Day One in Edinburgh is about easing yourself into the pool. Strictly frivolous sunshine entertainment only, eating an hour before entering the water, and getting there late as you like. In this case it's later than I'd wished but at least my wet clothes had more time to dry. Now not so sodden though still clammy.
And why I arrived in Edinburgh with a bag of wet clothes? In other circumstances I'd be glad you asked. But here it was concerning incidents and heart wrenching decisions between morning teas and late night toiletries. Smirk as you wish but there are few manner comedies in the luxury of modern life so distressing. Although, I think on balance, with great foresight, I did choose wisely.
So hurray, yeay, the clothes are potentially wearable. Until I fix all that with an explosive tap. Good to see the Universe still hates me. And all because I merely disbelieve its material existence, such a mere moderate crime.
But at least there is tea, different tea to that mentioned above note, and some light morning reading. So I get myself a second time with the tap. F***ing Universe.
Waiting in line for the bus, I hear behind me in the dulcet ringing tone of a sneering teenager:
"Who styles their hair to look like an intellectual?"Huh. Who? Me?
I finally get a break at the Half Price Ticket Hut and rob some starving artists blind. Or so I'd think, forgetting to see the shows before feeling smug. Nevertheless, I march boyscout fashion up the Mound, tickets in hand, in search of pains aux chocolat and StarBucks breakfast. Bring on the day. Me hunger gatherer cultural type.
Help
And hurray, we're off. With Help or sorry, Eleanor Tiernan - Help. Name recognition is important, I suppose. And there seemed to be plenty of Tiernan involvement.
But it was always likely to be a risky place to start. And perhaps that was realised, although it is tricky to tell. There is an inclination to compensate with kindness for the first show. Or to see it not coloured by the depressed jaded and tired weight of such utter dross you've already seen.
All the same, it had a handful of moments. Enough as I didn't want to entirely regret it. And though the backshow was a struggle, intentionally I argue in my forgiving moment, the standup straight was enjoyable. But moments... that's what was offered. Damning as it might seem, the brief moments were fantastic.
Latin prayer humour is forever delightful. Waiting for punchlines a glorious first Beckett reference of the trip. And the crowning light: seeing one actress trying to put her head up the other's arse.
Little wink at Mary's mobile phone going off. Not her fault but schadenfreude abounds in its nasty, malicious way. Teehee.
I liked the lead, I did. I'd see her standup for sure. Sorry.
Everybody is so young here! I'm like the bad mature student all over again.
Beckett in a Bucket
Put on at the Zoo, sigh but it was a stretch out to this. A church, as it happens, like every other venue in Edinburgh, not an actual Zoo. I know I'm lazy... but still, at least it wasn't all that far from the last venue. And plenty of time in a 20 minute change. Piece of cake. And cup of tea, actually.
Beckett in a Bucket by Mardy Arts and fromthegreyhouse:company was pretty baffling. And with nine people in the audience, it must be really heartbreaking for the cast. They were excellent but the overbearing cruelty of the fringe is all too evident. Despite the fact that the piece is well baffling anyways.
A happily shaky set and a ton of props and every Becketty distress you'd ask for. A great, lowlit soliloquy toward the back end. Low floor lighting is great, the whole world should be done in floor lighting.
So it's early yet and I really feel for the actors, the injustice of life. And now that's gone too like the first show overcompensation. The next piece gets little pity. And I've real worries about it too, Becketty also and at the same venue. Real concerned enough to need some air.
Waiting for Groucho
Also at the Zoo was Waiting For Groucho by Rhymes with Purple Productions and written by Louise Oliver and Frodo McDaniel in particular. This really was one of my highlights and earlier fears didn't materialise. Pity presents no problems here.
Just beautiful. You have to love clowns, proper old school cinema clowns and the Chico and Groucho here between them just tore it up. Outstanding and funny and sad. So nice to hit paydirt three shows in.
Light creeping in from a ceiling window not completely covered and Chico runs up his Russian accent. Excellent excellent stuff. And not forgetting the fantastic mirror work intro.
Rhymes with Purple Productions are put in the notebook of drama companies to trust.
And it's interval time for a trip to the Fringe Shop to merchandise myself and glam, and a ponder up the main strip to...
Dirty Linen and Newfoundland
Here I learn a valuable lesson about Fringe Stoppard. Dirty Linen is a fun Stoppard piece I quite like on paper. But I should know better in future. Fringe Stoppard is a mistake, not necessarily poor, not necessarily badly acted, just always a mistake.
Oversubscribed to start with and the C too venue really wasn't up to it. The seating was well-banked, bonus points for that but the praise ends there. But the venue was a furnace and very uncomfortable. I imagine the temptation to see a small Stoppard on the cheap instead of for £60 in London drew in the masses.
Sadly, I wasn't impressed with the work either. See, that pity and kindness is already gone. You'd think I didn't have much to begin with. The actors overreached with this. The trouble being Dirty Linen needs doing at a quick comedy piece pace, hitting the joke points on spot is essential or it looks ha-haw and not at all clever. Missing the innuendo and verve leaves the poor Maddie, well, pretty much exposed on stage. It's then little else but a show with a mostly naked woman on stage.
A pity. Although it's easy to excuse it. It's work for hardened pros, not students. The soliloquy in Newfoundland is especially tough. But such aside and the other minor pickings, it was always going to be done in for me by the hoards of luvvies.
And because I still hadn't learnt my lesson about Fringe Stoppard, I saw The Real Inspector Hound by the same group later. Thank you Universe, I still hate you.
Doctor Faustus
Marlowe's masterpiece, or one of them. And I've been looking forward to this. Marlowe beats Shakespeare easy in a death match.
And free. Perhaps a concern.
Such beautiful beautiful language. But an awful venue, theatres are such a pain. Flat seating should be clusterbombed wherever it resides. My pet peeve returns. Theatres have obligations to their patrons, people. And but not here, I promise next Johnny Corporate who sticks his useless balloon head between me and my £60 show will be learnt about how slouching is polite.
This Doctor Faustus by the Flintlock Theatre company is pretty decent. The lead is strong and his supporting Mephistopheles does extremely well. Wonderful to watch the pair together, great potential.
The piece isn't done nearly menacing enough, though. And yes, there is too much humour in the script but I still prefer my eternal damnation and Satanism done bleak and terrifying. The incantation business and summoning was nicely sharp though. I'd have loved it run like so throughout the play. But you take what you are presented with.
Live musical accompaniment should be compulsory in theatre. It's always a charm and is delightful here. The clarinettist was fantastic with the sung notes. And the guitarist was perfect as the Bad Angel and Helen.
But such a perfect perfect play:
Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be:And:
Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul For disobedience to my sovereign lord:Wonderful.
In all, very enjoyable. What can you say about a piece with Latin prayer singing? Another one of those themes for the day.
William who?
Discovered a big hole in my Day Two schedule in the bar beforehand. I might have mended it, but the whole business might have been the alcohol too. Time for another interval.
Dinner Interlude
Got me an autograph and stern instructions not to sell it on eBay. And this from a crew member.
Lovely Thai place round by Candlemaker Street.
Howie a Rookie
Where did all the buses come from? It's insane. Howie a Rookie turned out to be in Slovak. And is probably great, but I gave it a miss all the same. Instead I watched all the people between me and the pub I wanted to be in. Seems like it was the Tattoo what did the buses and onto masses.
In all, two likes, two want-to-likes and two messes. The half price ticketry made not have been so great in hindsight. My early innocence striped away, my true vile unforgiving nature in its element. And still more tomorrow.
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