More, but not of the same

Orlando
Of the few shows I planned to see during the Fringe, Virginia Woolf's witty biography Orlando was low on the list. Until I noticed it was promoted in Jenner's department store window and that it had been awarded five stars. I don't often go on reviewers recommendations, but this time I did and it paid off handsomely.

Orlando was played by Glasgow based Judith Williams in bright crisp tones, easy to engage with throughout the performance. The sparse set design brought to life with lighting, projections and original sound track were all admirable and enjoyable. The costume design was almost the best aspect with an inventive changeover from male to female attire achieved with convincing effect. Conveying the main adventures in Orlando's long life in an hour was managed without diluting the impact of the charm and romance of the book.

Any performance in Edinburgh is up against the vast competition across the city and even five stars did not guarantee capacity audiences for this one, but at least on the day I went it was fairly full and very well received.

1001 Nights
Swept up in enthusiasm I agreed to accompany Sig Other to six hours of Alf Layla wa-Layla at the Lyceum. The Festival programme says of this production:
Erotic, brutal, witty and poetic. One Thousand and One Nights are the never-ending stories told by the young Shahrazad under sentence of death to King Shahrayar ... is told in two compelling parts each of which can be seen and enjoyed on its own; or see both in the same day and fully immerse yourself in these remarkable tales for a truly intoxicating Festival experience.
It was indeed an experience and one that's left conflicting thoughts. The first half was more brutal while the second was more witty; the poetry ran throughout this Arabic, French and English performance.

This is a wonderfully international production with cast, musicians and creative team from many Arabic and some European countries. It was written by Hanan Al-Shaykh who adapted the tales and emphasised their feminist message about misogynist men being made aware of their cruelty to women.

Certainly the first half amply demonstrated this cruelty, but the second half brought realisation and understanding to the Caliph and the other men in the tales. They resolved to change. 

Much was made of the tale of the five sisters who lived together, and their choice to continue so after marriage went wrong for all of them. Frequently, they were referred to as 'living alone' as if five people in a household were alone if there was not a man amongst them. This is similar to the old feminist saw of two women in a bar being approached by smoothy male with the opener "What are you ladies doing on your own?"  Apparently women in whatever quantity are alone if there is no male there.

Part of my conflicting thoughts are that I'd only narrowly agreed to see both parts and I wonder what I'd have been left with had I only seen part one. Overall, it was the correct decision to spend the day in this way, but I'm not sure I'll be persuaded by the enticement of a theatrical 'experience' again.

I was rather relieved that the comfort of the seats in the Lyceum meant I was not cramped and stiff by the end.

Brief reviews

At the half way mark in the festival I begin to long for a normal life again and just start to run out of steam. This is especially true when certain conditions are prevalent, like the depressing rain or if too many shows/exhibitions/events are bad. Fortunately, or simply through experience I've been to few disappointing shows this year, and have avoided the gloomy venues which bring my enthusiasm to a halt.  I'm just getting tired of hopping on and off buses, braving the crowds and running around between the other parts of my life. They need some attention after all, and when coming home to neglected housework and a foodless fridge is due to fringing, it's time to calm down a bit. So I went to very few shows at this fringely midpoint.

I've not had time or inclination to update the blog on what I have seen and this is reflected in what is a miserly piece on three really good shows that should have more said about them.

Mary Mary Quite Contrary stand up from Mary Bourke, at the free fringe.
Please just take it as read that I have raved on about her. I will spare the repeat from last year where I labour the point that there are some very good women doing stand up in Edinburgh, but the big venues fail to promote them. And I despair of seeing the likes of Mary Bourke on my TV on a Saturday night anytime soon. Rather, it will be the usual continuation of shouty, marchy up and downy blokes all winter when we should be seeing comedy that appeals to a much more intelligent demographic, like feminists!!

Didn't quite avoid repetition of my point about more funny women who do not offend easily offended feminists.


Bosom Buddies with Jack Klaff
A complete change of mood from the above, but enthralling theatre. Thankfully, the audience is given a handout of the characters played in this one hander as there were one or two historical people I'd never heard of.  I came home to google Ottoline Morrell, Margarete Buber-Nueman and Sabina Spielrein. I'd heard of all the male characters, as history is meticulous about recording them and making us search for the women portrayed by Jack Klaff.

