Ed Fringe Review Blog

As I wander to a fairly central Edinburgh venue, whose exact location bears very little influence on the star rating of this review but whose inclusion helps pad things out to four hundred words, I am not sure what to expect. This is because the title of the production I am going to see, like all good new writing at the Fringe, has a non-informative mono-syllabic title like “Play”, which I can hopefully use in a punny way in my last sentence.

It turns out Play is a profound elicitation of some really relatable issues such as gender, identity and dysfunctional family relations. Production company Wearethenextbigthing tackles these issues in the claustrophic space of a stage, confronted with rows of chairs on which the audience sit facing them.

The acting of this cast is generally good, with some flaws. Particular mention goes to the husband figure (played by Barnabius Willoughby-Huntingdon-Fitch), mainly because I can’t read the name I wrote down in the dark for the actress who plays his wife. Willoughby-Huntingdon-Fitch is particularly good at being particularly good, with some flaws. His relationship with his wife is stilted and physically non-existent – but that makes sense because they’ve been together for nearly four years so obviously no longer have a sex life. When the husband does start having an affair all the juicy bits happen off stage which is a bit of shame. Structurally the entire integrity of the elicitation of the really relatable issues would be exponentially on a more successful niveau if we got to watch the hanky-panky.

If there is one thing wrong with Play, it is that it wasn’t very playful. This is ironic. It’s almost as if the blood-spattered sheets in the background foreshadow the dark undertones of the last scene. An interesting and experimental decision with the lighting means that the entirety of the second half is played out in pitch black, as a symbolic representation of the emotional darkness descending on the characters. After ten minutes of this some members of the audience are actually driven to leave; proof of the harrowing nature of being forced to watch a symbolic representation of emotional darkness.

Play isn’t the best thing on at the Fringe, nor is it the worst. However I went to see it, and feel duty bound as a reviewer to inform you that you should also go. Hurry along now, don’t “PLAY” about. And feel free to make up your own pun on the title. 

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Found predominantly in the busy social hubbub of the Royal Mile, Leafleters tend to begin their day in groups. There is no predicting when certain Leafleters will exit their homes but there tends to be a routine to their activity. 

They face a gruelling task. Unlike the majority of their species they do not spend their day scavenging for food, a show or a friend. Instead, regardless of the weather conditions, they roam laden with paper of all shapes and sizes. Of all the creatures on the Royal Mile, excluding the unicycle riding juggler, the Leafleters are those with the most energy. They expend it with continued smiling, jumping and hand waving alongside many fruitless attempts at wit. 

They are not the most efficient workers and are prone to boredom, often wandering away from their task. The most experienced of the Leafleters bide their time, select their prey with precision (normally solitary individuals) and pounce with an arm casually outstretched and an air of nonchalance on their face. The younger watch those more mature with eagerness but find their attempts are often met with derision and scowls. They are yet to understand the complexities of the Leafleters' task but they practice amongst themselves, swapping leaflets with nodding encouragements and false bravado. Leafleters are team players and when one begins to tire another will soon take their place. Their work continues until late in the day when their prey begins to dwindle. Many are called upon to perform elsewhere but as the sun begins to lower itself behind Edinburgh castle so great swathes of Leafleters begin the steady decline to the watering hole. From here there is no telling when they will head back home. Once disarmed of paper it is very difficult to distinguish a Leafleter from other members of the species. They drink and chat late into the night, happily disguised amid the masses.

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Third night at the Fringe he goes with his girlfriend to see a piece of immersive theatre called ‘Gun Slinging Madness’. Plunge into the Wild West shouts the flyering acolyte outside. He doesn’t really like the sound of it and the venue is damp and dark but because he is painfully aware of her at his side he tells her that he goes to many such shows back in London and when the director calls out for volunteers for the role of ‘Cowboy 1’ his arm shoots up. He walks on and is handed props. Leather boots, a thick poncho, a wide-brimmed hat, a gun-holster and a long jet-black revolver. After pulling on the boots and clothes he stares at it for a few seconds bewildered and then realisation comes to him in the weight of the thing, its cool skin against his. On stage in the brightness it seems a grotesque gleaming pebble. A black stone, a patch of darkness wrenched from its kind and pressed into his hand. They must have given it to him as a joke. Concentric carvings on the butts of slugs poke out at him from the cylinder like demonic symbols. Very funny, he wants to say, very convincing. You can have it back now, hey, take it back. He looks for mirth in the eyes around him but finds expectation only. He wants to protest but could this all be part of the show and shouldn’t he go with it. The light cuts him off from the audience. It cannot be real but its weight in his palm and that coppery gleam from the cylinder destroy hopeful delusion like bullets through glass, through bone. He’s being talked at. Put it in the holster and we can get started. Number one rule keep your hands away before the signal. Scene three finds us at the Blue Horns Crossroads where two young ranch-hands meet between rows of swinging doors and parasoled bystanders to settle a dispute over the pharmacist’s pretty daughter. Rocky crags boiling in the distance, adobe farmhouses across the river. Plunge into the Wild West. Hands grip his arm. He begins to sweat, opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t want to look bad so laughs nervously instead. The gun nestles neatly in the leather straps. Aren’t these props too elaborate, too heavy… a stout balding man also from the audience struggles with tall red boots at the other end of the stage grinning while his friends giggle below. All a bit of fun, he should go along with it. The floor is covered in dust of varying thickness. He will die in dust like hated vermin in wainscot burrows. No, he doesn’t have to do this he can just refuse and walk off stage but maybe he should go with it because how could it be real, it’s only a bit of fun at the Fringe. Somebody is counting down from five and the other cowboy is tense his knees bent in mantis-pose fingers twitching by his hips. He tries to do the same but is suddenly pierced by fear and tries to leap for the audience but too late the air explodes and when he touches the ground there is a hot slug buried in his armpit. Chaos breaks people scream and jump like startled hares. His eyes are acclimatised to the light of the stage so now he stares into blackness as hands take him and faces bellow into his but they are faint and faraway like those in a dream.

