I’ve just been up in Edinburgh for the last few days checking out some new plays, most of which were OK and some of which were actually quite good.
Unfortunately it wasn’t all like that. In the course of my sojourn I had what I can only describe as the quintessential Edinburgh Fringe experience.
Picture, if you will, a play performed by people the best of which could charitably be said to have some small acting ability.
The play was composed of vignettes consisting of clichéd characters, speaking in clichés about nothing in particular. The dialogue looked longingly at the promised land of pedestrian, knowing it would never achieve its heights.
There was no plot.
There were eight cast members in the play, and an audience of five. One of who, mercifully, was able to escape while the lights were off during a scene change. Sadly I was on the wrong side of the stage, and couldn’t follow him to freedom.
In the knowledge that one day I may myself have a play performed on stage at the festival I shall refrain from naming the guilty parties, judging not lest I be judged in return.
And there’s no point asking me the name of the play in person. By the time I see you I hope to have succeeded in completely burning it from my memories.
The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.