Contemporary Arts
Mixture as Before
EDINBURGH, SO far, has not been at its best. Torrents of rain have bedraggled the 'con- temporary' Chinese lanterns in Princes Street, drowned the Tattoo and generally obscured the charms of the city; and even when a cold wind has blown some of the rain away the sombre result does not
make for festivity. A discus- sion of the weather should not be taken as a con- fession that I have nothing else to talk about, but as intended to point out a perfectly serious weak- ness of the Festival. Festivals need a gimmick. There are various aspects of the Scottish way of life which the organisers shrewdly popularise for the sake of the tourist trade, but in the absence of a great Scottish literary or musical tradition Edinburgh's chief gimmick must be Edinburgh itself, Edinburgh as a Festival City (huge capitals). The trouble is that while, on its day, Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, off it it is, to the unaddicted, one of the dreariest; the off days are not as rare as one would wish.
The stern culture-fiend will point out coldly that there is always the programme come wind, come weather. And so there is; the question is whether it is worth coming to Edinburgh to hear it. Since at least ninety thousand people consider this year that it is, it may seem not only presump- tuous to carp but downright pointless as well. The Festival set out from the start to be one of per- formance and a formula has been evolved over the last ten years which is still paying fat divi- dends : invite great orchestras, soloists and actors in strict rota, give them the great classics to play, add a pinch or two of local colour and, hey presto ! a great occasion and ninety thousand visitors. So far so good. But how long can it go on? We are nearly at the end Of the era in which Edinburgh is a novelty which anyone with pretensions to culture must know something about at first hand; it is very soon going to be a question of inducing the Edinburgh habit, cajoling the blasé into coming a second or third time and persuading critics that they are getting something at Edin- burgh that they could not equally well get some- where else. It may be naive to suppose that what the critics think today everyone else is going to think tomorrow, but one gets a very definite impression from talking to them at least that the more the Festival changes the more it is suffo- catingly the same thing—last year the Royal Philharmonic, this year the Halle; last year Ram Copal, this year an African Ballet; last year Braque, this year Monet; last year the Piccolo Theatro, this•the Piccola Scala. It is magnificent, but it is monotonous and it may pall before long; it palls, attendance will fall off; if attendance tails off, the sceptical factions in the city will lie in wait for the first signs of faltering, will strike and that will be that.
What one looks for in vain is some sign that the organisers at least realise that their jobs may
depend on keeping their potential public on its toes, to tr.y.
something new, to initiate, to create.
For instance, during the whole life of the Festival ?Illy twenty-nine world premieres (from all arts) nave been hatched by the Society; this has been the deliberate policy of the first decade, but in the second it will surely be a ruinous one.
Meanwhile there is as much to see as ever. The Monet exhibition at the Scottish Royal Academy ran into unforeseen trouble in the shape of a rival show in Minneapolis, but there are more than a hundred pictures to give the lie to anyone who accuses Monet of superficiality. He suffers, of course, because every Art Gift Shop dauber has been trying to copy his effects for the last thirty years; but his exquisite analysis of colour and his unfailing and apparently intuitive sense of com- position in depth have never been successfully counterfeited, and if this is a less exciting show than some past ones in the series it is infinitely delightful.
The Drama, which is, in prospect at least, more than a little drab this year, made a moderate start with Sartre's Nekrassov performed by the English Stage Company from the Royal Court in London. It seemed, to me at any rate, a quite inexplicable choice, being one of those 'engaged' plays whose marriage has, as they say, become 'a hollow sham.' Nevertheless it is a brilliant curiosity. It concerns a Napoleon of swindling on the run from the police who devises the excellent cover for himself of pretending he is a high-ranking Soviet official who has jumped the Curtain. He happily sells his memoirs and disclosures to a grotesgue Right-wing rag by the name of Soir a Paris until betrayed by his unwilling amanuensis and his conscience (awakened by a Communist lovely in lisle stock- ings). For two acts it is magnificent satirical and comic invention play, like a powerful hose on a Borstal riot, over the pretensions and humbug of anti-Communist scaremongers. It is when tear-gas is tried, and a definite morality proposed that everything goes to pieces, dissolving into sac- charine sermonising and tedious slapstick. There is something immediately incongruous about seeing Robert Helpmann in a Communising morality farce, but there he is as the bogus Nekrassov, all balletic gesture and conscious voice. It is a part which if it is to succeed must have tremendous authority and a kind of world- weary élan, and Mr. Helpmann is plainly miscast. This spreads something of a blight on the rest of the play : fantasy depends entirely on the sus- pension of disbelief, and if the central character is unbelievable where is the rest? The minor characters do their best in this predicament and produce, as they should, some hysterically funny moments, notably that in which Roddy Mac- Millan as the police inspector and George Benson as Nekrassov's wretched stooge find comfort in each other's transparent mediocrity. George Devine produces.
The film festival promises well, and got off to
a riotous start with the Boulting Brothers' version of Lucky Jim, a surprisingly close adaptation of the novel which, though it soft-pedals the satire on the red-brick Third Programme, has some mar- vellously wild moments. Certainly .the older generation who had detested the novel were now induced to smile, and Mr. Antis himself was seen to laugh at the premiere.
The best sideshow I have sampled so far is a charming exhibition of old toys, pictures and what might properly, I suppose, be called incunabula, which Dr. Barnardo's Homes have got up. The combination of exquisite craftsmanship, moral uplift and acute discomfort which surrounded our ancestors as children is irresistible.
, DAVID WAIT
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