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Although I like to consider myself an okay-at-most-things sort of girl -- a almost all-rounder, if you will -- there are two things within my capacity which I fail sensationally at. One: knowing when to stop eating when I'm full (childhood was riddled with unexpected vomit scenarios) and two: my sense of direction. As a general rule, I try to go against my instincts whenever I'm attempting to navigate my way anywhere without a map -- and that normally turns out, well, almost right. But after spending a week in the Fringe-fizzing city last year, and again this year, I truly thought I'd be able to find my way around. Edinburgh can't be that big, can it? Turns out it can.

  Misguidance No. 1 occurs after seeing a performance in the city centre -- you know, where all the shops are ... and Waverley station is kind of near (the street name? Good one). I am with a fellow reviewer until we reach the Mound; all is well, but then he departs. Where from here? I walk a little further until I reach a road I recognise, which is utterly jam-packed; police are ushering people out of the road and everybody literally has to breathe in to try and squeeze through the clamouring swarm of people on the pavement. I soon discover that the blockage has come from a queue for the Edinburgh Tattoo (which is not, as I previously considered, a really popular tattoo parlour, but instead a nightly firework display held at Edinburgh's beautiful hilltop castle). Once we are free to roam, I start to head past the castle itself. As I continue further and further, an overwhelming sense of familiarity starts to pervade me as I realise I have been here before. Yet instead of feeling relieved, it is despair which clouds me; the last time I ended up in this deserted, unknown land of yore was precisely one year ago, when I was utterly and sensationally lost.

  The sad thing is that I know I have been heading in the wrong direction the whole time, but for some reason thought the gods would take pity on me this time and acutely swerve me to where my destiny, and dinner, lie. Yet I boldly muster on, whipping out my geriatric phone to see if GPS might actually work for once. From the three pixels of map this excuse for technology offers, I decipher that a right turn will send me in vaguely the correct direction. Determination in my stride, I walk for some time and reach a main street with shops on. One that seems to be ... near the station again ... ? Surely not. The map said right, so I'll continue. With my will falling away like a disintegrating flyer caught in the rain, I stop an elderly woman to ask for directions.

'The Meadows?' she repeats, noting my tomato-red face and growling stomach with pity. 'Ooh love, it's quite a walk away. It'll take you about half an hour.' I nod, and choke back tears which rise up, hot, when anyone imparts the slightest ounce of sympathy to me when I'm already feeling sorry for myself. 'Thanks,' I mumble, and outwardly curse. The woman smiles compassionately and wishes me luck.

  Take 2. I head in the direction she recommends, puffing and panting as I tell myself it'll be worth it for the hopefully lovely dinner cooked by someone else in the house, all ready for me upon my return. I reach the wasteland from before, only this time take a different turn. This seems promising, and although I feel I might at last be on the right track, if I've learnt anything, it's to always check. Stopping by a bouncer as I pass an early-opening club, I ask if he knows where the Meadows are.

'Yeah,' he says proudly, affirming with a nod. I wait. Nothing.

'Erm ... could you tell me where they are?'

'Oh!' he exclaims, and slowly complies.

  Are you bored yet? I am. Like the never-ending journey I take every time I try to rectify a map-mistake, the excruciating detail of this piece will leave you tearing out your hair lost-traveller style. Misguidance No. 2 is scarcely worth mentioning, other than the fact it took an overall 30 mins less to get back than No. 1 -- which, bizarrely, I counted as a triumph.

  Do you have a bad sense of direction? It's not fun. Roundabouts join up in your head, streets disappear, shops are replaced by others and houses split apart. After the fourth time you go somewhere, you think 'By Jove, Eureka, Jiminy Cricket! At last! I've cracked this!' (if you also happen to be an ancient Greek over 80)  ... only to end up in a different town.

  So did I ever make it home?

  The hapless bouncer's directions are correct, and with a triumphant march I set foot upon Marchmont Road (...sorry). Slamming shut the door to the apartment block, I scale the stairs, weakly set down my bag once inside and head through. As I walk into the kitchen and am greeted with a distinct lack of dinner smells, I enquire as politely as I can to the two designated cooks of the night as to where the vegetarian food is.

'Oh, er, yeah ...' comes the hesitant response, 'Yeah, sorry, there were some vegetables but we ate them all. Sorry.'

My face falls as the tears threaten to rear their salty heads again. No .. food? After everything? No food? Dejected, ungrateful and alone, I try to shrug it off and mumble something about buying more as I consider how on earth I'll ever get my weary arse in gear to go out again for ingredients to scramble together a half-edible meal. Hey, at least there won't be any vomiting tonight.