I'd need to see it at least twice more before I could really convey how this piece of conversations between the characters, spanning major events in the 20th Century ebbed and flowed around and about the Cuban Missile Crisis, psychoanalysis, relativity, African, Indian, Russian history and probably more that eluded me.

Next time this is performed I'll get another ticket.

Booking Dance Festival: Split Bill
This American company brings dance troupes to the Fringe to showcase excerpts from their shows and assists those in the industry to book the acts. They also have tickets for the public.

I'm afraid I have to rave again, this time about three utterly distinct dance performances in one afternoon, starting with Rhythmic Circus. Described as 'Live Music and Rapid Fire Hard Hitting Tap' this was energy squared backed up by a very good seven piece live band. The ultimate in pretty people entertained a moderate sized crowd in Edinburgh's International Conference Centre. I just clapped my little hands off while they tap danced through hip-hop, funk, blues, and soul music.

Next Damagedance performed their world premier of Glimpses. This powerful performance explored psychological disorders, demonstrating that everyone suffers from something to some extent. We try to hide it.

I was initially cautious about this, but after a few minutes I was completely won over by this amazing group of young dancers.

Finally, Labyrinth Dance Theatre performed Noor.  I liked this, and the complete change of pace contrasted with the previous two dances. However, it did not move me as much as I expected for a story of the tragic heroism of Noor-un-nisa Inayat Khan. But I was very happy to be reminded of one of the women who played an important part in WW2 and who was awarded the George Cross.





Fringing on a Saturday Night

It's not that usual for me to go see events in the official festival, so this year should hold a few treats as Sig Other has chosen one or two he fancies. He seemed surprised I would so readily see Philip Glass and his ensemble not knowing I've liked PG since first hearing his music when I was fairly young. I find it appealing, but being so musically untutored I would not be able to explain why.

Koyaanisqatsi (1983) Hopi for 'life out of balance' is the first in the Qatsi Trilogy. Sig Other reassuringly noted it is not about something without specific meaning or value. This averted much speculation on my part that would otherwise have completely distracted me from the experience of the film and music.

Definitely the best image from the film.

The Ensemble was a treat to listen to, in particular the vocals of Lisa Bielawa. Powaqqatsi and Naqoyaqatsi the other two films in the trilogy were on subsequent evenings, however, I don't think I would have fully appreciated the immersion in Philip Glass. Maybe I'll see them another time.

Because there is so much on at the fringe, instead of leaving Koyaanisqatsi and spending time reflecting on the impact this had on my, I wandered into another show.

Kiss of the Red Menace, a Tribute to Kander and Ebb was by no means a bad choice. Melody La Rouge and her four piece backing group put on a cheery performance of show songs from Chicago and Cabaret and some others which I'd not come across.  And if we hadn't gone then, we'd have missed it as this was her final show for this fringe.

Indeed the fringe throws up opportunities for strange juxtapositions. It's what makes it an exciting month. And exhausting!

Some art

Karen Forbes Solar pavilion in St Andrew's Square. It looks great from the outside and I'm not going to see the inside if I don't get there when it's open.

Edinburgh Art Festival runs roughly concurrently with the other festivals and I always make sure I see as much of this as I can fit in. Of course, I prioritise work by women as well as indulging in the odd exhibition that takes my fancy as I wander past tempting or intriguing posters.

Sometimes it's all a bit over my head and I work hard to remind myself that art is a broad category. There is something for everyone and the last thing I want is to be one of those encouraged to sneer at modern art by stick in the mud traditionalists.

Katri Walker has an installation titled North West in an old ambulance depot. It was the idea of claiming that sort of space which attracted me to the exhibition. Which was not that easy to find.

There was a film about someone making a film about a group of avid Aberdeenshire chappies in their cowboy role play group. There was a warmth and charm to this that counter-balanced my usual knee jerk assumptions about men having far too much disposable time and income. There was an absence of women; maybe their partners didn't fancy any roles traditional to women in the wild west.

What's not to like about Russian icons? An Edinburgh collector welcomed people into his front room to display a selling exhibition of his Russian icons. Ooooh! I want! Realistically though, they would be wasted in my hovel.

