An Ode to the Royal Court

A couple of weeks ago I developed a major crush. There were butterflies in my stomach; I couldn’t keep the smile off my face; I remained calm on the outside to save any embarrassment, but on the inside I was squealing and bounding around. The object of these great affections? No dashing charmer or hunky heartthrob, but a red brick building on the edge of Sloane Square. That’s right, I’m in love with the Royal Court Theatre.

Photo: Ben Sutherland

The Court has long been on my list of Places I Must Visit; I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long to get there – it’s hardly on the far side of the world – but I finally made it towards the end of the run of Caryl Churchill’s Love and Information. I do indulge in literary tourism on the not-too-rare occasion: I have seen the sofa on which Emily Brontё (supposedly) died, the house in which Shakespeare was born and the room in which Hardy wrote some of his most famous novels and poems. Yet I would not say I stand in too much awe of this hallowed ground – it’s interesting, it’s reasonably exciting, but it doesn’t violently thrill me. I’d never kiss the ground. Of course, I love going to the theatre (obviously, as this whole blog would be a bit of a weird charade…), and nearly every time I am met with that same excited tingly feeling. But even the electricity of my beloved Les Mis or of Trevor Nunn’s King Lear, the first time I saw Shakespeare on a grand scale, had me buzzing in quite the same way that I was as we drove through the sheeting rain through west London. This was different – something more to do with the place than with what I was about to see: because, quite honestly, I had no idea what to expect from what I was about to see. (Incidentally, you can find out more about that here: http://laurapeatman.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/theatre-review-love-and-information.html).

As soon as I walked in, there was something about the Court that got to me; something about being in arguably the most important place for British modern drama. The place that the Angry Young Men caused a stir, to say the least. Where John Osborne, Shelagh Delaney, Edward Albee, Caryl Churchill, Timberlake Wertenbaker, David Mamet , Edward Bond, Samuel Beckett, Sarah Kane and so many other had presented their works which were to shape the face of theatre in this country. If I hadn’t been in the role of responsible staff member on a school trip, I might’ve actually danced for joy.

Maybe you’ll think this fangirling is ridiculous. But even if you manage to keep a bit more of a cap on your emotions than me, there is something undeniably cool about the place, even if it has lost its controversial edge of 50 years ago. The lack of a spacious foyer, the comfy and familiar-seeming brown leather seats, the scripts that are sold as programmes, the principle actors’ low key presence in the bar afterwards: it’s all about the drama, not about the affluent West End punters.  This genial atmosphere was evident during the technical glitches that halted the performance of Love and Information which I attended: there was real sympathy for the cast, real encouragement for the techies fixing the issue, no complaints and no impatient tutting – just a good-natured enthusiasm for the theatre to continue, and a hearty cheer when it did.

Perhaps it was partly my inner expectations that I had built up about the place. But I felt the Royal Court’s atmosphere, its history, its effect and its draw more keenly and more fiercely than I have for any other venue. If you ever see a bedraggled blonde girl attempting to camp outside the doors – it might be me.

FILM REVIEW: Anna Karenina

Anna Karenina Official Trailer courtesy of Focus Features

With the genius of Tom Stoppard on the credits and the inspiration of Tolstoy, Anna Karenina promises big things. Its sumptuous costumes, original concept and big name leading lady all aim to create something with impact, and something to shout about, although the last time Joe Wright took on a literary classic starring Keira Knightley (Pride and Prejudice, 2005), the result was bitterly disappointing. I left this venture impressed by certain aspects but, I have to admit, generally unmoved: I'd be more likely to mention the film over coffee than shout its praises from the rooftops.

The film looks gorgeous, the screen practically dripping with silk, fur, pearls and lace: visual texture is almost palpable in its richness. And yes, Keira Knightley in the title role also looks gorgeous. The close-up shots certainly do her no harm as the camera lingers on her flawless skin and dark eyes. Yet the problem - once again - with Knightley is that her external suitability for the part, and more unfortunately her acting talents, possess very little depth. She has the right expression for the right moment - the girlish smile, the pained, furrowed brow of distress, the poignant stare into the distance - but there is no feeling in her eyes, no soul in her performance. The portrayal of her growing attraction and love for Vronsky verges on the ridiculous, as her succession of breathy gasps on observing his stares appears to lead directly and very suddenly to a state of utter and blissful adoration. Sadly, her lover suffers from the same limitations. Vronsky has always seemed to me a shallow and unlikeable character, but Aaron Taylor-Johnson went further in depriving him of any real, believable passion. This is partly due to the rushed courtship which the film presents, and partly due to a flatness which haunts his and Knightley's performance. Jude Law, on the other hand, as the unfortunate Karenin, does repressed emotion beautifully; in a role which may well change perceptions of him as an actor - he has moved away from parts which emphasise his charming good looks - he is understated without being dull, and perfectly encapsulates the ambiguity of sympathy and frustration which Karenin attracts. Comedy came in the form of the ever delightful Ruth Wilson (Princess Betsy) and an unusually pompous Matthew Macfadyen (Oblonsky), although a little more attention could have been brought to the always-present tensions between his affability and his repeated adulterous affairs. Wright saves the character from become irritatingly blasé with a simple yet intelligent shot of Macfadyen following the film's tragic climax, bringing a rare moment of reflection and emotional depth in what is a busy and rather superficial film.

