What I really thought about the Fringe
It was an Edinburgh engorged by thousands of visitors wielding cameras like defensive shields. It got quite annoying, which is strange considering I was one of the engorgers filling the streets and following my strange pop-up map to places of granite wonderment. Perhaps, I find myself irritating. The whole Fringe experience, however, did give me a warm glow inside: to know I was in a place that was the centre of the arts universe. I felt as if I was privy to a great revelation when I realised this. I never knew it could be so much fun.
I never realised how alive an Edinburgh with a Fringe on top with its hundreds, maybe thousands of attractions (yes, let's include the grimy buskers and the mad action painters in their bikini bottoms cavorting outside the National Gallery) can make you feel. Anyone who has a cross-section of interest in theatre, film, comedy and books and finds themselves in the cobbled Scottish capital will think the Fringe to be possibly the greatest thing that has ever been invented. There is just too much to see and do and it overwhelms you in a kind of beatific way.
Leaving last Thursday, induced no little regret that I couldn't stay and partake of such other delights as Mark Watson's I'm Worried That I'm Starting To Hate Almost Everyone in the World, the play Black Watch, my hero and US President elect Doug Stanhope, the Zidane film and so much more. My God, I was even dying to see Russell Brand in the end. The Swine (hey, you didn't see that coming did ya?) Just as I was getting started into the addictive rhythm of going to shows, it was all over. In reflection, a dull pain swallows at my heart. I felt like I got some rubbish computer demo instead of the full whack in the end and it was all my fault for spending money like Viv Nicholson (though I kept up my strange feat of eating in a Mexican restaurant in every country capital I visit ... oddly, the best has been Edinburgh and its foine chimichangas) and having to head home to stop the cash haemorrhaging. But, you know, such is life and human fraility.
Yet I did see some shows. Apart from Jenny's reviewed show in the post below, I watched Graham Fellows' new laser-screeching concreter character Dave Tordoff (finely nuanced and accurate in its portrayal of a hard-working, outdoor activity loving nitwit: the expected excellence from the creator of John Shuttleworth), the painfully writ-neutered Ben Elton - the Musical (so bad, blunt and misdirected it was sublime in a way; I thought that the solo-performer Dan Willis had to be mentally ill to do it, so congratulations to him), and Reginald D Hunter, quite possibly the coolest MF currently walking the Earth, in his hilarious show Pride and Prejudice and Niggas.
Performing inside the big purple cow (aka the E4 Udderbelly), it had some wonderfully thoughtful moments to do with his father admitting he did some unsavoury things for money while serving in the military and expertly tackling the thorny issue of being a man, as well as finding time for audience participation with such questions as: "Can everybody who has seen their own asshole put their hands up?" I really do love and respect the combination of daring and reflective material peppered with F-words.
Actually, thinking back all three of the mentioned performers produced sock puppets (a chimpanzee, Sooty with Tony Blair's face stuck on it and a cute little Loch Ness Monster) sometime during their shows. This suggests a disturbing trend or a silly coincidence.
But I can make this promise: I will go back again. And possibly, again. It could become my August ritual. The feeling that I could miss out on so many fantastic and bloody awful things is too terrible to contemplate. I would also like to give a shout-out to Jenny Lion once again for providing such wonderfully comfortable double beds. They were the kind that turn you into a hundred year slumbering Sleeping Beauty.
I can also safely say that flyering for a show was one of the most dispiriting experiences in my entire life (and I have worked as care assistant). Yes, I did it for exactly three minutes, but my respect for the flyering masses (and in Edinburgh they be smiling or sullen masses, swarms etc) has risen to a level so astounding you might just faint when I confirm the altitude they have attained.
I never realised how alive an Edinburgh with a Fringe on top with its hundreds, maybe thousands of attractions (yes, let's include the grimy buskers and the mad action painters in their bikini bottoms cavorting outside the National Gallery) can make you feel. Anyone who has a cross-section of interest in theatre, film, comedy and books and finds themselves in the cobbled Scottish capital will think the Fringe to be possibly the greatest thing that has ever been invented. There is just too much to see and do and it overwhelms you in a kind of beatific way.
Leaving last Thursday, induced no little regret that I couldn't stay and partake of such other delights as Mark Watson's I'm Worried That I'm Starting To Hate Almost Everyone in the World, the play Black Watch, my hero and US President elect Doug Stanhope, the Zidane film and so much more. My God, I was even dying to see Russell Brand in the end. The Swine (hey, you didn't see that coming did ya?) Just as I was getting started into the addictive rhythm of going to shows, it was all over. In reflection, a dull pain swallows at my heart. I felt like I got some rubbish computer demo instead of the full whack in the end and it was all my fault for spending money like Viv Nicholson (though I kept up my strange feat of eating in a Mexican restaurant in every country capital I visit ... oddly, the best has been Edinburgh and its foine chimichangas) and having to head home to stop the cash haemorrhaging. But, you know, such is life and human fraility.
Yet I did see some shows. Apart from Jenny's reviewed show in the post below, I watched Graham Fellows' new laser-screeching concreter character Dave Tordoff (finely nuanced and accurate in its portrayal of a hard-working, outdoor activity loving nitwit: the expected excellence from the creator of John Shuttleworth), the painfully writ-neutered Ben Elton - the Musical (so bad, blunt and misdirected it was sublime in a way; I thought that the solo-performer Dan Willis had to be mentally ill to do it, so congratulations to him), and Reginald D Hunter, quite possibly the coolest MF currently walking the Earth, in his hilarious show Pride and Prejudice and Niggas.
Performing inside the big purple cow (aka the E4 Udderbelly), it had some wonderfully thoughtful moments to do with his father admitting he did some unsavoury things for money while serving in the military and expertly tackling the thorny issue of being a man, as well as finding time for audience participation with such questions as: "Can everybody who has seen their own asshole put their hands up?" I really do love and respect the combination of daring and reflective material peppered with F-words.
Actually, thinking back all three of the mentioned performers produced sock puppets (a chimpanzee, Sooty with Tony Blair's face stuck on it and a cute little Loch Ness Monster) sometime during their shows. This suggests a disturbing trend or a silly coincidence.
But I can make this promise: I will go back again. And possibly, again. It could become my August ritual. The feeling that I could miss out on so many fantastic and bloody awful things is too terrible to contemplate. I would also like to give a shout-out to Jenny Lion once again for providing such wonderfully comfortable double beds. They were the kind that turn you into a hundred year slumbering Sleeping Beauty.
I can also safely say that flyering for a show was one of the most dispiriting experiences in my entire life (and I have worked as care assistant). Yes, I did it for exactly three minutes, but my respect for the flyering masses (and in Edinburgh they be smiling or sullen masses, swarms etc) has risen to a level so astounding you might just faint when I confirm the altitude they have attained.
posted by That Quiz Guy at 5:48 PM
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