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One of my most vivid 13-year-old memories (which has somehow eclipsed any detailed recall of Avril Lavigne’s first album or all those happy hours spent on Bebo) is that of sitting in a Year 8 Physics lesson, and being told by our teacher, Mr. Dootson, that ‘you can’t deny that women just aren’t as funny as men’.

  Despite the fact that I was probably fighting a Physics-induced stupor at the time, my scientifically inept 13-year-old brain did register this comment. I remember a flicker of doubt surfacing in my mind. I turned to look at the sweaty, pimpled teenage boy sitting next to me and wondered why his extra appendage - and my serious lack thereof – should affect my ability to make a decent joke.

  But then… maybe it did, I thought. Maybe I should focus on looking pretty and losing weight and being clever (but not too loudly because no one likes a girl who’s a know-it-all, oh and take your glasses off because they are geeky and contact lenses will transform you into a Princess WHICH ALL GIRLS SHOULD WANT TO BE #PrincessDiariesEatYourHeartOut).

  In any case, being in Edinburgh has brought this particularly patriarchal memory bobbing to the surface of my mind like a bloated goldfish in the murky fishbowl that is our society. The Fringe is crowded with hilarious, witty, intelligent women who are actually making their living as comedians despite the fact that, controversially, they all own vaginas. Yet somehow this old, irrelevant and sexist (yes, sexist) debate about ‘whether women really can be funny’ rages on - as a quick Google-search can testify.

  Let me put it this way: as far as I can tell, in no other industry is this style of question an acceptable one. Nobody overtly asserts that women are inherently less musical, less artistic, less capable at leading a business or somehow less deserving of a political voice purely because of their gender. Of course, many of these assumptions still linger in the shadows of these professions, waiting to emerge in the form of that sneaky pay-gap. But no one with an ounce of influence or rationality says -  ‘well, you know, you can’t deny that women just aren’t as good at making decisions about our Country as men are’. To do so is tantamount to admitting to (the majority of) society that you are closed minded, sexist, out-of-touch and just plain wrong. Instead, we all look at the House of Commons, see that about 80% of our MPs are men - and a large proportion of those white, middle-class and straight - and proceed to get a bit uncomfortable about the murky waters of our fishbowl that we are all paddling blindly around in (cue Davey C doing his Cabinet reshuffle for women).

  The problem is that as long we are telling impressionable adolescents, in whatever way, that men are inherently funnier than women, society is going to be driving a wedge into an already gaping cultural rift. Imagine the effect and subsequent scandal if good ol’ Mr. Dootson had told us that men’s superior aptitude for Physics was undeniable, since all his favourite Physicists were men and all the University Physics Faculties he knew of were stacked full of men. It would clearly be a destructive opinion based on oodles of logical fallacies.  

  In the same way, we need to stop telling our young women that they are less confident, less charismatic and somehow less entitled to the moment when you make a room full of people laugh. Perhaps then female comedians would be more abundant in our festivals, our panel shows and our comedy nights. In the 70s, a man called Paul McGhee did a study where he measured the amount of jokes boys and girls told at certain ages. He found that before the age of six, girls and boys tell as many jokes as each other, but after that girls make fewer jokes than boys. Basically, women’s humour is on the same social footing as men’s in the first six years of life, but then, surprise, surprise, as girls start school, they get the message that they should suppress it. So a toddler ‘Mock the Week’ would have no problem getting it’s fair share of female panellists, it would seem.

  Additionally, having vaulted a whole series of social hurdles to get there, once that minority of female comedians actually make it onto the circuit, the pressure is on, not only to ‘prove that women are funny’ on behalf of the entire gender, but to be inordinately attractive whilst doing it. Everything about the industry pushes women out of it, noting viciously on Sarah Millican’s BAFTA dress), ‘No you’re a woman remember – never mind the comedy, you have to be pretty’. In the same depressingly familiar vein, this week I heard the comedian Carly Smallman talk about how she had been subjected to some malicious trolling on Twitter after her stint on an ITV2 show; ‘I wasn’t so upset because they were trolling me’ she had explained, in a particularly hilarious section of her set, ‘but because, instead of telling me that my jokes were bad like they did to the men, they told me that my face was ugly and that I was fat.’ (I’m going to say the only thing which I can possibly say now which is #DoubleStandards.)

  In this sense, even entertaining the question: ‘are women as funny as men?’ is adding fuel to the fire of sexism that is being fought on every level of society. It is actively undermining the potential for female comedians to thrive. It is hugely damaging to the industry itself, discouraging diversity and encouraging adversity. It is completely the wrong question. Instead we should be asking – why aren’t as many women going into comedy as men? Why are we teaching our young women to be submissive and insecure and self-conscious? And, perhaps more pertinently, why do we live in a culture where this blog post will cement some people’s ideas that women are dull and unfunny and that I am - to quote one particularly charming chap I encountered of an eve - an ‘illogical, lesbian, feminist bitch’? (And just so you know - yes, I did point out the etymological irony of his turn-of-phrase to him). 

