Waiting for Godot

Synopsis: Two tramps wait for a man named Godot, but instead meet a pompous man and his stooped-over slave.
 
IMDB:
7.7
Year:
2001
120 min
2,602 Views


Nothing to be done.

I'm beginning to come round to

that opinion.

All my life I've tried to put it

from me,..

saying Vladimir, be reasonable,

you haven't yet tried everything.

And I resumed the struggle.

So there you are again.

Am I?

I'm glad to see you back.

I thought you were gone forever.

Me too.

Together again at last!

We'll have to celebrate this.

But how?

Get up till I embrace you.

Not now, not now.

May one inquire where His Highness

spent the night?

In a ditch.

A ditch! Where?

And they didn't beat you?

Over there.

Beat me?

Certainly they beat me.

The same lot as usual?

The same? I don't know.

When I think of it all these years

but for me where would you be

You'd be nothing more than

a little heap of

bones at the present minute,

no doubt about it.

And what of it?

It's too much for one man.

On the other hand what's the good of

losing heart now, that's what I say.

We should have thought of it a million

years ago, when the world is young.

Ah stop blathering and help me off

with this bloody thing.

Hand in hand from the top of

the Eiffel Tower,among the first.

We were respectable in those days.

Now it's too late.

They wouldn't even let us up.

What are you doing?

Taking off my boot.

Did that never happen to you?

Boots must be taken off every day,

I'm tired telling you that.

Why don't you listen to me?

- Help me!

- It hurts?

Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

No one ever suffers but you.

I don't count.

I'd like to hear what you'd say

if you had what I have.

It hurts?

Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

You might button it all the same.

True.

Never neglect the little things

of life.

What do you expect,

you always wait till the last moment.

The last moment...

Hope deferred maketh the something

sick.

Who said that?

Why don't you help me?

Sometimes I feel it coming all the same.

Then I go all queer.

How shall I say?

Relieved and at the same time...

appalled.

AP-PALLED.

Funny.

Nothing to be done.

Well?

Nothing.

Show me.

There's nothing to show.

Try and put it on again.

I'll air it for a bit.

There's man all over for you,

blaming on his boots the faults

of his feet.

This is getting alarming.

One of the thieves was saved.

It's a reasonable percentage.

Gogo!

What?

Suppose we repented.

Repented what?

Oh We wouldn't have to go into

the details.

Our being born?

One daren't even laugh any more.

Dreadful privation.

Merely smile.

It's not the same thing.

Nothing to be done.

Gogo!

What is it?

Did you ever read the Bible?

The Bible . . .

I must have taken a look at it.

Do you remember the Gospels?

I remember the maps of the Holy Land.

Coloured they were. Very pretty.

The Dead Sea was pale blue.

The very look of it made me thirsty.

That's where we'll go, I used to say,

that's where we'll go for our honeymoon.

We'll swim. We'll be happy.

You should have been a poet.

I was. Isn't that obvious?

Where was I...

How's your foot?

Swelling visibly.

Ah yes, the two thieves. Do you

remember the story?

No.

- Shall I tell it to you?

- No.

It'll pass the time. Two thieves,

crucified at the same time as our Saviour. One?

Our what?

Our Saviour. Two thieves.

One is supposed to have been saved

and the other...

damned.

Saved from what?

Hell. I'm going.

And yet...how is it this is not

boring you I hope

how is it that of the four Evangelists

only one speaks of a thief being saved.

The four of them were there or thereabouts

and only one speaks of a thief being saved.

Come on, Gogo, return the ball,

can't you, once in a while?

I find this really most extraordinarily

interesting.

One out of four. Of the other three,

two don't mention any thieves at all

and the third says that both of

them abused him.

Who?

What?

What's all this about? Abused who?

- The Saviour.

- Why?

- Because he wouldn't save them.

- From hell?

- Imbecile! From death.

- Well what of it?

Then the two of them must have

been damned.

And why not?

But one of the four says that

one of the two was saved.

They don't agree and that's

all there is to it.

But all four were there. And only one

speaks of a thief being saved.

Why believe him rather than

the others?

Who believes him?

Everybody.

It's the only version they know.

People are bloody ignorant apes.

Pah!

Charming spot.

Inspiring prospects.

Let's go.

- We can't.

- Why not?

We're waiting for Godot.

Ah! Yes.

You're sure it was here?

What?

That we were to wait.

He said by the tree.

Do you see any others?

What is it?

I don't know. A willow.

Where are the leaves?

It must be dead.

No more weeping.

Or perhaps it's not the season.

Looks to me more like a bush.

- A shrub.

- A bush.

What are you insinuating?

That we've come to the wrong place?

He should be here.

He didn't say for sure he'd come.

- And if he doesn't come?

- We'll come back tomorrow.

And then the day after tomorrow.

- Possibly.

- And so on.

- The point is?

- Until he comes.

You're merciless.

We came here yesterday.

Ah no, there you're mistaken.

What did we do yesterday?

What did we do yesterday?

Yes.

Why...

Nothing is certain when you're about.

In my opinion we were here.

You recognize the place?

I didn't say that.

Well?

That makes no difference.

All the same...

...that tree...

...that stone...

...that bog...

You're sure it was this evening?

What?

That we were to wait.

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Samuel Beckett

Samuel Barclay Beckett (; 13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989) was an Irish avant-garde novelist, playwright, theatre director, poet, and literary translator who lived in Paris for most of his adult life. He wrote in both English and French. Beckett's work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human existence, often coupled with black comedy and gallows humor, and became increasingly minimalist in his later career. He is considered one of the last modernist writers, and one of the key figures in what Martin Esslin called the "Theatre of the Absurd".Beckett was awarded the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". He was elected Saoi of Aosdána in 1984. more…

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