Wherein your correspondent gets pissed off

Fringing is not for the lackadaisical, laid back, devil may care types. It takes dedication, patience and a natural toleration of crap that few are gifted with. Certainly not me. Neither am I in the former set of categories. I'm a grumpy Edinburgh wummin coping with the annual influx of stop and start, pavement blocking nae idea how to use a bus tourists thronging most of city, or at least the centre of it. There are of course areas where there is no evidence of the cultural infestation of the inner metropolis*, areas which see no apparent economic benefit from the doubling of the population and spending spree for flat owners and bars.

When I worked in outer city areas of deprivation, it was easy to relate to the cultural disenfranchisement and occasional irritation of local folks at how the city was taken over for August each year. And their keen perception that there was nothing in it for them. Not least because even the fringe has become too expensive for many people.

There's been changes in recent years, with the Free Fringe taking up space in slightly further flung areas and now, even Leith has its own Fringe on offer. But the sense of, particularly the BBC types decamping north and mingling only with their own species persists.

The BBC are setting up camp in the heart of the main fringe area this year. If you look carefully, you'll notice as my sharp-eyed daughter did, that they've installed the bar, while still erecting other parts of the site.

I'm used to all this, though, so what is pissing me off is going to really badly described shows. There's only a few lines allowed to promote the show, but in the days of 140 character twitter, more effort could be put into concise accuracy. It's wasteful of my time to mislead potential audience about your show. The show below was so misleading! "Three sharp females" Huh.

Daughter arrived yesterday and insisted on going out in the rain to see something. I checked what was on offer in the limited time she had. It was always going to be challenging to find something we could agree on and it seemed that Vinegar Knickers present Sketchy beast could be it.

Nah.

I really want to support women breaking out the mold, women being funny, women learning their craft, women getting out there and onto a stage. I really want to say that these three young women are going to mature into great comedians, dancers, singers, actors. I can't.

Some of the material could have been good, delivered by comics possessed of a modicum of talent. Mostly, the material was as poor as the comics. Daughter agreed.

What really tipped me over the edge, was the use of music from a long discredited 70's glam rock popstar jailed for his abuse of girls abroad. And the disgraceful paedophile jokes. What is missing in the commonsense make up of so many comics that they consider jokes about domestic abuse, rape, child abuse, funny and even necessary to their act?

I'm not linking to this bunch. They do not deserve it.

*not sure Edinburgh can be designated a metropolis as it's so small.

Another go at fringing

Ticked another box with this fringing effort. The Festival of Spirituality and Peace offered a Japanese Tea Ceremony and this has long been a desire I wanted to fulfill.  The ceremony began with a young Japanese piper in a very fetching blue plaid kilt playing traditional Japanese tunes he'd arranged for the pipes. Different, but in a good way.

Then the beautiful gracious ladies began the tea ceremony. Sadly it was all too disturbed by tourists wandering in and photographing it and other comings and goings to be the relaxing event it is designed to be.

The audience all tasted the tea - not bad and sampled some other Japanese teas - very good, but we weren't told what they were.

I treated myself to Persian thick soup in a temporary Persian Tea house set up for the Festival. It smelt of unspeakable things, but they were so proud of their homemade food, it would have been heartless to leave it untouched. I bravely tried a spoonful. It was awful; not as bad as it smelt, but deeply unpleasant. I forced another mouthful and it got better. I ended up finishing it, but I will avoid it in future. I think it was the whey drizzled on top that was so bad.

Scuttled up the High Street and met a solid block of tourists. It took some doing, but I reached the Hub, to pick up tickets as instructed by Sig Other. More of this another day.

Time then to meet Y and her posse who were sensibly relaxing in the only empty cocktail establishment in town.  I was making up a fourth for the sets of two-for-oners purchased in anticipation of company by the posse.

The first show turned out to be less palatable than the vomit scented soup. Even the hardened fringe-going posse found Cul-De-Sac nasty and not a fit subject for comedy. Posse J thought it was akin to 1984 done in an hour. I was perturbed by the explicit bullying of one adult male by another about his experience of childhood sexual abuse. I have no problem with lines being crossed but this needed a trigger warning for any survivors in the audience who would have struggled with it.

This is a pity as the actors were fine, sets, props and direction good.

There was a quick turnaround and into Isy Suttie: Pearl and Dave. Pleasant Pleasance comedy. Soothing after our feathers were so collectively ruffled.

