. In this video Bridget Riley is interviewed by Sir John Leighton, Director General of the National Galleries of Scotland.

Curators

Senior Curator Dr Cliff Lauson, with Assistant Curator Sophie Oxenbridge and Curatorial Assistant Alyssa Bacon.


Related links

Reviews of other Hayward Gallery exhibitions

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