Pyramid of negatives
Lloyd Evans is shocked, surprised and amused by what he finds at the Edinburgh Festival
It’s good that an arts festival should ask a question of its host city. Not so good that the question should be: ‘What is the point of this festival?’ Edinburgh’s mission, as far as I can make out, is to bring meaninglessness to the masses. The barren wastes that I reviewed in sorrow last week have been followed up by a bizarre Chekhophobic production of The Seagull. Staged at the Hub (not a theatre but a converted organ loft), this slapdash import is a pyramid of negatives. It’s not in English, there are no surtitles, no set, no costumes, no wigs, no make-up, no lighting effects and hardly any props. The dead seabird is represented by the contents of a pillow emptied into a plastic bag. Constantin carries a violin and Trigorin sports a notebook. That’s it in terms of visual ornament. The players perform ‘in the round’, which means that half the audience can’t see half of them for half of the time. The vocal nuances of the Hungarian actors are lost because the spectators are given fiddly headphones through which a gloomy Magyar usherette recites the English script with a few added sniffles. She hasn’t the power or the inclination to act the roles, so she renders the dialogue in a clueless drone, like a translator at the EU parliament. Hold that thought for a moment. Imagine having Chekhov relayed into your ears by a depressed Slav. Not fun. Not even when she gives Constantin the line, ‘My mother’s psychology is a phenonomum.’ The show is a complete anti-drama. I felt like one of those puffing beagles condemned to take part in some weird experiment dreamed up by an absentee nutcase. The final act has been truncated and the show ends with Constantin not shooting himself but kicking his violin to pieces. I idly wondered if that might be symbolic. The needless destruction of an instrument capable of conjuring the beauty and mystery of life. Of course! That’s exactly what they were doing to the play. I’ve seen some shockers in my time but this takes the prize. The worst night I’ve ever spent in the theatre. Mind you, there’s always next year.
Nuts CocoNuts (The Out of the Blue Drill Hall), which several critics had warned me against, is the festival’s surprise package. For one thing, it’s a sell-out, despite being staged in an unknown, daftly named venue located so far down Leith Walk it might as well be in Aberdeen. The show starts off as a piece of nostalgic vaudeville with highkicking chorus girls, saucy comics, inept magicians and traditional singalongs. Then a stage manager strides up the aisle and announces that the show has finished. The troupe must pack up and make ready for an overnight drive to their next engagement. He is greeted by insolent booing from the actors. The audience is encouraged to join in. As the cast dismantle the set, a backstage drama unfolds with all the inevitable rivalries and clashing of egos. This is a simple, sprawling, unsophisticated, generous-hearted show that succeeds in entertaining the crowd by the unusual means of, er, entertaining the crowd. The outstanding performer in an excellent cast is Nuria Benet, who transforms herself from a blonde ditz into a svelte dancer, and from a star-struck schoolgirl into an Iberian seductress. Until I checked the programme I thought she was four different actresses. The whole thing seems out of place in the International Festival. It ought to be part of the fringe.
Here, there’s always strong competition for the most tastelessly titled production. Last year I spent A Night With Joe Stalin, and this time I answered the call of Charles Manson, Where Are You? (ClubWest). This turned out to be a baffling, plotless rant delivered by an unusually charismatic American who stood outside the theatre afterwards and thanked us all for coming. All four of us. Then I popped in on Adolf (Roman Eagle Lodge) and watched Pip Utton, a jowly, globe-trotting impresario, doing a passable imitation of the Führer. After delivering a few objectionable speeches, he pulled off his wig, said, ‘Thank God, that’s over’, and proceeded to relay a set of spineless, ancient, racist jokes. This was a trick but his watery-eyed delivery was so feeble that the audience was convinced he was sincere. Hecklers swore at him. Outraged punters stormed out. Finally, he revealed that he was only kidding and his purpose was to demonstrate that the spirit of Hitler lives with us still. A queasy, tactless and superfluous lesson. Mind you, according to his press pack, Mr Utton gets rave reviews in Germany.
Talking of the master race, Poetry Boyband (Pleasance Courtyard) is a quartet of self-adoring studs led by Luke Wright, who looks alarmingly like a cherub on growth hormones. The show is a clever scam. Posing as brainless pin-ups, the boys deliver a sharp, witty and engaging parody on the world of manufactured pop. Well worth a watch.
Ditto the Reduced Shakespeare Company at the same venue. There’s no resisting a strong idea and Hollywood is the new target for the famous American culture-condensers. Wry, self-mocking and intellectually satisfying, the show rips through all the classic movies while toying with the question of America’s cultural hegemony. Not much on the fringe can beat this for dynamism, charm and sheer lovability. I even found myself meekly complying with the hated ‘audience participation’. In breach of a lifelong oath, I stood up when my row was summoned and clambered on to the stage, where I played a supermarket zombie in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. This must be a cert for a West End transfer.
And there’s strong competition from All in the Timing (Assembly Rooms) by the wonkily titled Peepolykus. This is an extraordinarily innovative and yet thoroughly traditional sketch show. It’s not quite perfect yet. The first item is weak and some of the tags need sharpening up. But the acting is superb and the writing ranges comfortably between the excellent and the sensational. If it comes into London I’ll definitely be along for a second look (and not many revues are worth seeing twice) because there’s a sketch about an Esperanto school which has the unmistakable flavour of a classic.
The big disappointment of the fringe is Daniel Kitson (Traverse). I was assured by numerous experts and insiders that Kitson is the best stand-up working in the country. Well, if that’s him working he can’t be much fun off-duty. I expected wit, energy, passion and spectacle. I got a bearded misfit hunched in an armchair delivering crotchety monologues about being alone. The theatre was full of bewildered teenagers blinking and yawning. Like me, they’d been suckered by the promises of a slick PR campaign. The best way to find decent comedy is by accident (although you can check venues at freefringe.com). Wander the city late at night and you’re bound to come across a pub offering free comedy. Descend the stairs and you’ll discover a smoke-filled basement where some brilliant Jock comedian will be working his magic on a crowd of roaring drunks. None of these comics will ever appear on TV. None will ever headline at the Assembly Rooms. None will ever be puffed by publicity men because their material is crude, hilarious and local. It doesn’t ‘travel’, any more than the rivers, the lakes and the mountains. And it’s all the more magical for that.
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