Red Bastard (1)

I am pinning my colours to the mast, and they are the colour of blood and desire. Red Bastard is the most important artist working in the Fringe this year. That's not to say that there aren't shows other people would enjoy more, or are as good. But as someone who spends his life in the business of criticism, a performance that is a critique of laziness and fear is going to press my buttons. And I don't usually take pleasure in being the submissive.

I've mentioned in the past how I like the Fringe because it is a rare chance for a review to actually make a difference - I think that is naive, as the success of a performance depends more on word of mouth, or celebrity, or the weather than my star rating. I really like the Fringe because it might start off some interesting conversations. There was a half-way decent effort last year with a Facebook group about star ratings - although the hypocrisy of those who bemoaned it while plastering their posters with ratings was hilarious. Now that we have twitter and bulletin boards, the conversations are littering the internet like bacon sandwich wrappers around the Royal Mile.

Red Bastard is going to be the foundation of any conversations I have. He points out, pretty clearly, that the worth of the show is not what goes on in the front, but what happens in the mind of the audience. It's the commitment of the spectator that makes the quality shine. Other factors - like whether the guy leaping about in the big suit has any talent - are secondary. No screaming - just remember: it's all in your head.

The conversation he provokes is something about... where does theatre happen, and how does it relate to reality. He has a great sequence where he asks whether the audience would prefer it if he pretended that they weren't there - and perhaps he ought to pretend to be someone he isn't. The idea of playing is repulsive to him - although he toys with emotions, and the persona is hardly the man who came on my radio show and spoke so movingly of his art.

There are many actors in the Fringe: if they'd like to see what their craft is capable of doing, check him out (before he checks you out. You don't want a six foot eight man in a jumpsuit watching from the wings). If you want to change your life, see him (although last time this didn't end so well for me...).






The only reason not to indulge Red Bastard is if you are not feeling brave enough.

Giants In Edinburgh (Giants in the Forest, Chapter 4: Edinburgh)

The last time I spoke of my quest for The Giants in the Forest, I was lost in the small patch of woodland on Falkland Estate. I am going to leave myself there for a while - it might ruin the drama of when I get attacked by the werewolf (I survived to see other Giants), but it doesn't preclude the possibility of there being another exotic encounter in Fife.

Instead, I jump forward to a journey that ought to have been easy. I nipped over to Edinburgh to check out The Giants at the end of the Royal Mile. I had a train ticket, and the three big boys are located at the end of the street where I work at The List. My contact was Sarah Cooke, and she works for the nation.

The first three days out had spread me across the country, and I'd been enjoying the travel. Being in the Central Belt - and being a super arts writer who gets to see all the big productions - had made me into a snob. Chatting to people in the under-rated Borders and enjoying the sunshine in Fife reminded me that Scotland is not just two cities and a strip of motorway. There is life and art all over the place, and that they work so hard to protect it in, say, Peebles, is a testament to a different vibrancy than the one I get stalking home from Sauciehall Street on a Saturday.

I've actually become quite sentimental about Scotland: in a week's time, when I arrive in Aberdeen, I shall say out loud, for no good reason, that I love this country. It did get me some funny looks. However, this isn't about identifying some defined cultural community the country is supposed to have. It isn't even about the beauty of the landscape between Dyce and Drum Castle.

It's the different voices. And it's the road. A moment on the way to Yellowcraig, a speeding train races past my bumping bus: I watch it go, and enjoy how the cars on the outside lanes try to keep up. Travel, in itself, is the vacation. I forget that when it's the morning bus over the M8, or when I go on a fancy holiday to The Foreign.

I am not regretting that this trip is merely an hour long, or to a location that I already know. It's worth it for the experience of the trains being completely snarled, meaning that the biggest problems I have in the whole trip happen in the capital. And Sarah chats about The Royal Mile, mixing up the importance of tourism and local people having a cheeky peek at the weaved threesome.

Fringe Blather

We last left Vile lost in the forest. Appropriately, he realises this post at the time he is lost in the Fringe. It's been a week, and he is wandering somewhere around Edinburgh, pretending he is Red Bastard. He is currently trying to convince random actors that they ought to enrol in Lecoq, or waste their lives 'pretending to be someone they are not.'

He's been heard making the usual complaints. The first one is that the Fringe is full of shows that are too long. In the past, he has questioned the impact of the Fringe on the length of plays ('artists think of the Fringe and make everything run at just under an hour, the needs of the narrative be damned.'). This year, he's worried that some companies are trying to be too generous, extending the action by half an hour when they have a good forty minutes worth of action. Most notably, Omega suffers from this. It has a series of amazing circus style routines, topped off by an MC who is just bellowing and making it run slow.