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Tuesday August 12th – 10:45am

Have researched Arthur’s Seat and found that it is a 250 metre climb to the top. Somehow reach the decision that this will be more than manageable and set off for Holyrood Park. It’s raining and windy and I’m pleased that I’m getting the authentic Scottish outdoors experience. Quickly get lost on a housing estate and am reminded of Frost’s path less travelled. Decide this probably wasn’t what he meant. Finally reach the park and begin the climb to the top. First 100 metres are a cakewalk and I start wondering whether I should go up and down twice to make the trip worth my while. Breeze past a number of dumpy joggers in ill-fitting lyrca. Unbeknownst to me, the last 100 metres are at a much sharper incline and I make it another 200 yards before running out of steam. I turn around to savour the view I’ve earned and find a bank of cloud cover greeting me. Looking down the hill I see a dumpy jogger materialise out of the fog before shuffling past me on her way to the summit. Swear at her on my breath and begin the return leg. Quickly find that the reason it was so easy on the way up is that the wind was at my back. I spend minutes at a time furiously running in place while trying gulp down mouthfuls of frigid North Sea air. Swear again for getting the authentic Scottish outdoors experience. Eventually get off the peak and squelch home, determined to have another crack at the Seat later in the week.

  Wednesday August 13th – 11am

Aim to go for a run around the city centre in the early morning to avoid the crowds and see the Castle but end up being late with my reviews and don’t leave the house until much later. My running plans are often rigidly inflexible and I head into town anyway. The architecture is beautiful and I don’t see any of it because I’m trying not to crash into anyone on the street. Decide to take my chances in the cycle lane and nearly get my head taken off by the wing mirror of the 24 bus to West Granton. Eventually find some quieter streets and finally begin to enjoy Edinburgh before two small old ladies stop me to ask where they can find the Japan Marvellous Drummers. Lean over their map, drenching both them and it in sweat, before remembering that I have literally no knowledge of the city that might help them. They thank me for wasting their time and covering them in sweat, I thank them for interrupting my zen-like flow, and we go our separate ways. Get lost and end up trying to cross the Royal Mile in an attempt to orientate myself and get home. Remember half way across that this is probably the busiest street in Scotland and a terrible idea but, haunted by my falling short at Arthur’s seat, soldier on. Proceed to knock an ice cream cone out of a child’s hand but conquer the Mile. Stagger into a Starbucks on the way home and disregard a queue at least fifteen deep to ask for a cup of water. The barista looks at the puce-coloured mess before him and fetches a glass of water anyway, deciding to forgive his questionable queuing etiquette.

  Friday August 15th – 2:15pm

Plan another crack at Arthur’s Seat and decide to plan day carefully so as to avoid a repeat of the last outing. Disregard plan and eat a footlong Spicy Italian sub as my pre-run meal. Opt for a cookie as well just to seal the deal. Predictably hellish run ensues which sees me sprawled on the grass at what must be mere inches higher than what I achieved on Monday. Am reminded of Samuel Beckett: ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail Better.’ Truly horrendous pain in my stomach prevents me from taking a satisfying amount solace from this. Jogging home at the speed of a geriatric with a double hip replacement, I have time to reflect on running as a means of exploring a city in a way unattainable to non-runners. Decide that yes, no other EFR reviewer has had quite the same experiences of housing estates, irritating Japanese women and diabolical indigestion that I have had. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to returning to Edinburgh and failing better at getting up Arthur’s Seat.

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Edinburgh is the home of Harry Potter. Famously, J. K. Rowling created the world and begin writing the books here. So if you’re stuck with some time between shows or fancy a bite to eat, then here are a few places that no true Harry Potter fan can afford to miss.

1. The Elephant House

This lovely café on George IV Bridge is where Rowling wrote her early novels in the back room looking over Edinburgh Castle. Whether you fancy some coffee to sit down and write some inspiring reviews or a spot of food (I recommend the Tuna Panini), this is a lovely place to spend a few hours. And make sure you visit the toilets where you’ll find hundreds of quotes, dedications and messages to the generation-defining books.

2. Greyfriars Kirkyard

When writing her novels, Rowling walked around Greyfriars Kirkyard on Candlemaker Row and took names from those buried there for characters. On a wander round the yard, you’ll see Potters, McGonagall and, perhaps most hauntingly, the grave of Thomas Riddle. Whilst it may feel slightly strange to be walking around a graveyard, the chill you feel when you see Thomas Riddle’s name will rival those you felt when reading about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

3. J. K. Rowling’s Handprints on The Royal Mile

This one is slightly self-explanatory but do pop by to see Rowling’s stone handprints that have been in the grounds of Edinburgh’s City Chambers since 2009.  

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I applied to join EFR mainly due to the attraction of free tickets to shows, cheap accommodation and food, and societal pressures to build up work experience due to the current economic climate and low graduate employment. The usual. But once you don your snazzy red jumper (in itself a pretty major perk), you see the side of the Fringe that is missed by the casual visitor – the good, the bad, and the brain-meltingly bizarre. Here are some of the best bits of being a reviewer:

1. Getting super cultured by going to a whole range of shows you never would have seen given any choice in the matter. Sometimes, it seems you had the right idea, and it's a really horrible show. But that just makes the rare moments of shock when you realise “Hang on, I'm actually enjoying this!” even sweeter.

2. Swanning up to the ticket desk and saying (just loud enough so that the beautiful artsy guy behind can hear and be dead impressed by your coolness): “I believe I have a press ticket reserved?”

3. The EFR flat. It's barely big enough for the team of ten, the front door is basically impossible to open, and it's covered in enough flyers to repaper it entirely, but for five lovely days it was home. Aww.

