DIARY
Edinburgh I lost my virginity in Edinburgh — 1972, I think it was, though the details are now vague. There must be thousands like me, happy victims of the most Rabelaisian of arts festivals. Well, can you imagine a drunken grope at Bayreuth? Or stand-up comedy at 2 a.m. in Salzburg? Only Edin- burgh seems to turn the world upside-down in a whirl of fiesta; only Edinburgh can tickle animal passions out of prim little teenagers transparently pretending to be interested only in the finer points of Schu- mann's string quartets. So I suppose it is not surprising that 25 years later — the fes- tival itself turns 50 this year, but has never seemed less middle-aged — I look back and find that what I remember most vividly is not the high culture; not Das Lied von der Erde with Karajan conducting the Berlin Phil and Christa Ludwig; not Berganza, Cotrubas and Fischer-Dieskau in a dream- cast Le Nozze di Figaro; not Peter Stein's production of Uncle Vanya; not my first confused encounters with the last wave of 20th-century modernists like Pina Bausch and Bob Wilson. All of these were in some sense disappointments, better heard or seen elsewhere. Far more striking to me now, far more fundamental to the Dionysian spirit of these three magical weeks, is the memory of the line of shows which have defied all conventional theatri- cal barriers, abandoning the Victorian decorum of the separation of audience from stage and camping out in ice rinks and sports halls, ready to ambush our expecta- tions of a proscenium arch and an author's printed text: Café La Mama's The Trojan Women; Luca Ronconi's Orlando Furioso; Robert Lepage's The Seven Streams of the River Ota — productions which used the techniques of circus and cinema, of reli- gious ritual and street carnival, to liberate theatre from its British enslavement to French windows, kitchen sinks and the golden voice of Sir John Gielgud.
This year's marvel has been a play (not quite the word) by a Catalan group called La Cubana. It is called Cegada de Amor (Blinded by Love), and it takes place in Edinburgh's new conference centre. I would hate to give the game away to any- one who hasn't seen it, but let me quote the quaintly translated programme note: 'We have always wondered why the cinema, in spite of being colder, more technical and full of illusions, has always seemed more credible than the theatre, although theatre should logically be more believable.' From this engaging philosophical conundrum, Cegada de Amor weaves a uniquely aston- ishing and exhilarating farce, in which the reality of celluloid quite literally dissolves RUPERT CHRISTIANSEN and the audience finds itself transported into a world it could never have imagined, somewhere on the fault line between Alice in Wonderland and This Life. Sadly, I gather there is little chance of the show transfer- ring to London, and by the time this is pub- lished its Edinburgh run will be finished. Catch it on tour in Buenos Aires next spring.
Two forceful articles last week, by Gavin Stamp in The Spectator and by Jonathan Glancey in the Guardian, set me thinking. We all know that Edinburgh has reason to call itself the most beautiful capi- tal city in Europe (the drama of its setting, its medieval remnants, the Enlightenment of the Georgian New Town etc.). Also the most desecrated: Glancey grimly lists the architectural barbarities permitted in the 1960s and 1970s by the benighted city fathers and their insane planning authori- ties (the St James's Centre, St Andrew's Square and the Standard Life Assurance Building notable among them). Latterly, I admit, things have improved somewhat. Original and elegant novelties have emerged (the Causewayside site of the National Library, the Festival Theatre, the incomplete Museum of Scotland). But something must be done to rid us of the monstrosities, and now we have the means `What we really need is a spin doctor.' to do so. I suggest that the entire budget of the Lottery's Millennium Fund be hence- forth devoted to projects of destruction, Edinburgh being a prime beneficiary. On the stroke of midnight of 1 January 2000, a series of gigantic explosions would be acti- vated throughout the land. While they're about it, a few hundred miles of electric pylon and spaghetti junction could go too. Wretches on community service orders can clean up the mess. What fun that would be! Much better than a firework display or a daft dome!
However bitter our moaning, we arts journalists have regarded our annual trip to the Edinburgh Festival as a sacred perk. Our political confreres get drunk at the party con- ferences, the sports chaps run round the Olympics, and God knows what the travel people get up to in their freebie champagne- and-jacuzzi suites in Portofino. Now, howev- er, our little party is over. After years of being booked into fairly respectable hotels and allowed a minimal degree of privacy in which to nurse our hangovers, virtually every newspaper now billets its representatives in shared rented flats. The horror of this econ- omy measure cannot be exaggerated. We are obliged to live like undergraduates again, and can't see the fun in it. One bath- room between three! The disagreeable sight and smell of old X, smoking before break- fast ! Or B, who dared to bring some inno- cent lassie back at 2 a.m. and started playing the new Oasis album in an effort to seduce her! The result is that we are all in a perma- nently foul temper and — with a degree of vindictiveness — have been running up expenses in smart restaurants or drowning our discomforts in the public houses. When two of us gather together, the first question is not, 'Did you hear Ian Bostridge's Winter- reise this morning?' but, 'Are you allergic to nylon sheets too?'or 'Could I borrow a cup of sugar?' My own digs, courtesy of the Daily Telegraph, are at the top of 67 steps. There is damp in the kitchen, the window in my bed- room doesn't close and last night I was kept awake by a sinister tapping noise. I count myself lucky. The Times's lavatory did not flush properly for three days. The poor sods on the Observer have been dumped in some tenement straight out of Trainspotting. It is entirely unfurnished, with the result that time which could have been spent attending to the art of Ian Bostridge was devoted to combing the thrift shops for tables and teapots. As I toss and turn on my truckle- bed in the wee hours, I compose mental let- ters to the authorities. Some of them plead for mercy, some hysterically threaten resig- nation, some are starkly signed 'Yours in outrage'. Then I fall asleep and dream of Holiday Inns.
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