This film about Beckett is far from recommendable, and certainly not an improvement over delving into a comprehensive biography like Cronin’s. In fact, choosing to watch this movie feels like the opposite of “Dance First”—it’s hesitating, second-guessing, and ultimately settling for a superficial experience instead of embracing depth.
The film’s shortcomings are manifold, starting with its mischaracterization of Suzanne. Instead of a nuanced portrayal, she’s reduced to a shrewish figure, a simplistic plot device that unfairly pushes Beckett toward seeking affection elsewhere. This shallow depiction betrays the complexity of their relationship and sacrifices character development for tired tropes.
Further diminishing the film’s credibility are its glaring location inaccuracies. The settings are demonstrably not Paris, nor France, undermining the crucial wartime Roussillon scenes that are essential to understanding Beckett’s life with Suzanne and his evolution as a writer. This geographical misstep isn’t a minor quibble; it fundamentally weakens the film’s attempt at biographical authenticity.
Moreover, the movie suffers from a reductive approach to gender dynamics, presenting a stereotypical view of male-female relationships that lacks historical accuracy. It glosses over vital contextual facts, such as the period during the Bray affair when Beckett and Suzanne, while loyal, lived more like detached roommates. The screen time devoted to Lucia Joyce feels similarly misjudged. Instead of illuminating a meaningful aspect of Beckett’s life or his connection with Joyce, it serves merely as a superficial display of their relationship. If Lucia’s inclusion was deemed important, the film missed an opportunity to depict Beckett’s visits to her asylum, a detail that would have added genuine depth.
One glimmer of hope emerges in the duologues between Beckett and Suzanne. These scenes hold the potential for a dramatic exploration of Beckett’s inner life, or at least a streaming-friendly version of it tailored for easy consumption. While these moments prove somewhat effective, they are insufficient to redeem the overwhelming sense of superficiality and cliché that pervades the film. The inclusion of Beckett quoting an American review of Godot feels particularly jarring and ridiculous, further highlighting the film’s lack of genuine insight.
Ultimately, this film fails to “dance first” – to take a bold leap into understanding Beckett. Instead, it cautiously steps into stereotypes and inaccuracies, offering a diluted and ultimately unsatisfying portrayal. For a truly enriching experience, one is better off turning to the Cronin biography and skipping this cinematic misstep altogether.