4. Your Twitter feed experiences an unprecedented boom in activity as performers, directors retweet your praise. Shallow, but oh so gratifying.

5. You get to experience the wonderful awkwardness of realising that, far from being a kind gesture, your 'reserved front row seats' leave you sandwiched between the performer's friends and kin. They laugh manically at every joke, gasp at every plot twist, and crane their necks to decipher your notes. In all likelihood, they're more entertaining than whatever's going on onstage.

6. If you're (un)lucky, you may get to experience the equally wonderful awkwardness of turning up to a show to find that you and your co-reviewer constitute the entire audience. There may or may not be good reason for this.

7. Shows are so desperate for the coveted 5 stars from EFR that they'll shower you with food, money (Scottish money, but still) and affection in exchange for overlooking the flaws in their production. Just kidding. We don't do that. But not for lack of trying. No, really, we don't.

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I went to my first Edinburgh Fringe as a hard-nosed critic, and came back a giggling school girl. The drama kids at school and university have always been the ones most concerned with how they were dressed, so it should have been no surprise to me that many of the actors, actresses, and even common pedestrians lurking around Scotland’s capital city this August are pretty smoking. However, as I attended show after show, stand up after roguishly attractive stand up, I became more and more impressed with the exceptionally good gene-pool of the fringe world.

So without further ado, I present you with the most professional ‘what-to-watch’ list at this year’s Edinburgh Fringe Festival:

Most All-Round Attractive Ensemble – The Canon, CToo, 15.25

The Canon is a literary sketch show presented by mixed Cambridge ensemble No Mean Feet. When not making us laugh uproariously with their take on the traditional Oxbridge English tutorial, or chuckle at Health and Safety meets Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, the average audience member cannot help but note that these guys and gals are universally possessed of great good looks. Watch out for one of the cast members dressed as the physical embodiment of the French Romance Novel. If reading my course list was half this enjoyable then I would have finished ‘The Faerie Queen’ weeks ago.

Most Naked Bodies – The Curing Room, Pleasance Dome, 12.00

Stripped Down Productions live up to their name in presenting a play acted entirely by fully naked men. Whilst the entire cast is impressively toned (especially given the wide age range), I should warn that those looking for any form of titillation will be unfortunately disappointed. The Curing Room depicts the descent into cannibalism of seven Polish soldiers trapped in a cellar. It gets very dark very quickly, and after about five minutes the penises are barely even noticeable. It’s only when the cast come back on wearing trousers for their curtain call that you remember they were ever really naked in the first place.

Most Likely to Go to the Pub With – Up The Auntie, C-Nova, 14.00

Another score for Cambridge from the hilarious two boys that make up ‘The Foxymorons’. Both of them seem genuinely nice guys, and evenings in the pub would probably be spent in a happy hazy state of drunkenness and impressions. Plus they’d probably insist on buying your drinks.

Your Mother Would Most Like You to Bring Home – Rory O’Keeffe is a Fussy Eater, Southsider, 15.15

Like the Foxymorons, O’Keeffe seems like one of the nicest guys hanging around at the Fringe. He’s dressed well, is extremely well spoken and would probably charm your mum within about five minutes of setting foot in the door. Plus he’s a pretty funny guy.

EDIT: Ironically the day after this was written I somehow ended up at a coffee shop sitting next to the Foxymorons. An entertaining fifteen minutes later and I feel justified in my choice… ‘They just look so friendly!’ my fellow reviewer Cat keeps repeating. 

Most Raw Sex Appeal – Americana, C-South, 21.45

This new musical by Hungry Bitches Productions isn’t afraid to ramp up the sex appeal. There is something for every discerning viewer here – popular athletic type with a topknot? Check. Captain of the football team? Check. Hipster type with unwashed hair? Check. Super-seductive girl in fishnets? Check. Outrageously twerking man who looks a bit like a hot Jesus? Check, check, check. EFR Tip: For maximum sex-appeal, sit in the front row. The cast aren’t afraid to get up close and personal during the many great songs. 

Most Likely to Infuriate Your Dad – Sweeney Todd/ Dorian Gray, theSpace, 20.00

Another Soup are the cast that you could easily be friends with. And when I say ‘friends’, I mean bad influences. They’re the sort of attractive people that would drag you to inappropriate parties on a school night, persuade you to try your first cigarette and take you to that slightly dodgy music festival. Being friends with them would probably raise your street-cred significantly, but your dad would definitely think that they were Not Good News. Either way, both of their productions are highly enjoyable immersive musicals (giving you plenty of time to stare without seeming creepy), and if you lurk around long enough afterwards they might just give you an invite to the after party. 

Best Torso – Fifty Shades: The Musical Parody, Assembly Hall, 10.30

I’m not quite sure how most of the EFR house ended up at 50 Shades: The Musical on a Friday night, but somehow we did. Whilst the supposed heart-throb, Christian Grey, was played by a tubby Asian man, the two un-named male extras more than made up for this casting decision. If you’re looking for some shirtless action that doesn’t involve the actors eating human kidneys on-stage, give The Curing Room a miss and head down to Assembly Hall. NB: you will be surrounded by drunk middle-aged women. 

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Reviewing the reviewers in the edfringereview house.

