By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
EDINBURGH"A smorgasbord of tarts," shouts a breasty young woman in a fake fur and negligee. Standing beside her, a drag queen in fishnets hands out flyers to the show Lesbian Launderette, a self-declared "riotously funny Gay Shakespearian (sic) musical." Across the way, Scottish Girl Scouts convene to perform a quaint little ditty, while Polynesian dancers invoke the nature gods. Smack in the middle of the theatrical gridlock, an American juggler on a unicycle wins over the crowd with a few George W. Bush zingers.
Welcome to Edinburgh's historic Royal Mile, a granite and cobblestone street leading to a formidable medieval castle that plays backdrop to the world's largest celebration of the arts. The expensive-ticket International Festival, now in its 56th year, provides the centerpiece for a banquet of festivals, including the manifold Edinburgh Fringe, with its touted "20,000 individual performances." The even more star-studded book, film, and jazz festivals round out the bill. In short, a bona fide field day for the culturally promiscuous. Fortunately, Edinburgh in August means never having to remember the name of your last artistic fling.
Yet armed with a listings guide fatter than my Greenwich Village-Chelsea community directory, finding a truly memorable performance can still prove frustratingly elusive. Daunted by the profuse Fringe, I began my search for fresh drama with the more contained International Festival. Curiously, the most theatrically ambitious productions weren't on the theater bill. Peter Stein's magnificent five-and-a-half-hour staging of Wagner's Parsifal and the Italian choreographer Emio Greco's minimalist dance experiment, Conjunto de Nero, were on an aesthetic level beyond any of the theatrical offerings. Both works boldly interrogated the limits of performanceParsifal with its snowballing mythological narrative careening toward a perilous sublime, and Conjunto with its shadowy quest to discover just how little music and light are required to set bodies in ecstatic motion.
Sad to say, but the International Festival went a long way toward validating the notion of theater as the most unreliable of the arts. Not that Stein's production of Parsifaldidn't brilliantly realize Wagner's dream of Total Theater, the perfectly integrated artwork that led to the construction of Bayreuth, his artistic Valhalla where design, acting, music, and poetry could synergistically entwine. Wagner may have been better sung before. (In fact, Bryn Terfel received glowing notices just before I arrived for a concert that included Wotan's farewell to Renée Fleming's Brünnhilde in a tidbit from Die Walküre.) But all the pieces of Stein's largely noninterventionist productionfrom conductor Claudio Abbado's commanding symphonic waterfall to set designer Gianni Dessi's ever-surprising color palettehelped to hypnotically conjure Wagner's crazy Christian fable, where humans heroically struggle in the face of their suffering to patch the breach between heaven and earth.
No such tragic depth emanated from Douglas Maxwell's Variety, which inertly dramatizes the decline of Scottish vaudeville by tracking the lives of a ragtag group of performers and the nervous wreck of a man whose job it is to convert the old variety hall into a talking pictures house. Unlike John Osborne's The Entertainer, which used the decline of the art form as a metaphor for larger sociopolitical change, Variety offers only a hodgepodge of hackneyed story lines. Though director Ben Harrison nicely exploited the old-style elegance of the King's Theatre, his Grid Iron company production couldn't compensate for his playwright's sappy vision. Nor did it entice me to stick around for the second act. (Edinburgh in August also means not having to return after intermission.)
Another International Festival offering, The Girl on the Sofa by Norwegian playwright Jon Fosse, mounted at the Royal Lyceum, was definitely an improvement over Maxwell's pointless nostalgia, though here too the production surpassed the merits of what was being produced. Translated by emerging Scottish playwright David Harrower, the drama offers hallucinatory glimpses of a woman artist suffering from painter's block. Adrift in her relationship with her winsome lover and disappointed by her own paltry creative achieve-ments, she dwells on the childhood roots of her malaisenotably, an absent, seafaring father and a mother romantically involved with someone the young girl refers to as her "uncle." The early family drama reaches a crescendo with the absent father unexpectedly returning home to catch his wife in a carnal embrace. So much for groundbreaking dramatic vision, though the impressive formal fluidity made it hard to accept the banality of its perception. Suffice it to say that The Girl on the Sofa left me marveling at German director Thomas Ostermeier's kaleidoscopic mise-en-scène while hungering for something more revelatory than the usual neurosis-breeding dysfunction.
Peter Stein's Parsifal: a perilous sublime
photo: Ruth Walz
Occasional snatches of visual élan were all that animated the Ro Theater's Macbeth at the Royal Lyceum, a dispiriting instance of auteur Shakespeare from the Netherlands that had me longing to head back to London to catch a second viewing of the Globe Theatre's Elizabethan-inspired production of Twelfth Night, featuring a deliriously uncampy Mark Rylance as Olivia. (Funny how Shakespeare played straighteven by a cast of men in dragnever fails to seem more contemporary than the most experimental treatments.) Granted there's something inherently strange about seeing the Scottish play in Scotland performed in Dutch. Yet nothing has become so commonplace as the reduction of Shakespeare into a series of strained images that neither deepen our understanding of his characters nor advance our interest in his plots. Director Alize Zandwijk, who derives endless aesthetic pleasure from stylized depictions of blood, clearly possesses a pungent scenic imagination. Her Macbeth, however, would have worked better as a succession of installations that a spectator could peruseor skipat will.