Hostage

There’s a recurring moral dilemma that haunts the practice of review writing for the Fringe. It concerns the lunacy of being forced to compare fully professional productions with things that are little more than community plays such as this. Hostage is not entirely unwatchable, but comes across more as a bonding exercise for those involved than the kind of ambitious theatre that Edinburgh is rife with at this time of year. And sure enough, there are characters that sporadically appear on stage only to loiter around speechlessly, vacuously observing the action like a bench player in a football match.

The spirit of inclusiveness is nice, yes, and there are even some children up there getting involved, but it doesn’t make for a fulfilling outing for the average Fringe tourist who has time and money constraints to worry about. This is a strictly amateur play that will set you back just as much cash as many professional productions at the Fringe, and won’t match the expectations of anyone unconnected to the troupe.

Its story handles very serious issues about religious conflict, as topical now as it was in the feudal times in which this is set, but suffers horribly from moments of brazen anachronism and inadvertent racism. Sir James Douglas is a Christian Scot, captured by North African Berbers during a military expedition in Spain. He is bound in chains in a dark dungeon, battling impending blindness and clutching dearly to his Christian convictions, as his captors torment him with Jihadist spiel. Muhammad, in particular, is a most adept ranter, and can quote passages from the Bible in Latin to get underneath Sir James’ skin. With his turbaned face, his scimitar and his Bond villain-like twang, his malice is second to none in authenticity. Elsewhere in the world, Douglas's wife leads his rescue operation, accidentally seducing monks on her way with her unladylike vigour.

Perhaps the script wouldn’t seem quite so parochial and different from your average TV epic with a more refined representation, but as it stands all the strings of this sickly, didactic tale are painfully visible, and its performers are as wooden as puppets.