Ralph Fiennes, head nearly shaved, thin frame draped in mud-brown haberdashery, stands in an implied graveyard and works his mouth into a sour scowl as he says he doesn’t mind the smell of corpses. “A ...

Each time a Samuel Beckett play has a world première, the world turns a deeper shade of black. Once his people were hopefully waiting for Godot; later they crouched in garbage cans in Endgame; Krapp ...