My final day of Fringe frolics consisted of little culture, either national or international.
I had admirable notions of at last catching the entirety of Chronicles of Long Kesh which, brilliant though it was, fell victim first time around, half way through in an obliging two minute pause for air, to my first night festivities. But worthy though my ambition was, I managed to talk myself out of it with all sorts of nonsense about supporting smaller groups and educating myself about plays more practical for our performance purposes than a very physical play full of Irish people.
So instead I attended Don Juan in Soho, a Marber adaptation of a Moliere play. It was produced by a pack of mostly pretty young things and was very energetic and very sweet. A cracking script that was far too lewd to recreate here. And I couldn't possibly consider directing something of its ilk - but maybe I'm just getting prudish in my old age...
I then took a long interval and drank. Which was all very nice and civilised and made me think that actually there is great delight in doing not very much when you're with such a very nice group of people.
And then my suprise outside contender for at least top three Fringe shows. A piece of more or less complete nonsense but done with such verve and youthful delighted enthusiasm that it was utterly delightful. Tap Kids. So I staggered in half-drunk with about 30 seconds to go before curtain up to find there was some kind of glitch with the computer system so glory of glories, clearly very smiley gods looking down on me, I got in for free.
It was a nothing show in many ways. High School Musical retold in the medium of tap, in effect. Eight New Yoikers. Lively, young and gorgeous all. Pretending to be school children and pranking about inconsequentially. And topped off with a graduation scene where they swept all their potential into their mortar boards and cast them airbound in that crazy American movie cliche. But somehow it was poignant and adorable. Or I was just drunk.
And that was my festival.
They're dismantling all the pretend venues just now. Bristo Square was a heap of timber when I flew past on the way to this month's committee / general meeting this evening. The Tap Kids venue in the Freemason's Hall was naked scaffolding when I journeyed past last night en route to Coco before Chanel.
It's a sad (and rainy) day.
I had admirable notions of at last catching the entirety of Chronicles of Long Kesh which, brilliant though it was, fell victim first time around, half way through in an obliging two minute pause for air, to my first night festivities. But worthy though my ambition was, I managed to talk myself out of it with all sorts of nonsense about supporting smaller groups and educating myself about plays more practical for our performance purposes than a very physical play full of Irish people.
So instead I attended Don Juan in Soho, a Marber adaptation of a Moliere play. It was produced by a pack of mostly pretty young things and was very energetic and very sweet. A cracking script that was far too lewd to recreate here. And I couldn't possibly consider directing something of its ilk - but maybe I'm just getting prudish in my old age...
I then took a long interval and drank. Which was all very nice and civilised and made me think that actually there is great delight in doing not very much when you're with such a very nice group of people.
And then my suprise outside contender for at least top three Fringe shows. A piece of more or less complete nonsense but done with such verve and youthful delighted enthusiasm that it was utterly delightful. Tap Kids. So I staggered in half-drunk with about 30 seconds to go before curtain up to find there was some kind of glitch with the computer system so glory of glories, clearly very smiley gods looking down on me, I got in for free.
It was a nothing show in many ways. High School Musical retold in the medium of tap, in effect. Eight New Yoikers. Lively, young and gorgeous all. Pretending to be school children and pranking about inconsequentially. And topped off with a graduation scene where they swept all their potential into their mortar boards and cast them airbound in that crazy American movie cliche. But somehow it was poignant and adorable. Or I was just drunk.
And that was my festival.
They're dismantling all the pretend venues just now. Bristo Square was a heap of timber when I flew past on the way to this month's committee / general meeting this evening. The Tap Kids venue in the Freemason's Hall was naked scaffolding when I journeyed past last night en route to Coco before Chanel.
It's a sad (and rainy) day.
posted by Claire at 9:56 pm
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