Boredom isn't a problem in theatre - there are shows where the bloody-mindedness of the director, making the audience pay attention is part of the point. Vile is trying to catch up with Peter Higgs, reckoning that the man who thought of the particle that defines the universe will probably be able to write the equation that shows the relationship between content and running time. Vile's first thoughts are along the lines of: if (value of content) is less than (length of show) then this equals Audience(bored). Invert the values and you get Audience(Confused).

To be honest, he is only waiting to announce that tomorrow, on Fresh Air, he has Red Bastard as his guest. Listen in: he has a confession to make...

Falkland - Lost in the Darkness

Sometimes, freedom is more important in itself that anything that can be done with it. In a world circumscribed by the pleasures of the internet, and connected by the text message and the groaning energy of motorway and train-line, freedom can be disorientating. The rush of realisation that comes when I am surrounded by nature - whether in full, monolithic and bleak Highland glory or the more intimate woods of the Falkland Estate that I now find myself tramping - is an end, not a means.

I am trying to convince myself that being lost in a tiny patch of trees is a positive thing. I am reminding myself that walking off into the darkness was a bold idea. But it is two in the morning, my torch keeps scattering shadows that terrify me, and I cannot imagine that any of these groves house The Giants. In fact, the most suitable location looks as if it is a lair for creatures of the night. I can hear the hooves of the Great God Pan in the distance.

The third day out looking for the Giants in the Forest started beautifully: thanks to a coincidence of timing, I am going to be camping in the grounds of the very estate that is hosting them. I arrive early in the afternoon, and chat amiably to some of the people who work in the village. They give me rough directions but I don't listen. I am here all weekend, and fancy a slow exploration.

The first night, I stick to the road. Falkland, being in Fife, is a beautiful small village and the Estate caters for those who like a gentle engagement with the wilderness. I know there is a school in the area, and that the walks are accessible. It's a centre for Stewardship: a place where a more sustainable relationship with nature is being plotted. Coming soon are courses in mentorship - and there is a gig on in the village this weekend.

I spend the weekend feeling very safe. I enjoy the newly opened coffee shop, I compare the fish and chips to other village chip shops. On the Saturday night, I nip out into the road, through the gate and follow the path that follows the river. In the space of a few yards, I go beneath a bridge, find beautiful trees that I would climb (if it were day and I were a few years younger). It feels good to be out of the noise, immersed in silence. I pick my way up a hill and find the school.

Knowing that this is my last night, I get more serious on the Sunday. I delve deeper into these woods, curving around with the path, getting faster and hearing my breath get shallow. I cross the river, race past the school, up hill and over dell. Suddenly, I cannot hear the river. I see a hut - it is marked with signs that I cast my torch over.

The plants move in the window, and their shadows move with my light. And every time, I know that it is a beast skittering in the darkness. Then I know it is just the light moving as I walk. I chuckle at the idea: I am the monster. Then I am frightened the next time it happened.

One of the things I have been enjoying about meeting The Giants is their calm. They refuse to be ruffled by the wind. Right now, I long for them to arrive. Some people might be distressed at the thought of meeting huge sculptures in the night. Right now, it is all I want.

I just think of the campsite and a thousand young people laughing at the man who got lost...

Fringe Christian top two

I’m surprised that Christianity has any credit left in theatre. It’s not that I’m complaining – it’s just that it’s been getting such a pasting lately, and atheism has become the default setting for anyone who wants to boast of their intellectual prowess. Comedians have been quick on the up-take: if I see another loud-mouthed Australian comic deconstructing the story of Noah’s ark, I might literally die of boredom.

Perhaps the various Judeo-Christian inspired plays aren’t expressions of a stubborn faith, but are the signs of a religion becoming part of the artistic rather than spiritual world. I’ll doubtless work out a fairytale top ten later in the Fringe: perhaps Biblical stories offer similar opportunities to Grimm tales. It might even be evidence of anti-religious sentiment. These plays might ruthlessly mock Christian beliefs.

It’s unlikely that Inquiry into the Death and Resurrection of Jesus Christ (Christadelphian Church) is going to be too cynical. It’s odd to see it between a two-hander about marriage going bad and a study of internet relationships in the theatre section: it has the flavour of an intellectual discussion than a performance.

Cain (theSpace) is one of the Bible’s bad boys: first murderer, gives God cheek, and ended up getting a mark on his noggin (a detail used to horribly racist effect by various Christian groups in the less enlightened past) so that the other kids knew not to play with him. Municipal Theatre, London kit him out as a prototype Faustus, getting him involved in a deal with the Big Bad, Lucifer.

I’m not sure this is strictly Biblical – as far as I remember, Cain got sent off for his fratricidal antics, and ends up a bit-part actor in the unfolding of the Torah – but it suggests that the old stories retain an iconic power.