From Brecht’s plan to project films of Marxist revolutions behind Didi and Gogo in Waiting for Godot to JoAnne Akalaitis’s explicitly postnuclear Endgame, firebrand directors have never stopped trying to amp up the social and political relevance of Samuel Beckett. George Tabori’s Happy Days in which Winnie was a paraplegic confined to a bed rather than buried in a mound was in my view the nadir of such disastrous experiments, reducing one of drama’s most monumentally reverber