Fringing on a Sunday

I had plans for the day; they didn't work out, however it all ended up fine.  Began by missing the Sunday lunch music in the National Museum of Scotland. But I did get to the Art Festival event I had a ticket for.

No Show: A Screening of Artists' Films on Collections and Museums
Three short films chosen by Melvin Moti that are related to art and museums. Also his own film No Show.

Flash in the Metropolitan - Roaslind Nashashibi, Lucy Skaer
At only 3 minutes long, I didn't get time to absorb this and would need to see it many times to take in the short flashes of artefacts from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

Dylaby - Ed Van der Elsken
This really appealed to me. From 1962, black and white film of the exhibition at Stedeliijk museum in Amsterdam. The group of artists who made the exhibition included Niki de Saint-Phalle, who is one of my favourite artists. The film had some of her shooting paintings, but interactive, set up so visitors could shoot paint. If I knew how to link within this blog, I'd link to the post I did of her exhibition at Tate Liverpool a couple of years ago.

But there was much much more in this film. Certainly the best of the four I saw.

No Show - Melvin Moti
1944, the Hermitage, recently emptied by Russian soldiers. They are taken on a tour explaining what had been on the walls. Interesting, but didn't hold my attention fully.

Spiral Jetty - Robert Smithson
This left me wondering what the hell it was about. But when I explained it to Sig Other he knew all about it. He's a bit scunnersome at times, but mostly useful informationwise.
Follow the link if you are really interested.

The films went on longer than expected, so I missed the show I'd planned to see and decided to spend some time in the newly reopened museum. It's so much better than I'd thought it might be. I could rave about it.

 The dangly monsters hall is a hoot.
  
Tasteful temporary exhibition of glass. I want, I want!

Sooner rather than later, I exited the museum as the howling level of too many weans got to me. Time to go to a show.
This was a jolly show. Energetic young women in tweeds and hiking boots
mourning their lost friend Bertha. They came across a mountain man who fell in love with Hilda but had to call himself Mr Darcy before he could win her love. Much angst and wriggling around in their sleeping bags ensued. I wanted a time machine so I could go back, collect my daughter at an impressionable age, and show her this group of worthy role models. Even now, I think she'd enjoy it.

Drookit foto essay

Sometimes, I do things I never wanted to do. Sometimes they work out well, sometimes they don't. Or it can all be put down to experience, but not to be repeated.

My desire to say yes to anything coming my way overrode my common sense. G called saying she had a spare ticket to the Edinburgh Tattoo. I did pause for some thought, but decided to hope that the persistent rain yesterday would slacken off enough to make it worth while sitting on the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle.

Wrong! Bloody, bloody wrong.

Some positives: the queuing system is efficient, if shouty. But what do you expect from a military organisation. No umbrellas allowed in the que, fair enough, with something like 8000 ticket holders to shuffle up Castle Terrace, round into Castle Hill and funnelled into the esplanade. I salute their spokes in the aye avoidance protocol.

£16 million has been spent on new stands for the Tattoo. I've noticed them being built for the past several months, without taking any interest. After all, I wasn't going to go to the Tattoo, was I?

After I agreed to go, but before I set off, I checked on the Tattoo website. I wanted to know about the facilities. I've been to the odd rock concert and know all too well that large crowds and few loos are not much fun. Mention was made of the new plumbed in toilets. I was reassured. They turned out to be adequate.

According to the Culture Minister, the tattoo does well for the area:
"The net income from the tattoo last year was £7.96 million; it generated £34.37 million for the Scottish economy and supports over 780 jobs."


 
So I suppose it is worth it.

I took my camera, but the photos are not much better than useless and although I've fiddled about with them, they are not good. I put them up just to remind myself that I'd need a better camera if I wanted to photograph in the dark in a monsoon.
Stuff was projected onto the castle behind the display. It's too wet and hazy to make it out in the pic.
Squads of Scots and Irish traditional dancers bravely splashed about in the wet. They were smiling. I'd have gone home. I can't understand why their mother's let them do it. But maybe they were not as young as they looked.
This is the massed bands doing that marching thing where they march up to the end of the esplanade, then turn and march back through the ranks of the oncoming bands. It's usually impressive, but not when it's nearly impossible to see through the mirk.
I liked this. Mythical monster on the castle.