The concept is, admittedly, genius. The setting of a vast Russian novel in the confines (mostly...) of a nineteenth century theatre may seem bizarre and downright impossible, but what Wright admitted was a lightbulb, 'Eureka!' moment shows itself to be a real brainwave. The swiftly changing scenes and costumes, and the contrast between on- and off-stage action, epitomise the facades of 'polite' Russian society, while the musicality and dance-like movement of the opening scenes - in particular, a cleverly directed scene in Oblsonky's workplace and a beautifully whirling dance - depict a rhythmic rollercoaster of a social scene. The transitions between Serhoza's toy trains and the station scenes were again well-crafted, weaving intricately between the world of fantasy and pretend, and of reality. It may not be as madcap as the theatrically-set Moulin Rouge. but you could be forgiven for thinking Wright had been taking lessons from Baz Luhrmann. The symbolic use of colour is effective in the Odette/Odile-esque styling of Kitty and Anna at the ball, although goes too far when Anna and Vronsky, dressed in white, lie and frolic on a white blanket, bathed in white light. Fallen angels? Innocent love made perverse through its adulterous nature? Childlike naivety? It was all a bit too blatant and in-your-face to make any of these ideas seem interesting. Yet all this intricacy and beauty is a sheen over something that, on closer inspection, is rather shallow and lacking.

Although the Russian atmosphere was evoked by jaunty, Troika-esque music and some luscious fur coat and hats, it was lacking in a real evocation of Tolstoy's intensity and profundity. The film hurdles towards it's tragic denouement, but still manages to lack the real air of ominous, impending doom. Anna's eventual death is moving but sudden: the burden of her situation does not seen great enough to warrant suicide, which renders her behaviour bizarre rather than lending the character pathos. As a sidenote, I was glad to see Wright and Stoppard retained the earlier death of a railway worker as a mirroring device, although admittedly the differences between the two unintentionally amused me: while the unfortunate worker met a gruesome, bloody end on the track, Knightley was spared any mutiliation, dying under a train with just a small splash of blood across her waxen features. What rescues the film from an overload of the purely decorative is Levin (Domhnall Gleeson) and Kitty (Alicia Vikander). The best example of that elusive 'true love' in the novel and, some have argued, in literature, Vikander and, in particular, Gleeson do a masterful job at evoking the simple yet beautiful nature of their relationship. It is not sweet and sickly, nor is it reduced to an uninteresting subplot; the scene in which Kitty tends to Levin's sick, socially outcast brother is full of warmth and tenderness and the acting is allowed to speak for itself without fancy cinematic ornamentation.

Yet on the whole, however much I enjoyed the film's style and visual feast, it still felt rather unsatisfying. There is a veil of brilliance here, but it covers a shallow and unconvincing heart.

THEATRE REVIEW: Love and Information

by Caryl Churchill

Royal Court Theatre

5th October 2012

There’s something about seeing Caryl Churchill’s work at the Royal Court – especially for the first time visitor like myself – that brings great expectations of something momentous. This could be it, the drama to once again revolutionise modern British theatre. Love and Information, however, is not it. This is not to say that Churchill’s latest piece is not highly enjoyable: it is, in turn, witty, sweet, heart-breaking, confusing and uproariously funny. Yet despite the range of emotions it takes you through, the play feels as if it is missing a solid enough spine to make it truly memorable and to understand what Churchill actually wanted to achieve with this work.

The show is divided into a series of short scenes: snippets of conversation, snapshots of events, moments of interaction, all intercut with strident sound effects and often bathed in harsh lighting. There is great variety, from the revelation of a boy’s parentage and discussions of terrorism, to virtual relationships, Facebook and memory improvement techniques.  Most impressive is the instant characterisation which the script and the performances achieve, instantly pitching the audience into each scene: although we want to know more, we never feel we need to in order to appreciate it. The sparky dialogue holds our attention flawlessly, and has the power to be raucously funny – a discussion of the word ‘table’ in many different languages – or desperately sad – a silent, depressed mother – in just a few lines or words; or sometimes, none at all. For the most part, Churchill resists the temptation to give each scene a ‘punchline’, which prevents them from becoming trite: indeed the episode that did, that of two dancers contemplating the inevitability of their imminent affair, was disappointingly weak. Movement and stillness are important here, and each gesture, twitch and look has been delicately perfected. This intelligent direction from James Macdonald is supported by an excellent cast who are really responsible for making the likeable script come alive. Susan Engel and, in particular, Linda Bassett offered exquisite comedy and frequently had the audience in stitches, while Laura Elphinstone refused to be typecast, demonstrating great range in her performances – and not just in the many different accents she adopted. The young talent of Josh Williams was equally impressive and delivered each line with perfect timing; to tell the truth, there was no weak link here.

