From The Morgue

[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent November 2003]

hey everyone!

I’m continuing to wrestle time out of non-time up here in the descending-to-winter-again Edinburghland.
(With Christmas pending, I think I’ve been nominated to turn into a reindeer and draw a sleigh, except (a) wrong ungulate – me am moose, and (b) still can’t draw*.

Anyway. David in his great love for all humankind set up a blog for me and said ‘go’. So, I did. It’s here:
http://www.additiverich.com/morgue/ [EDIT: THIS LINK IS LONG DEAD OF COURSE, AND IT LINKS TO THE VERY BLOG YOU’RE READING BECAUSE I COPIED ALL THE POSTS HERE, OKAY THANKS – MORGUE IN 2024]

I still haven’t quite figured how I’m gonna use it, but to start off I have a BURNING QUESTION to ask everyone from NZ. I DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP.

Also, to draw in reluctant souls, I offer a free gift and a photo of me in my famous orange kathmandu jacket. Go and enjoy! And help! And enjoy!

~`morgue

* except for the surrey I drew when I was seven, with a fringe on the top, like that song in Oklahoma, ‘The Surrey With The Fringe On The Top’. That was One Fine-lookin’ Surrey, Let Me Tell You What.

[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent November 2003]

We’d almost missed a whole festival. The Edinburgh Film Fest is a short one, two weeks in length and packed to the brim with screenings. Almost every single screening is followed by a question and answer session with the director or star or both. It’s astonishing. And I managed to get to one film. Just barely.

Thursday 21 August we went, to Potestad, a film about Argentinian political disappearances in the 1970s, or more thematically, about the way making compromise in the face of corruption leads to loss and despair. It was a fascinating film. I think my favourite thing about it was the use of the main actor, Eduardo Pavlóvsky, throughout, despite the fact that much of the film takes place in flashback to when he was a young man. It works surprisingly well, much better than you’d expect if I just described scenes of an old man wearing a rugby jersey and running downfield with his young teammates. The film was based on a stage play, written and performed by Pavlóvsky, but you’d need to look harder than I did to see where that has limited things. Stunning. I wish we could have stayed for more of the director’s discussion afterwards, but no, we had to race across town for a very important show…

…the arrival of Lucy! Yes indeed, we were finally to enjoy guests taking advantage of the floorspace to see the festival. Lucy bounced off the train, tilting her head side to side as she does and grinning hugely as she also does, and proceeded to be a wonderful guest indeed.

The next day her other half John materialised, and that evening I joined the group to make a quartet ready to enjoy some great entertainment. By this stage of the fest word of mouth had been getting around, and tonight was a double-helping of good word. First up was ‘Ladies & Gents’, a grimy
Glasgow-set underworld thriller performed in a public toilet. They split the audience in half, and one half headed into the dimly lit Ladies, the other half was led into the Gents. Both groups, each about 20-strong, were carefully placed against the walls of the bathrooms and told not to move even a step… and then the music started playing, and the show was on. A nasty, bitter piece tasting of revenge and murder, you watched events unfold in your bathroom, occasionally hearing loud noises from the other one. And then, at the end of the scene, reeling from what you’ve just seen, you’re herded back outside again, past the other set, and into the other bathroom. Then you see the other side of the story, and only when you’ve seen both sides through does it all fall into place.

Beautiful. And it gains immense style points for being performed in a public loo.

Buzzing from that odd, but good, experience, we wandered the evening for a while and gravitated towards our other word-of-mouth special selection: Kiwi geniuses Jermaine and Brett, Flight of the Conchords. I’d relented my point of view that I could see them anytime in Wellington – they were setting the fest on fire and it seemed foolish to miss out on supporting my countrymen at the same time as having a sure ticket to the folked-up land of funny. As it happened, moments before Cal bought the ticket the Perrier nominations were announced, with Conchords included, and the price for tickets jumped by
half; but it made for a hell of a sold-out show.

And yes, they were good. They were as good as anything over here. They deserved that nomination, and the kudos it has brought them. (I didn’t see eventual winner Dmitri Martin, but if the reviews were accurate then that man deserved to win. His set sounded insanely good.) See these guys when
they come your way. To do so is wise.

Saturday 23 August – the final weekend of the fringe festival! Flyer hawkers were in a frenzy handing out paper to anyone in range, the bars were full of jaded semi-conscious comedians, the running jokes of the festival were well-established (Aaron Barschak). Lucy and John picked the show, and they picked a doozy. It was called The Return, by a small Australian company, and it was set on a late-night train ride from Perth to Fremantle. Basic plot: two yobs alone in a train car. Vulnerable young woman gets on and sits down. Go. Crikey, I don’t think I’ve been nearer the edge of my seat for years – the tension was incredible, and the humour when it came would have been funny even if it wasn’t a relief. Another victim of theatrical-plot syndrome, but as I’ve said before, it comes with the territory. Hell, it was brilliant. I think it ranks as the highlight of my entire festival. Outstanding.