There were good things to see. The Dutch bicycling band, the Ledderhosen clad Germans chopping a tree trunk. The lone piper at the end was downright hair-raising - in a good way.

But I suppose the title gives it away. The Edinburgh Military Tattoo. I scoff not (for a change) because for many people, the military means something to them. At the end during a hymn to the fallen, the woman sitting in front of me was sobbing. For all my urban, sophisticated (cynical?) views on the armed forces, she has a different experience and I respect that.  But I was still stunned, to hear people actually singing the national anthem. In my immediate circle, it would be seen as so naff. I'm not fully republican, as I don't mind her maj, but I see no need to stand or sing to her.

I didn't buy a programme. it wouldn't survive the rain for a start. But the sequence of rain was as follows:
  • Arrive into the stands - rain decreasing leading to false hope that it might go off
  • Get seated, arrange plastic bag over my legs (huh!) - rain begins to increase
  • Programme starts - average rate of downpour
  • Programme continues - torrential rain
  • Later, as people begin to wriggle about, a flash flood down onto my chair wets me from the waist down
  • Later still, my waterproof coat gives up and leaks
  • Eventually, the rain was so heavy it was bouncing off my jacket and into my eyes
  • It receded to a mere persistent chucking it down as we exited and shuffled down the Mound.
I walked home, stood in a puddle of my own making outside my front door trying to think how not to soak my new hall carpet. I found that my legs were dyed black from my jeans and parts of me which had never been wet before were soaked.  At 2 am I made myself get out of a warm bath sprinkled with soothing aromatherapy oils trying to prevent aches, pains, coughs and colds today. Not sure this was entirely successful.

Morale of this story? Don't go out.

But I still like massed pipes and drums, can't deculturise this girl.

Getting through the backlog

Qing Cheng

My original plan was to write up the shows I'd seen, the day after, but this timetable has already slipped. Multiple postings will help catch up.

Friday, and a complete departure from my usual fringing. The Usherhall was the venue for Qing Cheng a delightful Chinese musical. I can sum it up with one statement. Eat your heart out Loyd-Webber.

Magical costumes, by the designer from the film Crouching Tiger something or other Dragon.  The folks dressed as bamboo really tickled me, but the flowers were so graceful and delicate.
An ancient love story spanning across centuries, brought to life as a spectacular musical featuring lavish designs and special effects. Qing Cheng is a beautiful story originated from Dujiangyan, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and also home to giant panda. The first major musical representation of Taoist philosophy, Qing Cheng combines traditional Chinese melodies with fresh compositions, martial arts with modern dance, and an ancient story told against a stunning backdrop of multimedia projections
I'd estimate about a quarter to a third of the audience was Chinese and it was a pleasure to sit amongst giggling enthusiastic, even star struck young Chinese women. Almost compensated for the dour German chappie next to me who didn't clap at the end.

I'd tell people to go, but it's finished today, so you've missed it.

It begins ...

I've found that it's a good idea to go to the preview shows at the Fringe. There's the chance of seeing shows go a bit wrong, which can relieve the boredom of a dire offering, and make you feel for the good stuff struggling against rubbish venues and bad tech.

But most of all, there aren't very many folk around, and most of them are well behaved Edinburgh pensioners. They are the ones with the time and interest to start before the mobs arrive.

I've now convinced D and M to take a day with me annually to be spontaneous, go with the flow, chill out and so on.  D, for example is amazed that we got off the bus in George Square, where it all seems to be happening this year, and immediately people handed me free tickets.  We accepted.

Show one
Bette and Joan The Final Curtain
Suffered greatly from being held in a run down lecture theatre. A very iffy start that went on far too long. Boiled down to projections of Louela Parsons and Hedda Hopper muttering that Bette Davis was taking too long to die. Solution? Send Joan Crawford's ghost to help her on her way. Enter ghost of Crawford and the action really began.

Sharp lines, well delivered and the pace increased until the last 20 minutes which were snappy and brought it to a satisfying ending. Bette and Joan suddenly wondered why, since they had so much in common (four husbands, ungrateful daughters) they had not been friends in real life. Bette agreed to die.
‘You should only say good of the dead. Joan Crawford is dead. Good’ (Bette Davis). ‘She's slept with every male star at MGM except Lassie’ (Bette Davis), ‘Take away those pop eyes, the cigarette and those funny clipped words and what have you got?’ (Joan Crawford)
A promising start to my fringing for the next month.