Before this goes any further, I must declare that this review is written with a degree of conflict of interest. Since I lived in the house also, it is probably quite a large degree:  so here is my un-impartial review. I am still going to write in the third person because I can’t think of a simpler way…

Startlingly realistic was the docudrama taking place in the Ed Fringe Review student flat. Starring ten student reviewers, we get an insight into the regular goings-on of the house – or at least as regular as house of ten strangers can be. For six days, we see them eat, sleep, bond, and most importantly – review.

The most striking thing about this piece was the mix of personalities within the group. To those that have not seen it, here are some visual aids to shed some light on why they should:

The editors of the Ed Fringe Review house were not the highly strung, pushy editors that you see on television. The audience immediately warmed to Georgiana and Emily for their on-stage chemistry, as well as their utter lack of the ‘mean boss’ persona.  

  Zack was constantly costumed in a flat cap, which this picture tries, and possibly fails, to depict. Zack would evoke the jealousy of many audience members due to his constant social activity and extreme proficiency at flyering on the Royal Mile.

Lucy’s character was acted with impressive versatility. Her despair at losing her phone to the toilet bowl was convincing and deeply felt by the audience, whilst she also provided moments of hilarity during her slightly tipsy insistence upon RECLINING in the hay at the bar with all the hay.

  Anna was presented as the perfect person to tag along with if you want to make the most of the fringe. Armed with maps and an impressive list of shows to see, this character was not going to miss out on any of the fun. She also made some yummy-looking  eggy bread.

David was definitely the most organised reviewer, the one that real-life reviewers aspire to be like.  Unfortunately for the other reviewers, his efficiency led to an early finish which gave him plenty of time to distract everyone else with the wonder that is youtube. Audience members laughed away as everyone else tried and failed to resist the allure of acapella videos and stand up.

 Easily the best named character, Xavier, or ‘Xav’ seemed to be always right, whether this was in regards to directions, word choice or star ratings. The only area in which he was wrong was his love of the Great Gatsby, which is a truly awful novel.

    Lily was not voted ‘nicest housemate’ for nothing: she was really, really nice. If off-stage housemates were like this, it would make in-house reviewing a much easier process. Saying that, the eye mask that she slept with must have been extremely creepy for the reviewer sleeping next to her if they had received no warning about said mask. It had eyelashes ad everything.

Henry was the king of the random occurrence, ending up on multiple occasions in unexpected places, such as a midday folk-funk performance in a cellar bar. This made him one to watch amongst audience members. I just hope for his sake that he was not drinking real wine during the performance, because there was a lot.

 All in all, it was the varied and wonderful characters in this piece that made it a must see. If they really existed, I am sure that they would have made the week an unforgettable experience.

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I am finding my ever-growing attraction to men in fancy dress disturbing. Guy-liner and a pirate hat? Yes, please. Dancer who looks like Jesus, complete with rubber-band crown of thorns, simulating getting spit-roasted on stage during a musical about gay rights in the American south? Step away, ladies. I worry what the Fringe is doing to my taste in men.

  What there is no shortage of at Edinburgh is Arty Guys. Usually, the Arty Guy is reclusive and hard to find, but in the month of August he is lured out of his usual habitat – a quiet spot, such as a library or a park, where he can brood in full view of everyone else, so they know how Arty he is – to prowl the Royal Mile offering flyers to the unsuspecting passer by. He can also be found in one of Edinburgh’s many independent coffee shops, and feels most at home in establishments with exposed brick walls and coffee that comes in cups smaller than his hands.

  The Arty Guy will don the traditional garb; jeans that are so tight you wonder how he can possibly sit down to play his guitar, and a pair of sunglasses to protect his sensitive eyes from the glaring Scottish sun.

  The mating call of the Arty Guy is somewhat more complex than that of other mammals. Often with vocabulary that includes words like ‘post-modern’ or ‘metatheatrical,’ and almost always at least one quote from Derrida or Spivak, the Arty Guy uses a wide but vague knowledge of literature, theatre and philosophy to impress the opposite sex.

  At the top of the Arty Guy food chain lie the specimens with the ability to grow unnecessarily long beards, and have a line of Tennyson poetry tattooed somewhere on their being. The Fringe is a breeding ground for such men, and is almost definitely the reason that the Arty Guy’s prey, the Alternative Girl, (and a number of disparaging bloggers) return here year upon year, to hunt in the waters (or puddles) of Edinburgh. 

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Within approximately five to six seconds of stepping onto the Royal Mile for your first time upon arriving at the Fringe, you will find yourself assaulted by a seemingly insurmountable troupe of flyerers, foisting their plays, their reviews and, most often, their free new hip young comedy shows!! at you with impressive gusto. Suffice to say, this is mildly irritating the first time it happens and no less so the five hundred and fiftieth time, which will probably happen after under an hour on the Mile. This phenomenon is one of the most recognisable parts of the Fringe experience, and you’ll doubtless find your pockets stuffed with a veritable cornucopia of flyers and promotional material that you’ve accepted out of sheer awkwardness by the time you leave.

I was naturally somewhat apprehensive, then, when the EFR editors told us that we’d be doing an hour of flyering every day. I was going to have to become one of them, the scourges of getting anywhere in Edinburgh quickly and quietly, and I was going to have to be that person you make the decision to avoid from ten feet away, for an hour every day. When we started, I wasn’t very good at it – people were avoiding me and awkwardly declining my flyers as readily as I had other flyerers merely a day beforehand, and I hadn’t experienced this much rejection since I first downloaded Tinder. But as our shift wore on I began to get into it, smiling more genuinely and getting a lot more interested responses in return; I began to talk to people about our website, telling them how funny and stuffed with humour my reviews were, and recommending my favourite, lesser-known shows to people. I also spoke to the other flyerers working the same area as I was, trading flyers with them and promising to try and see their shows in response for them visiting our website.

