Last week the iron grip of the 1 hour show was dissected by Matt Trueman in his Guardian blog “The Fringe seems to favour the sort of short and punchy show that is easy to package. But, in most cases, an hour can only achieve so much” he concluded. And he’s right; in an hour you can only achieve so much. Or can you? Perhaps by letting go of the idea of a polished Edinburgh show, companies could actually achieve much more.
Received wisdom has it that audiences want to be given a complete package when they go to see an Edinburgh show. They want fulfilment for their £10. This need to tie everything off seems to validate Trueman’s final conclusion; if you need to fit in a beginning, middle AND end into 1 hour how much can you really achieve? But why do we feel this need to round off everything we do? Sometimes incomplete work can be just as successful.
The word completeness seems to have an inherently positive tilt to it, a competent state where everything has been thought out. But just as the negativity that haunts the word ‘critic’ could be questioned (constructive criticism for example) so the default position that ‘completeness’ is a good thing can be. In fact I can disabuse both assignations as I saw three good shows this year that proved that incompleteness can be just as brilliant and more over, often more interesting.
‘Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.’ I spent most of this year’s Edinburgh with Forest Gump’s infamous hallmark card platitude twanging through my head. It may be a statement that stinks of cheese to high heaven but in terms of the Fringe it’s something we could learn from. For a lot of people the festival isn’t like a box of chocolates at all, but rather a very carefully chosen menu and it means they’re missing out on many of the Specials (ok I’ll stop this analogy now).
I’ll admit my new found admiration for pot luck comes from necessity. For the first few years of going to the Fringe my viewing output matched the input of artists that I knew, before slowly moving out to companies I admired and shows I’d heard would be ‘good’. Consequently for the first 8 years of my Fringe history my world was a very small place, full of people who agreed with my theatrical leanings. But in 2011 it exploded as I was plunged into shows and audiences I would never usually see.
Since I have begun writing about theatre I have been sent to things in all corners of the Edinburgh kingdom. Averaging around 6 shows a day it’s been an experience full of highs and lows. Of course I’ve delighted in some but others were a lifetime away from anything I would choose to attend; who really wants to see Paul Daniels: Hair Today Gone Tomorrow? (Actually he was quite good, review here).
It’s been exhausting but invaluable. Not only have I found a couple of hidden treasures (Real Men Dream in Black and White and At the Sans Hotel particularly) but I’ve had my eyes opened to a much more holistic view of the Fringe. And it’s HUGE.
Stop rolling your eyes at me. Of course I know that that’s a received wisdom but how many of us actually experience it in all its messy vastness? I certainly never used to. Now I’ve shared early morning coffee theatre with old American tourists, and marvelled at puppetry with 5 year olds, agog. I’ve despaired at a one on one performance that was meant to be for more than just me (being thanked at the end of that one for simply being there was a low point), relished obscure performance art, endured HORRENDOUS sketch comedy (Sketch Off – consider yourself named and shamed) and watched a lot of mediocre musical theatre. I’m only now really beginning to see Edinburgh for the tapestry that it is, warts, beauty spots and all.
£10 tickets begin to add up so I’m not advocating 40 unknown shows whilst you’re up there. But in between your carefully pre-planned schedule maybe take a dip in the chocolate box just once in a direction you wouldn’t normally tread. Sure, you may get a stinker, but either way you’ll share something with people you’d normally just storm past in the street.
Written for Total Theatre
There is one moment of One Man Show when Nigel Barrett mouths off about the horrific attraction of the self-obsessed actor. His face is covered in a bandage with only his wide eyes showing, whilst a projected and grotesque set of lips and teeth move with disturbing urgency and a rumbling voice proclaims how charmingly terrible he is.
It strikes a chord with this performer-heavy audience but it’s also a sharply funny theatrical moment that anyone can relish. When on form this is what Barrett and his Shunt and Edinburgh collaborator Louise Mari do best, creating work that pleases theatre types and the general public alike. But it’s a fine line to tread. If only all of One Man Show could be as entertaining and daring as this satirical monologue.
A deconstruction of the idea of performance itself, and in particular the monologue-led form of its title, this is a surprisingly safe exploration for the wild twosome of Barrett and Mari. Words flash up and Barrett obligingly does the corresponding Garrick-like party piece facial expression. ‘Anger.’ Grrrr. ‘Fear.’ Whimper. ‘Happiness.’ Grin. He gets naked on stage, literally striping away the layers of performance, revelling in its exposing nature.