Left that building and more tickets immediately thrust into my hands.

Show Two
Penny Dreaful's Etherdome
19th Century America, 3 dentists vie to invent anaesthesia for dentistry and surgery.  Much slapstick comedy, singing and audience harassment, er, participation. This show started really well, but lost its way towards the end. The staging and props were great.

We escaped the George Square mayhem (nothing compared to what it is now) and had lunch at the Mosque Kitchen. Cheap, fast, nutritious and tasty.

Show Three
Midnight Your Time
Nothing like a world premier to keep you going through the late afternoon slump in the fringe energy levels.  Diana Quick was magnificent as the controlling mother whose daughter took up a post in Palestine and neglected to keep in touch.
Every Thursday at 3am, Judy talks to her daughter via webcam. Judy calls from Islington, her daughter, Palestine. A retired lawyer, Judy is looking for ways to occupy herself: with a women's peace league, with Mr and Mrs Prabhakar, with her daughter's life
Although I often enjoy most of what I see at the Fringe, sometimes there is a gem and this was it. I'm now worrying that my fringe experience has peaked too early and all else will be a disappointment.


Show Four
Anil Desai
The man himself handed out tickets to his impressionist show. He kept a fairly consistent level of comedy and pretty good impressions throughout the hour on stage. I've been recommending him to friends. Abiding image of him with orange wig, pink PVC mini dress and white thong.

I retired to fringe another day.

Warming up the old blog

In a repeat of last year, I intend to reactivate the blog while it is Edinburgh festivals time. Anything and everything I go to will be written up and judgement made on the enjoyment or offensiveness factor. Sometimes things are simply not fun without the frisson of a good feeling of righteous offence.

Just to get in the mood, I've included a report on a recent day out in Liverpool where I played tourist on one of the infrequent summer days.

The highlights were a visit to the International Museum of Slavery and the Tate Liverpool. 

John Lennon peace monument, by artist Lauren Voiers

I spent a long time in the International Slavery Museum learning things I should have known already. Liverpool's history is that of prospering because of the slave trade over hundreds of years. I'd not realised how early on Europeans had been enslaving people from West Africa, although I knew about the fight for abolition.

I could not manage to see round the whole museum because it was so horrifying in laying bare the conditions slavers transported people in. I realise that is a bit wimpish, but I do intend to go back sometime and see the rest. More uplifting were displays honouring the many slave uprisings across the Caribbean and America. Often these were instigated or led by women such as Carlotta in Cuba (1843), Solitude in Guadalupe (1802) and Rebecca in Curacao (1795). Of course, the woman we are most aware of is Harriet Tubman.

Slavery is still with us as was outlined in the campaign section of the museum where the display showed the plight of child domestic workers who've been trafficked to work in slave-like conditions in many parts of the world.

However, I'd particularly wanted to see '42', an exhibition by Lee Karen Stow, who photographed women in Sierra Leone. 42 is the average life expectancy of women there and one in 8 dies because of childbirth and complications.  It seems to me quite extraordinary that women in Scotland take it almost for granted they will live through childbirth, while for many women elsewhere in the world, pregnancy is a death sentence.

There is no need to have this rate of maternal mortality anywhere on earth. Those with the power to do something about it, should do it and stop financing wars and other toxic activities. We should all be blazing mad at this female carnage.

Emotionally zonked by the International Slavery Museum, I had lunch before visiting the Tate Liverpool. I wanted to see the gallery curated by Carol Ann Duffy and this did not disappoint. I spent ages there looking at her choice of exhibits from the whole Tate collection.

Gillian Wearing, Signs that Say at Tate Liverpool.
Duffy has written a sonnet specially for the exhibition

Poem
I couldn't see Guinness and not envisage a nun;
a gun, a finger and thumb;
midges, blether, scribble, scrum.

A crescent moon, boomerang, smirk, bone;
or full, a shield a stalker,
or stone. I couldn't see woods
for the names of the trees - sycamore,
yew, birch, beech -

or bees
without imagining music scored
on the air - nor pass a nun
without calling to mind a pint of one
stout, untouched, seen on a bar
at the Angelus.