By the end of my week’s flyering, I’m not going to claim that I was a completely changed man; I still don’t accept just any old flyer that’s thrust my way, and I still got infuriated every time I tried to get somewhere quickly onto to run into more paper and card blocking my way than you could shake a stick, or wave an apologetic hand, at. Nonetheless, I felt more camaraderie, however unearned it was, towards my fellow flyerers, and took the time to stop and chat to those who made a more genuine effort, rather than the halfhearted, dead-eyed attempts which make up the majority of flyerers you see towards the end of the day.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s still really annoying just how many of them there are, and how lazy some of the lines they use are, but by the end of my week I found myself less bothered by this than I was before, remembering, as I now did, how disheartening it could be to go through a long stretch of angry-looking tourists who had precisely zero time for anything paper-based heading their way. Flyering may still be irritating, but now I understand what it’s like to be on the other side of it, I’d urge everyone to take the time to respond with a commensurate level of enthusiasm to any flyerer who goes above and beyond the usual lack of effort in their duties.

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It is part of the unique charm of the Edinburgh Festival that the strangest little interactions can happen; this is the result of the population of a city almost doubling every August.

 My personal highlight started with a small Red and Black notebook, which I lost in the Pleasance Dome after seeing my third show out of ten (oops). I went back to look for it but alas, it was nowhere to be found. Bereft of this journalistic centrepiece, I had to actually remember what happened at the day’s shows in the flat’s 2am haze of glowing screens and bourbons.

I took this in my stride though, ploughing on through tales of family and Tom Jones (the two predominant themes in the shows I reviewed), expecting to never see that little rectangle of paper and dormant ideas again. How wrong I was! At a loss at what to do, the indomitable Xavier was flicking through the fringe program when he saw Ross Sutherland’s show at Summerhall, just down the road from the flat. Xav had been watching his videos for a while but I had never heard of him. We decided to go, having nothing much to do at that time, and I went to have a bath (my disdain for the pitiful shower we had could fill up another blogpost entirely). After buying the tickets, Xav decided, on a whim, to look Mr. Sutherland up on Twitter. While I was submerged, serendipity erupted from Xav’s laptop.

 You see, Xav had just seen my handwriting just before as we were having fun with whiteboards. And on Ross Sutherland’s twitter, he had just posted this image of my hastily scribbled notes for Party In the USA (Go and see that it’s great):

  So here we were, having discovered my notebook on the Internet, totally at random. We tweeted him, he tweeted back and we were off! We could come pick it up after the show that very night. And we were about to do this, half an hour before his show started and about ten minute’s walk away. But we decided to get pizza. So we found a pizza place, very convently located, but realised that neither Xav nor I had any cash. So we went searching for a cashpoint but THERE ARE NO FUCKING CASHPOINTS IN CENTRAL EDINBURGH. Long story short, one misidentified shortcut later, we missed the show, and the people at the box office couldn’t find the notebook that had apparently been left there. So close, but yet so far.

Several days later, I tweeted Ross again, and we agreed to meet. After realising I had no idea what he looked like, I stalked his selfies and we finally met, face to face. My notebook was returned and my epic saga of self-discovery was over. I could have got a picture for this but is not the preserving of an event in picture form a lessening of its value? (Probably not, I’m just lazy and not good at asking for photos)

It’s this kind of thing that really makes the festival happen. So many people have shows on and so so many people come together. Ross said he was doing tech for another show to fund his own; there’s all this connections that build up and intertwine to create the atmosphere that you really can’t find anywhere else. What else you find is the subnetworks: the various improvised a capella groups who meet up at the stroke of midnight to face off (I imagine), the saturation of Grindr at such a massive theatre event as this one, and who’s flyering next to who on the Royal Mile. After all, theatre is the triumph of the individual among an ensemble, as this kind of this truly displays.

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Beardy Aussie man

Tries for participation

Stay away from me

~*~

Jawline to cut glass

Serenade me the way home

My sad fantasy

~*~

Rollerblading group

I left my laptop behind

I was so entranced

~*~

Walk past you each day

Songs are always the same and

Aren’t getting better

~*~

You are a cute kid

Your instrument, however

Needs a good tuning

~*~

How many gold coins

To steal you home to sing for

Me forevermore?

~*~

Love your voice SO MUCH

My god, you’re like, so funny!

Do you sell CDs?

~*~

Lady with weird hair

Plays intense ukulele

Can I be you please?

~*~

I appreciate

Your persistence in rain. Don’t

get pneumonia. 

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One of the shows I attended whilst in Edinburgh was performed in the gardens of Duddingston Kirk. The village of Duddingston is about two and a half miles east of the centre of Edinburgh, and my co-reviewer and I took the 42 bus in order to get there. On the way back, however, we missed it, and instead of waiting half an hour for the next one, decided instead to walk back into town. Later, I did some research into the local history of this stunningly beautiful area.