Late night funny stuff to follow. We checked out Dwight Slade, an American comedian who was friends with Bill Hicks (if you know who he is, you’ll understand). Sadly, he never quite got the crowd working – his humour wasn’t the political viciousness that Hicks-hungry punters were hoping for, and while he certainly didn’t bomb, the show didn’t explode either. Not bad, not bad.

Criminy! Sunday 24 August! Only one show – the comedic stylings of John Oliver, getting talked up as the new Ben Elton. It was good stuff, with a very funny bit at the end about anti-war protests that recruited a bunch of other comedians playing the same venue as placard-carrying cameo artists, with a line or two each.

Unfortunately for Oliver, seeing as it was the last night of the show, the comedians decided to completely sabotage this sequence. They substituted all manner of nonsense for the scripted lines and the bit culminated in hugely popular comedian Daniel Kitson dancing around the stage grinning for a while in a spectacular coup-de-grace that Oliver handled with admirable aplomb.

Great fun, really, and a nice way to end the festival.

John and Lucy jetted away the next day (I shan’t clutter up the email telling you about them, but it’s worth pointing out they’re Very Nice People) and Cal and I hunkered back into normal life, after a fashion. The
International Festival was still going on and a few late Fringe events were still occurring, but most of the crowds were gone and the furious pace was letting up. I was looking forward to a final Fringe event: Spearhead were playing on Thursday August 28. Spearhead and frontman Michael Franti are a San Francisco socially conscious music outfit that just happens to make the best damn sounds I’ve ever heard. My favourite band, I’ve only seen them twice since they formed in 1994. I was really looking forward to time number 3. Their gig was the first thing I booked for the fest. I’d been ready for a month.

Naturally I got sick.

Brad and Willy went in mine and Cal’s stead, and I have heard from them and other acquaintances that it was a damn good show. I heard “best gig I have ever experienced” more than once. And I feel damn good that some good came from my tickets. Yeah.

Saturday night was the grand finale. August 30 and the fireworks display over the castle. It’s renowned by fireworks nuts throughout the world. It deserves its reputation. A little over a year ago I sent a morgue-at-large email that spoke excitedly of the fireworks at the Thames Festival in London. Here in Edinburgh I met their grander, snazzier, bigger older brother.

And I felt fine.

—-

Here endeth the account of Edinburgh Festival 2003.

Enjoy your early November!

~`morgue

[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent November 2003]

Okay, the secret explanation for our busy first fest weekend: all tickets were 2 for 1. The deal carried on until the end of Monday. So after work on Monday I zipped into town and checked out the next on the list: Jerusalem, Jerusalem, a New Zealand production about NZ poet/prophet James K Baxter. It was an accomplished piece, marred by the inexperience of some of the actors on display – a large-cast production, it had to cut corners to tour this far.   Still, an impressive and moving experience, appreciated by its respectably-sized audiences.

Then we grabbed some dinner and crossed town to see Camarilla. This was a politically-charged thriller/drama by a hot young Aussie playwright. It starts with a bomb going off in central London. Injured in the blast is the daughter of a prominent radical academic. The shockwaves of that explosion rush through the family, straining relationships and forcing decisions. An interesting, thrilling piece that engaged with the new post-9/11 world; the ending was a bit too pat, maybe, but that’s par for the course in a one hour drama.

There’s a lot of one-hour drama over here. I always had the impression in New Zealand that one hour was too slight for a serious dramatic piece – I have been well and truly proved wrong.

A few days of rest and the town went mad. Edinburgh’s packed with visitors during festival, throngs on every pavement. The Royal Mile, in the old town sloping down from the castle, is filled with colourfully dressed characters handing out leaflets for their shows, with street performers, with sightseers, with those in the long long queue for the box office… (this was the very first year they’ve tried internet booking, and the site fell over after about a week from the huge demand. They’re really quite backward over here, everyone.)

On Friday Cal and I were wandering near the Student Union building, Teviot, and were offered free tickets to a show by Irish comedian David O’Doherty. Despite our worrying experiences with the alleged Cream of Irish Comedy we signed on, and got an interesting show – mostly consisting of O’Doherty sitting with a keyboard on his lap playing and singing amusing ditties about how miserable and crap he was. Not bad at all, actually, and at that price how can you go wrong? We zipped out at curtain and ran down a few streets to get to our next destination in time: Don Q, a dramatisation of Don Quixote. This was a hell of a show, with the three cast members performing a large number of roles with great authority. It was funny, and very clever, but ultimately it dragged a bit too much for my taste – I suspect it stuck too close to its subject matter. In any case, it was jolly good fun and certainly not time wasted.

