People are waiting to see the world premiere of a play from the literary estate of Samuel Beckett. It is autumn. The actors are gathering behind the curtain, but their other concerns – will, for example, a picture fall off the Coulisse on to a stagehand’s head? Will the producer’s ruthlessness protect him from his co-producer’s desire for power? – prevent them from playing. Winter comes, then spring. Still the audience waits, freezes, starves. Nobody ever appears on stage.