The Kirk itself was built in around 1124 by a Norman knight, Dodin, from whom the current name of the village is derived (coming from Dodinestun, first used in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries). It was later enlarged, along with the parish boundaries in 1631, and a gatehouse was built in the early 19th century as a precaution against “bodysnatchers” or “resurrectionists” – people who would dig up recently-buried corpses in order to sell them to anatomists.

The village also boasts what is supposedly the oldest pub in Scotland, the Sheep Heid Inn, which is said to have originated in 1360. After sheep from the Holyrood Park were slaughtered and taken to be sold in Edinburgh, the locals were left with the heads, for which there was no commercial demand. The name of the pub, therefore, comes from the villagers’ reputation for culinary efforts with sheep’s heads.

The walk to Edinburgh from Duddingston takes you through Holyrood Park, the royal park associated with the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The palace is the official residence of the Scottish monarch, and is situated at the bottom of the famous (or, during the Fringe, infamous) Royal Mile. Queen Elizabeth spends a week here at the beginning of the summer, performing various official duties (or at least, she does for now…).

Part of the park is Duddingston Loch, the only natural loch in Edinburgh. It has been a wildlife reserve managed by the Scottish Wildlife Trust since 1923, and is the setting of Henry Raeburn’s famous painting The Skating Minister (the loch has been historically used for both ice-skating and curling). Indeed, Duddingston was a favourite location for many Edinburgh-based artists; the novelist Walter Scott was ordained as an elder at the Kirk in 1806, and another notable painter, the Reverend John Thomson, was a minister in the mid-19th century.

But of course, none of this knowledge about the area quite encapsulates the beauty of the landscape to which we were treated. Even on a drizzly, grey Saturday afternoon, the misty surface of the water, the sheer and powerful rock-faces, and the rugged vegetation that lined the route were truly a sight to behold. It is a sight you seldom see in England – at least near where I’m from – where for nature to be attractive it must be meticulously ordered and sculpted until it is barely natural at all. This is the environment at its barest, its most powerful, its most attractive.

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No man is an island, yet there was a sense of community in the group hat gathered around the ‘island’ in the kitchen in order to experience Zack’s Vegetarian Curry.

  A one-man show requires a strong centrepiece, and this evening certainly delivered one. An impressive array of metatheatrical techniques were used in the making of this curry, including sweet potatoes that self-consciously represented the dialogical synthesis of artistic integrity and consumerism.

  Theatrical accessibility is an ongoing concern of contemporary society, but this curry tackled exclusionary elitism by having something for everyone. With top notes of coconut, pesto, and je ne sais quoi; this melee, this melange of vetalia certainly held its own per se.

  Though the English language lacks the adjectival capacity necessary to encompass this feat of culinary greatness, I can only ask you, the reader to choose (#receptiontheory #breakingthefourthwall): voluptuous, serendipitous, inimicable, omnipotent, infallible, ostentatious…the list goes on.

  Sitting in the kitchen, we felt that we had encountered something that escaped the confines of the tangible world, and soared into the World of Forms beyond; this was no shadow on the wall, but a Beatific Vision, transferring the diners into a state of eudaimonaic transcendence.

  This was the climax of a delicately-flavoured, saucy evening. To affirm the famous closing lines of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’; “yes I said yes I will yes.”

~*~*~*~

‘Zack’s Vegetarian Curry’, created and delivered by Zack, is an interactive one-man performance piece, which, though aesthetically pleasing to one who is fully colour-blind, leaves a sour taste in the mouth. The location is the airy kitchen of an Edinburgh flat; the audience are seated around a dining room table; the curry reaches the middle; everything goes wrong. Though there is potential for improvement, the universe is only finite, and so it is fairly unlikely.

The piece does not suffer from a lack of progression over the course of the evening; indeed, its direction is interminably downhill. The setting itself is promising – a table; chairs; cutlery; there are even plates. Unfortunately, this is the performance’s zenith, after which there is a slow descent through Dante’s nine circles of hell: repetitive; sparse; cold; tasteless; uninspiring; unfunny; repetitive; potentially poisonous; repetitive. And this is just to speak of the multitudinous, tiny, refrigerated, edible, beige, novelty, multitudinous, sulphur-stained, multitudinous napkins. As for the food, I felt like Oliver Twist eating dinner at the workhouse, except I couldn’t bear to ask for any more. Between each mouthful, an adjacent audience member was heard to whisper under her breath, apparently in a trance, the closing lines of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men’: “This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper”.

It would be possible to salvage an atom of hope from the piece, if only the acting had been up to scratch, but, alas, Zack wasn’t convincing anyone. The gnarled facial expression, the clunky dialogue, and the unceasing tears into the salad bowl amounted to an overall sense that he was enjoying his wares even less than us. And this observation should not be taken lightly: as I myself stared mournfully into the seething vessel of unremitting gastroenteritis, I saw all my broken dreams, and, whilst Prufrock is said to have measured out his life in coffee spoons, I began to measure out mine in soggy clumps of sweet potato.

If anything the ending of the performance was the highlight, inasmuch as the performance ended. Borderline sacrilegious, with an acrimonious start, a sorrowful middle, and a tumultuous finale, ‘Zack’s Vegetarian Curry’ is boldly uninspiring, hopefully all just one massive joke which no-one has told me about yet, and – perhaps worst of all for a curry – relentlessly unseasoned. To negate the famous closing words of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’: “no I said no I won’t no”.

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