theatre barrage

My Edinburgh Fringe experience ended in an overnight bus trip back to London with my favourite travelling companion, Adrian. We reentered London as glutted versions of the Chloe and Adrian who took that happy day train an age ago. We’ve had 10 days and nights of long drinking sessions, interspersed occasionally with some sleep and some theatre (sometimes both at once.) Well, I exaggerate. We also did some very important touristy things like climbing up Arthur’s Seat in the rain, seeing the always-harrowing World Press photo exhibition, and completing at least two levels of the National Scottish Museum, where I literally lost my umbrella with the excitement of seeing a pair of ornate earrings and a brooch which once belonged to Mary Queen of Scots. There were also some perfect travelling moments, like sitting in the Brass Monkey, drinking an enormous pint with Adrian, while they played Stop Making Sense by Talking Heads, in its entirety. (Granted that's not necessarily a travelling moment. It would actually be pretty congruous with our lives in Melbourne. A moment, nonetheless.) Edinburgh felt about ten times colder than London, and it rained a lot. I spent a large part of my time enjoying the company of the glittering Sisters Grimm crew, whose show Mommie and the Minister continues in Edinburgh as I write, for anyone who wants to go along...

Fringe! Shows I saw:

The previously-blogged-of Jim Rose Circus. Fairly traditional misogyny masquerading as gritty post-modern freakshow. Stay at home and watch Jackass.

Nick Mohammed: a fabulous character comedian, who had a reciprocal guest-starring arrangement with his female comedy twin, Zoe Gardner. They were doing pretty much the same thing in each of their shows, but Nick's seemed a little stronger, maybe because Zoe's piece was very self-referential, with its linchpin theme of the struggling artist (not so big on this as a narrative device), whereas Nick's was just a straight series of character sketches. Having said that, I guess Nick's piece didn't really have a theme at all, and was much more disparate. Anyway, both very entertaining shows.

Another comedian we saw was Daniel Kitson, in his piece 66A Church Road. Finally, I make it to a Daniel Kitson show! He's only performed at my place of employment about a hundred times since I started working there. For shame. Anyway, I can see what all the fuss is about. I like his literariness and his rambling, self-deprecating style. (Unfortunately he did ramble on for a little too long, and as this was a tired night for me I started to nod a little towards the end.)

We saw a lot of comedy. In the end I regretted not seeing some more straight or physical theatre, or even some of the experimental cabaret stuff that seemed to be quite pervasive. Plan for next time: book more tickets in advance, so I don't end up falling into a vicious cycle of drinking beer then not bothering with the next show then drinking more beer then not bothering with the next show after that...

The shining star of all this comedy was Kristen Schaal (Flight of the Conchords) and Kurt Braunohler's show. Watching their deadpan act, you got that wonderful satisfying feeling that these two performers were completely in tune with each other (I don't think there's a way of saying that without sounding completely spoony). They parodied a whole lot of second-rate American entertainment - performing their version of a daytime melodrama, and projecting an episode of something with a title like 'Penelope Speaks with the Animals' in which the otherwise clueless heroine (Schaal in braids) has the ability to speak with puppet friends: a drunkard bird, a terrorist turtle and an assassin ewe with a sexy Thurmanesque voice. I'm sure comedy really suffers in the retelling. I don't want to hurt the show too much so I'll end my ranting there.

One piece of straight theatre I saw was Enda Walsh's The New Electric Ballroom. It's a simple story about three sisters couped up for too long, two of them traumatised by a long-ago night of lost love at the title ballroom, and one of them twenty years younger and a bit messed up by her sisters' constant game-playing. The fourth character is the local fishmonger who keeps arriving with absurd loads of fish which the sisters empty into a trapdoor in the floor and never eat, and who is tongue-tied by his love for the younger sister. In retrospect nothing about the plot was particularly surprising, but I really enjoyed Walsh's writing. It was the little loops and twirls within the dialogue that really kept me compelled. Funny thing is, I wasn't really enraptured when we left. A paradoxical experience - this play left me wanting more, but without blowing me away.

It's completely sycophantic but I also must mention Ash's I Love You, Bro, which I saw for the first time, in its full Cockney glory. For anyone who hasn't seen Ash, go and see him in something. Whether he's having hard drugs eaten out of his a**hole or breaking his teenage heart over a gullible jock in a chatroom, he's totally marvellous and amazing. I ALSO loved Adam Cass's script. You know you've been thinking too hard about your reasons for liking shows when the first thing that comes to mind is 'well-paced'... but that it was.

In London, pre-fringe, I also managed to see a strange variety of shows. Absolutely best thing ever was Gob Squad's Kitchen (You've Never Had It So Good) at the Soho Theatre. It was based on Warhol's films, and lovingly parodied the films themselves and the big 60s revelations surrounding them. Right now I'm desperately tired in Amsterdam and thoroughly sick of blabbing on about theatre, so if you'd like to read about Gob Squad, follow the link on my page to Anna's blog, where she has done a much better job of venerating them. They rock.

I also saw a new piece at the Royal Court called gone too far! by bola agbaje. Ah, high school, anyone? I thought the Royal Court was meant to be a mecca for amazing new writing. But I know at least three young young young Melbourne playwrights who could absolutely wipe the floor with this. Charming and funny it was, but exciting and unpredictable and worth more than the 5 quid I paid for my youth ticket it most definitely was not. Shame on you, Royal Court, with your amazing history of Kanes and Crimps, for pretending that this utterly unpolished 'new theatre' is cutting-edge stuff. BORING.


On that note, I return to real life, and Amsterdam.

My last weekend in London was a blissful mash of old friends and new boots, and lots of beers in various parts of Camden. I also managed to see the British Museum (with Adrian). Biggest loot collection ever! Among the prize possessions: the Rosetta Stone (pretty awesome, really) and - mummies. I feel really strange about the mummies. On the one hand, I know they're really important historical, um, artefacts, and that learning about our history makes us better people. But they're real dead people. It freaks me out. Why are we allowed to put them on display? Is there a point at which a dead person becomes an artefact? (I'll allow that if there is, these people have definitely reached it.) Anyway. I looked. I admired. I got the willies. But I drew the line at taking photos. Wuss? Superstitious? Something like that.

With what I think may be a nascent ear infection I caught the train to Harwich and the ferry to Hook of Holland, and this morning I arrived at my hostel, which is called Inner Amsterdam but which is actually fairly outer. I've been here for almost 8 hours, which means I really should be having hash epiphanies and dining with prostitutes on poffertjes. So far all I've managed to do is get lost in concentric circles and have a coffee and a toasted sandwich. I fully intend to be a better tourist tomorrow.