Waiting for Godot is a frustrating one for me because, unless something goes really wrong, it’s a pretty standardized piece of theatre. Beckett is famously a dictator with stage directions and design instructions, his estate keen to sue if you make too many creative decisions of your own, so the interpretive work of Godot tends to be pretty granular. In the hands of reliable artists, Waiting for Godot is Waiting for Godot, every time.

These are very reliable artists. Cory Sincennes’ manifestation of Beckett’s prescribed set is visually striking, Molly Atkinson’s direction is simple and unobtrusive. It’s fun to see Tom McCamus channel his unique presence into lower class scrappiness and a treat to see ever-poised Paul Gross lean into the slight quirk that twinkles just beneath the surface of his best work. Jonathan Goad is bombastic as Pozzo, which grows tedious but perhaps purposefully so.

Ultimately, I’m a believer in the canon. I like that there’s a set of established texts we generally agree are important and try to keep alive and in front of audiences at least every once in awhile. We can argue that that list should be bigger and more diverse, certainly, but Waiting for Godot is definitely on it and it’s unlike very many other works of its stature. Every engaged theatre-goer ought to have seen a Godot, which means somebody’s got to do Godot. This group does well by the iconic, frustrating, important, overrated, priceless text and that’s definitely worth something.