Busy Edinburgh Festival full of varied offerings
MIKE: London, Paris, Venice, Istanbul, Barcelona, these are just some of the major cities where we have felt like minute ciphers, swept along by a tide of humanity. Generally there is an ebb and flow to that tide, a surge in one touristorientated direction being counterbalanced by another in the opposite. Sidestepping soon becomes a fluid, flexible movement, resulting in definite, if remarkably slow, forward progress.
Last week, however, was somewhat different. We spent a couple of days in the magnificent city of Edinburgh, with its numerous stone buildings, surmounted by the mighty castle. It was the final few days of the annual festival, which meant that it was as crowded as the places mentioned. But with a difference. Whichever way we tried to move, we were blocked by others in the same predicament. I hadn’t realised how many ways it was possible — or rather, impossible — to proceed in a crowd. People would cross in front of us at right angles, or diagonally or head-on. It was a maelstrom of bouncing bodies, the simplest option often being to stand still and wait for an unexpected opening to be revealed. This bewildering jumble of wandering bodies was due to the festival, for which there were more than 550 shows available in almost 200 venues. In addition to halls and theatres, shows were staged in hotels, pubs, galleries, churches — in fact, in any space which could accommodate at least 40 people.
The city itself, with its steep, cobbled streets, winding alleys and teetering terraces of five storeys is a joy to stroll round. As we were only there for a day and a half, however, we had to sacrifice some of that pleasure to the urgent need to rush to the next venue. This could involve a walk of up to 2km, so architectural appreciation was demoted to a lower level of importance.
The majority of the shows lasted about an hour, and, on our only full day, we saw four. Staying in a motel outside the city, we took a 15 minute train ride into Waverley station, prior to making a fruitless attempt to buy half price tickets for our selected shows. The first was at 11.40am, then a dash for No 2 at 1.15pm, followed by another for 2.45pm. After this we changed plans slightly, as we had not had time for even a coffee since breakfast. A quick adjournment to a small Turkish cafe for soup replenished our energy, in time for a 5.15pm show.
Warnings about crowded trains later made us decide not to squeeze in a fifth.
The shows we saw? A mixture of drama, comedy and “alternative”. The latter was Totally Wired, a onewoman show by “Hypnotique”, exploring the weird history of electronic music.
An exponent of the theremin, she expertly demonstrated the peculiar qualities of the electronic instrument, which, we were told, had been played by Lady Gaga on the Graham Norton show. After that it was Genesis, a drama centred on the romantic poets Byron and Shelley, plus the latter’s wife, Mary, the author of Frankenstein.
Our full day, Friday, began with
Trump Lear, a performance by an American actor/ comedian, Dave Carl. Could any show about Donald be more ridiculous — or frightening — than the man himself? A biting piece of satire, based on Trump’s narcissism and egocentric belief in his own superiority and invincibility, Carl took his audience through an hour of frenetic bombast, interspersed with passages from Lear, and spiced with videos and stills of POTUS in full flight. Delivering quotes from the President in a remarkably accurate impersonation of his voice, he made us ask ourselves yet again, “How can such a person be President of the USA? What is happening to our world?”
Letter to Boddha was an acting “tour de force” by two young men from Oldham Rep in Lancashire. They lock themselves in a disabled toilet in a supermarket, change into combat gear, then produce guns and a bomb. They intend to blow up the complex. They repeatedly tell each other that they are not “terrorists”. Insignificant and unnoticed in their lives, angry with the hand dealt them by society, they wish to leave their mark on the public consciousness. It was an enthralling hour of strong, at times physical, action and acting, with a good deal of black humour thrown in. The play’s title was inspired by Kurt Cobain’s suicide note.
Another two-hander, Westminster
Hour, was totally different. A suave Home Secretary is taken aback by the unexpected arrival of his exmistress, a force in the world of journalism. Political machinations are mingled with their personal deviousness. I felt little empathy with either character, probably because they so resembled many of the leading figures in the present world.
Our final session was in the presence of Alison Spittle, a small, dumpy Irish comedian with a lovely smile, an infectious laugh and an engaging personality. Based on her unsuccessful attempt to gain the role of Mary in her school Nativity play, she involved her audience throughout her hilarious tale.
A mere six out of 600, but that 1 per cent was well worth our fleeting visit. Next year, perhaps?