Fast-paced projections of dirty iconic men flash up behind him and we are given a stunning sunset and even some treats for the interval. Barrett handles his tricky audience with the blasé skill of a pro and gives us lots of rope to hang ourselves with as we rustle sweets and cough, albeit on cue.
But for all its bangs and whistles where is the new ground being covered here? It’s all a bit neat and pat and the questions it asks feel familiar. For a genuinely piercing exploration on the form and function of performance, the role of a performer and their audience, there are more dangerous and ultimately interesting places to go looking this Fringe.
One Man Show plays at C, Edinburgh 03/8/2011 – 29/8/2011 as part of Edinburgh Festival Fringe
Written for Exeunt
The crazy world of artists, bohemians and rock and roll stars has always been fuelled by substances both legal and illegal. Just what is the relationship between art and drugs? It’s a question that’s been asked before, but one which hit Bryony Kimmings squarely in the face as she began to address her own relationship with alcohol. Did she need it to make her work? Did she become a better artist after a few drinks?
7 Day Drunk is her attempt to answer this question. Kimmings spent a week in various different states of intoxication; this is the result of her research – and it’s a crazy and hugely entertaining hour. But it’s also one tinged with a seriousness brought to it by the intensely clinical nature of the process. Under the supervision of a medical and psychological team, Kimmings steadily drank more each day as her artistic output over each 24 hour period was tested in front of an audience.
For all its flamboyance there’s a level of grit to 7 Day Drunk. Snippets of film show us Kimmings in various different stages throughout the week and whilst the dramatic highs and cold lonely lows are clear for all to see, the main feeling one gets is of her endurance. Alongside funny stories and wacky dances, there is a fittingly sober side to 7 Day Drunk,one in which the consequences of her drinking, other than artistic success, are explored. You get the feeling she’s saying ‘This wasn’t meant to be fun’ even though the finished production is often great fun to watch.
From the off you feel like you know Kimmings. Although she dresses in outrageous outfits, plays with bubbles and unicorn heads and creates magical songs whilst drunk, she seems like a pal. It this sense of connection between her and her audience which makes 7 Day Drunk an experiment that you want to be part of and Kimmings’ is more than happy to oblige. You may get drunk or even snog someone if you’re brave enough to sit in the front few rows.
Artists have long had a relationship with mind altering substances and it’s easy to conclude that anything that makes you less inhibited should help the creative process, free your mind. But the scientific aspect to 7 Day Drunk gives Kimmings’ exploration a level of cold objectivity, removing the romance, and giving things a new twist. There’s plenty of poetry and theatricality to the piece but its backbone is one of facts and figures. This gives Kimmings’ contribution to the debate an added weight. The result is a gently probing piece of scientific performance art that contributes a new perspective to what is oft-covered ground. And I mentioned there was a unicorn head, right?
At Assembly George Square until 28th August 2011
Written for FEST
Paul Daniels and “The woman who is restoring the economy of Scotland singlehandedly”(that’s Debbie McGee to you and me) are bringing some old-school variety charm to the Fringe. Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow is a family-friendly hour that feels like you’re settling down in front of the TV in your slippers, except that here the presenter occasionally talks to you. While his material feels slightly dated, Daniels is lightning-quick when it comes to audience interaction. In fact, he engages so much he often gets lost in his own tangents, an issue he cheerfully acknowledges.
It’s all in the best possible spirit and any jibes at audience members are done so in the most gentlemanly fashion. As such, latecomers get it in the neck but the London riots, we are told, are not to be made fun of. In the face of some newer comedians this may feel tame, but tonight’s giggling audience clearly lap it up and the old-school appeal does seem to make Daniels all the more likeable.
His magic feels fairly rudimentary (apart from the head-achingly tense finale) and when he jokes about having got it wrong he’s in danger of having us take him at his word until he reveals the trick’s winning last twist. It’s not really the magic that’s the centre of this show and it seems Daniels knows this, performing around only five sleights of hand and sensibly filling the gaps with the popular banter that has clearly drawn this eclectic and appreciative crowd.
For more information go here.
Written for FEST
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Never has this statement rung truer for a character than Medea.
Granddaughter of the sun god Helios, she’s abandoned by Jason for a princess and banished by a heartless king. So Medea takes events into her own bloody hands, invoking horrible atrocities that include, most famously, infanticide. In Greek mythology and Euripides’ play, Medea’s is a story of fiery passion and in this production, the somewhat static design sees a giant orb throbbing threateningly in the background, illuminating an otherwise surreal, Giorgio de Chirico-like setting.