The next morning Cal and I rose bright and early to get to a morning show: The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. This was a youth drama club show, I think, with a cast of about twelve teens. And it was great. The jokes were terribly cheesy and it didn’t really have anything much to do with any previous version of Baron Munchausen, but it kept me vastly entertained as the scene shifted in short order from england to the moon to the desert and more. Two highlights: firstly the utterly inspired song, the only one in the show, ‘Where is my camel?’ that was stuck in my head for weeks after (“She’s got two humps on her back, and she knows the desert like the back of her hoof, now she’s gone forever, can somebody tell me – where is my camel?”). Secondly, the Queen of the Babies.

The Queen was an 8-month old baby. Two attendants carry on her (suitably regally draped) high chair and then proceed to wait on her as another character engages her in conversation – talking to her, and improvising appropriate responses to whatever she does in response.

Man, that baby loved being on stage. She shook that rattle like crazy and grinned like anything. But even you clucky types can’t possibly appreciate how extraordinary it is to see an infant on stage. It was deeply, deeply startling.

(I want to note, while I’m talking about babies, that the smiling baby face in the sun that giggles at the Teletubbies is one of the most potent images I have ever seen. There’s something about babies, man. We’re hard wired to pay them attention. Freaky.)

(Hello to all the mums and fathers-to-be, or -have-been for that matter…)

Sunday we had a midday date at the theatre for ‘Twelve Angry Men’. The classic jury-room drama was being performed in one of the more prestigious venues. It was getting a lot of attention for casting 11 comedians in the very serious roles – the only non-comedian in the show was in the only vaguely comedic part. And it was great. The staging, the performances, everything was excellent, especially mad comedian Bill Bailey as a hard-nosed conservative. (Bill Bailey for Doctor Who!)

But drama was to come. It was stuffy-hot in the theatre, and a young woman was overcome. She left her row and was walking down the steps to the exit to the foyer, which was alongside stage right. But as she walked down she sped up, faster and faster, and collapsed forward at speed, cracking her head hard against the front of the stage.

Everything stopped.

Another moment of profound strangeness – the performers all gazing horror-struck at this woman. It was as if all the characters in a movie suddenly stared at the audience.

Then things swung into motion. ‘Is there a Doctor in the house?’ one actor cried, and there was. Everything stopped, we waited, and it turned out she was okay, only bruised. She was carried out after fifteen minutes of careful attention, and the performers gathered themselves, and the Doctor retook his seat to applause, and the house lights darkened and the show went on.

Magic.

After 12 Angry Men we went down to the Meadows, a huge green space criss-crossed with tree-lined walking lanes. It was full of large tents showcasing acts from throughout the festival, and it was all free! The sun was brilliant and we wandered around for ages. We saw out the day’s free shows watching Aussie guitar comedy trio Gud viciously and profanely abuse the old people in the front rows of their tent,, and it was pretty damn funny to be honest. Kiwis, heck them out next time they cross the Tasman.

But it wasn’t over yet! We were just getting warmed up!

Tuesday 12 August and we made it to my one and only Book Festival event (Cal went to many more, as she wasn’t working at the time – lucky girl). Alastair Macintosh & Roger Levett talked about their new books, about ecology and social responsibility. It was pretty exciting stuff. The question/answer bits were good, although I was rendered grumpy by someone who insisted on arguing that global warming hasn’t been proven yet, which is a rant for another time.*

Then we chilled out for a wee bit. On Sunday we jumped back in the game. This time we were in line for San Diego, one of the star attractions of the ‘proper’ festival, the new play by Scottish prodigy David Greig (who?). Starring NZ’s adopted son Billy Boyd, no less. It played three nights, we saw it on opening night, and it was mesmerizing – dream-logic, shifting symbols back and forth across a stage littered with suitcases, linking (or not linking) eight or nine different plotlines of people finding and losing parental connection in Scotland, London and San Diego… I loved it, but the reviewers mostly hated it. It was one of the true polarising events of the festival, and I was pleased to come down on the positive side. It didn’t
change my life or anything, but it was a damn good show.

Tuesday 19th August. The month was slipping by and no mistake! We were determined to get more out of the festival… Murder at the Savoy was our next stop, a lighthearted light opera about a murder in an opera company, featuring Roderick what owns the house in which we live and directed by Fiona what also owns the house in which we live. It was a relief to find that this was really quite delightful!

Almost at the end… one more weekend to go, plus a few straggler events… not far now…

…but that can wait.

~`morgue

* Okay, a rant for this time. Basically, my logic goes like this: if global warming isn’t happening but we act like it is, then some corporations get messed up. If global warming is happening but we act like it isn’t, then the whole world gets messed up. I know which I value more. Arguing over the finer points of the proof is a complete blind alley. Rant rant rant…