Fest Theatre: It Begins

After a few days of drunken idiocy, I suddenly remembered that there was meant to be a festival happening in Edinburgh, and I wasn’t on a Club 18-30 holiday. I’d seen the public school boys in women’s clothes on the Royal Mile, and assumed it was a rugby club convention: there had been a few gentlemen in white face-paint and ladies in corsets at the party, but I didn’t make the connection. It wasn’t until I noticed that my inbox was over the limit with PR releases and a warning was sent by the comedy editor about promoters plying critics with alcohol that I knew where I was. August, Edinburgh. The Fringe. Week Zero.

I made my way to the Botanic Gardens, where I was given an i-pod. David Leddy’s Susurrus is site-specific, pre-recorded, and escorts the listener around the gardens, unfurling a tale of childhood trauma and opera. As I have remarked elsewhere, Leddy has been incorrectly tagged as a great playwright. He is a great director, with fascinating concepts and a daring approach to theatre: Susurrus’ actual script is solid and reveals the story at a leisurely pace, but it is the experience of sitting beneath the trees, wandering around the glass-house or watching Edinburgh from above that lifts Susurrus out of the ordinary. It is a beautiful, solitary experience, with the snatches of opera between the acts heightening the moment. When Purcell’s Lament of Dido emerges from the earphones, it is exquisitely melancholic, a marvellous choice and a reminder of how music and language together can evoke complex emotions that by-pass the intellect. And, of course, it is a delight to escape the crowds of the city for a contemplative stroll among the flowers.

Back at C venue, I struggled with the Italian Or(f)unny. It is a two-hander that, at times, is pretty much a brother and sister screaming about mummy. Then suddenly, when it seems that this single obsession is going to capsize the action, the brother and sister begin to relate to each other, a careful ritual of greed and false generosity. The character’s isolation and horror is established, yet through cunning use of physical theatre, they elaborate on the complex codes that can evolve between two people who understand each other, and are caught in love and hate. The anger at the absent parents is generally raw and rough, and the intimacy between the audience and performers makes this uncomfortable viewing. It is one of the connoisseur of experimental drama, not a casual entertainment, and it is not well sited in C Soco. The audience have to strain to see from the raked auditorium – unless they get a front row seat, and something so harsh is not welcoming for front row participation.

The Fringe isn’t just about the arts: there is still time for intellectual discussion, comparing the influence of Brecht on burlesque with cabaret artists, drinking heavily and gate-crashing launch parties. It seems appropriate that Edinburgh feels like a playground in August: the fourth wall has been breaching, and they are taking it to the streets, like the Kids from Fame. The first few days are about testing the water, feeling the buzz and collecting flyers for the recycling bin.