How on earth did the Edinburgh Fringe
work with any less technology than
we have now? Crippled by a mobile phone which is slowly dying on me,
I’m unable to check my day-to-day schedule, and so the other day made
an eejit of myself by loudly demanding a ticket for a show which
doesn’t start for another week. The broadband connection in my Festival
flat is so cussedly “smart” that I need to run three different accounts
and programs just to send and receive e-mail. Of course, my misfortunes
are as nothing compared to those of the Fringe as a whole last year,
when their whizzy new central ticketing system stood up, blinked in the
sunlight and promptly fell over with a thud that may have cost millions
in lost revenues.
Productions, too, have reached the point where a multimedia component
is hardly worth mentioning in review. In
Beachy Head at the Pleasance Dome,
for instance, far more theatrically potent than video and CGI backdrops
are the way the live performers interact and use even such basic
techniques as attaching pieces of paper to long poles to mimic their
flapping about in the wind. Not for nothing is the company named
Analogue. Dan Rebellato is beginning to corner the market in scripts
about trying to piece together the events surrounding one person’s
demise, about personal connections and disconnections. This one reminds
me less of
Mile End, the
company’s show here last year, than of his haunting work
Static staged a little earlier
still. At the core of all these pieces, though, is a sense of the
thrilling primacy of humanity. This is never drowned in silicon-based
effects; rather the productions utilise what guitarist Robert Fripp
used to refer to as “an appropriate level of technology” and no more
than that.
In contrast,
Accidental Nostalgia
at the Traverse, Cynthia Hopkins’ “operetta about the pros and cons of
amnesia”, is a hi/low-tech mash-up. Shot video footage is mixed with
live images from mini-cameras, sometimes tracking through tabletop
models of a house or town; Hopkins plays accordion and toy piano and is
accompanied by a kind of klezmer-and-western quartet, but at one point
sings, live, a contrapuntal duet with a little girl on video; once or
twice on opening night individual sequences had to be restarted because
of synching problems. It’s a kind of neurological mystery, with the
amnesiac amnesiologist narrator uncovering her childhood trauma and
real identity, then assuming a new one. Imagine The Wooster Group and
the Dresden Dolls collaborating on a stage musical of an episode of
The X-Files that had been
originally shot by Werner Herzog… well, exactly. It’s a fiercely
intelligent and immensely complex work, playfully arcane and oblique
and full of ingredients that I usually love. And yet the components are
assembled with an impassive self-satisfaction that got up my nose like
a little finger: I’m afraid I found it annoying and even rather tedious.
As against such technological exuberance, some Fringe performers are
consciously stripping back. Hugh Hughes, the “emerging Welsh artist”
and glorious creation of the Hoipolloi company’s supremo Shôn
Dale-Jones, parodied multimedia work in his first two shows in previous
Fringe years by using jerry-built arrays of props and technology such
as old-style classroom overhead projectors. For
360 at the Pleasance Courtyard,
though, the stage is bare even of his usual collaborators and
“friends”. This is Hughes seeing whether his phenomenal bonhomie can
sustain a story without material support. I was not entirely sure
beforehand, thinking that perhaps the whole Hughes persona might be
about to go stale. Not a bit of it. This piece about friendship and
basically being a bit daft begins outside the theatre with Hughes
greeting the queued audience; in the theatre itself he introduces us to
each other and chats away before the tale proper begins, then later
also bids us farewell at the door. If Hughes sat down next to you on a
bus or train, you would begin by slightly recoiling as your internal
nutter-alert went off, but would by the end find it one of the most
magical journeys you had ever taken.
Ultimately, in theatre as in life, faith and persistence can be enough.
Actress Nichola McAuliffe’s first play written under her own name (she
had one on the Fringe a few years ago under a pseudonym),
A British Subject (Pleasance Over
The Road), tells the true story of her and her husband, journalist Don
MacKay, in their attempts to secure the release of Mirza Tahir Hussain
after 18 years on death row in Pakistan and return him to his home and
family in Leeds. At first the play seems like a solid piece of work but
probably no more compelling than any number of similar stories. Things
begin to change with the pivotal scene of MacKay’s meeting with Tahir
in jail: Kulvinder Ghir’s performance combines dignity and fatalism
with a sense that Tahir’s grip on reality is increasingly precarious,
with little more than his devotion keeping him anchored. His Islamic
faith is complemented in the following scenes by the Catholicism of
McAuliffe (who plays herself) as she and MacKay feverishly work
personal and professional contacts until the matter is ultimately
settled direct between the Prince of Wales and President Musharraf.
Both the events portrayed and the production itself feel, to use a term
from yet another faith, like a +mitzvah+.
In low-tech days people simply applied themselves with more dedication.
I used to know a couple of little old ladies who planned their
Fringe-going months in advance with the precision of a military
campaign, using only the published programme and a transatlantic phone
line (one was based in San Francisco, the other in Glasgow). And they
were amazing. The last time I saw them, they were rather apologetic:
“We’re not staying in Edinburgh this year, so we have to miss
late-night shows and get the last train back to Glasgow; and we’ve
given up on comedians where every other word is eff… so we’re only
seeing 94 shows this year.” There’s always a way.
Written for the Financial
Times.