Sadly, it is the most potent thing in a show that takes Stella Duffy’s snappy version and delivers it in a way that would make cardboard look animated. Director Sarah Chew must have had a plan here, but what it is exactly remains a mystery. For a melodramatic story of betrayal, it feels very bland and the actors—apart from a very pained Nadira Janikova, who plays the eponymous anti-heroine—sound flat. There’s no inflection in the delivery of their lines and, as they stand on stage facing the audience, they remind you of blinking rabbits in headlights.
This is a shame as Duffy’s version places its full focus on the idea of women as accessories to male ambition, crying out for a “time for women to sing the truths of men.” It’s a compelling perspective but Chew’s production has taken all the sting out of a valid and powerful contemporary take on an age old tale of treachery.
For more information go here.
Written for Fest
RashDash artistic directors Abbi Greenland and Helen Goalen have created a no holds barred mash-up of music, dance and performance which attempts to explore ideas of teenage sexuality.
Fronting a band and lacing killer vocals with even sharper heels, Abbi and Helen are two sassy, sexually precocious girls. Interweaving their story with a young couple, Aidan and Sarah, they look at the effects of pornography on adolescent identity and psychology through a brash, unfocused lens.
The band, made especially for this show (although they’re so tight, you wouldn’t know it), occasionally chip in as scene extras. While the story is flabby, the music is punchy, focused, cool and probably the best thing in this show.
But in such an intimate space, it’s easy to feel bombarded – not only by the sheer force of sound but also the non-stop theatrical whistles and buzzers that Greenland and Goalen have thrown into this soup of a show. The movement sequences are impressive but a bit too “interpretive dance” in style and the interaction between the characters suffers from a script much weaker than the lyrics of the band.
There’s a lot of talent on offer here but a firmer editorial hand is needed and, in the middle of the whirlwind, the basic backbone of this story becomes fractured and eventually lost.
For more information go here.
Written for Total Theatre
An army of teenagers throw themselves around on stage as an operation takes place to dissect the concept of love. I Hope My Heart Goes First is an impassioned look at this most powerful of emotions from those who are its starting blocks. They dance it out, fight it out, sing it out, even whisper it to us. Adam who’s ‘never had any experience of romantic love’ makes a list of the other things he loves and holds a real heart all the way through. Justin Timberlake is delivered with the passionate abandon of a hairbrush bedroom singer, and heart rates are measured in a pogo jump competition.
It’s undeniably rough and unsophisticated but that’s what makes I Hope My Heart Goes First such an emotional experience. This is a piece that has actually been devised by its young performers. Unlike the smooth and knowing Once And For All We’re Gonna Tell You Who We Are So Shut Up And Listen the adults in this process (Junction 25 artistic directors Tashi Gore and Jess Thorpeare) have acted merely as assistants in getting the casts’ message out there, in all it’s naive and occasionally heartbreaking glory.
The concluding work is ambitious, audacious and occasionally feels messy, but isn’t that how love feels? In all its silly wonder I Hope My Heart Goes First is deeply moving and impressively successful in its complicity with its audience; it is because they care so much and so genuinely, that we do to.
Written for Total Theatre
A little girl is sat looking up at you with crystal-clear blue eyes. A moment ago she wasn’t there, and neither was the canary cage at the head of her bed or the yellow bird hoping and jumping from perch to perch. A second later she’s gone again and we’re in a forest. Knowing teenagers stare you down, their hands slowly beginning to move to the side of your head as you fight an increasing sense of foreboding and fascination. Now we’re back in the room as a woman’s head is kneaded into shape.
The world of Alma Mater is a discombobulating experience: things change and shift with the magic of a virtual reality while you stand and walk firmly in the present one. A solo experience, it all takes place in a sparse bedroom that you never really see with your own two eyes. From the start you are taught to see only through the glassy eye of an iPad where anything can occur.
This place is delicate but laced with danger. You feel constantly on edge. Unable to settle in the actual world, you move around the room following each character, spending your time chasing shadows but dealing with concrete feelings as they look at you with reproach, beckon you with a grin.
By the end of the twenty minutes I am exhausted; they ask a lot from you these silent apparitions but your complicity only serves to heighten the stakes in what is a powerful emotional work. Alma Mater feels fragile and desperately complex, filled with potent imagery that makes no narrative sense but hits you somewhere much deeper. By the end of it I had a strange lump in my throat that rises again now, even as I remember it.
Alma Mater plays at St George’s West, Edinburgh 05/8/2011 – 29/8/2011 as part ofEdinburgh Festival Fringe