At least, there was no weak link amongst the cast. Unfortunately the technical mechanics of the show refused to play ball on this particular performance, leading to an unplanned halt early on. It was a shame that the hitch allowed the audience to see the method of entrance and exit on and off stage, which rather marred the mysterious nature of the cuboid and apparently sealed cell-like set. However, the audience remained good-natured, and Justin Salinger and Joshua James eventually restarted their scene with impressive composure.

The problem here is it’s almost a bit too random: there are evident themes, of course, but the overriding premise is: people. It’s that simple. Yet it doesn’t really tell us anything new, and it’s hard to tell if that is because Churchill isn’t thinking anything that’s particularly new, or if it’s just not being communicated. The piece would have benefited from a stronger thread throughout, not necessarily in terms of specific plot or character, but in something of a mainstay to lead us through. However well thought out Love and Information is, its ostensibly haphazard nature becomes an onslaught of character, theme, idea, tone: this is constant and brilliant, but it means that by the later scenes the audience are in danger of forgetting the earlier vignettes. Without anything to link them, our minds are simply unable to retain all the scenes at once. Perhaps this makes for a more personal experience: certain sections stick with each person, and what one viewer remembers most vividly may be very different from the person sitting next to them.

Yet this implies that for all audience members who don’t have a superhuman memory, parts of Churchill’s sparkling work will be lost from their memories through saturation. This is undeniably a shame, for nearly all scenes are worth remembering and there is no doubting that Churchill still has a keen eye, ear and voice for theatre. It suits the Royal Court perfectly; it would just be nice if it had a little more backbone. This play may not go down in history as her most influential, but it is yet a highly enjoyable and entertaining work demonstrating a sense of joy in the variety of humanity.

Silence in the stalls? Not for me, thanks.

Manners cost nothing, we are told as children. Politeness, that great British virtue, is drilled into is as a quality of the highest importance. And there is  a certain code of manners associated with going to the theatre, especially somewhere traditional, in London, not what you'd call cheap: we go in, buy our programmes and perhaps some overpriced snacks, sit in our seats, turn off our phones and go silent when the house lights come down. Sometimes we laugh, we gasp, we cry – but in general we are quiet when the actors are acting, and loud when they take their bow. That’s the way it’s done.

Well, that’s certainly not the way it was done when I attended a weekday matinée of Blood Brothers this week. As Willy Russell's 1983 drama is currently on the Year 9 syllabus, I was accompanying a troupe of schoolgirls to see the show - as were many teachers from a large number of schools, as became clear from the crowds of excited teenagers outside the Phoenix theatre. Groups of young people on a school trip are not exactly the quietest of souls, as I remember from when I was one of them, and I'm sure other members of the audience looking for a nice afternoon out at the theatre may have been horrified by the crowds of teenagers buying sugar-filled snacks and drinks in the foyer. Their buzz of noise filled the auditorium as they chattered excitingly and rustled their crisp packets.

The noise of confectionery packaging aside, this was not a quiet audience. Yes - they laughed, they gasped, they cried. They also gave cries of disgust at Sammy and Mickey's impressive spitting abilities; they wolf-whistled at the first appearance of the teenage Linda in her short skirt and sky-high stilettos; on one occasion they chorused along to the words "Marilyn Monroe" as that song was repeated in various guises; there was even a raucous shout of "Get in!" as Mickey and Linda shared their first kiss. But far from being irritated by the lack of restraint of this particular audience, I loved the enthusiasm and engagement with the show that they were demonstrating. They were paying attention, reacting to it, showing their connection and emotional investment in what was going on in front of them. At times, I'm sure, some of them thought they were being hilarious - the joker of the pack. But if it was in response to one of Willy Russell's best-loved and most critically acclaimed pieces of theatre I'm not complaining. Some might say I'm putting too much faith in their appreciation of the show, but I don't believe they need to be specifically thinking about the fact that they were enjoying and reacting to the show in order to be doing so.

This became clear at the dramatic climax of the show. As armed police officers came through the stalls to the sides of the stage, and as the fateful shots rang out, a burst of shocked, thrilled whispering broke out across the Dress Circle and, indeed, most of the auditorium: followed by the hasty hushing of dozens of teachers. For one thing, this certainly gave those teachers an idea of who had read to the end of the play and who hadn't... And it also showed that the action had affected this crowd. They were shocked, excited, saddened. Ok, talking over actors in most circumstances appears rude, and perhaps the Narrator did have to pause for a couple of extra seconds for the noise to die - I don't know. But the urge to share a response to something through conversation with their friends is a basic teenage instinct; it shows an intuitive rush of emotion that is as natural as crying or laughing - an outward demonstration of a feeling.

Anyone sitting in that theatre who tutted or rolled their eyes at this noisy young audience seems to me to be connected with an image of theatre-going which should not be perpetuated. That is, an image that this type of theatre - as opposed to Fringe theatre, cabaret or devised pieces, for example - is stuffy and for a certain kind of person: rich, middle class, Conservative, restrained. The current prices of West End theatre is not helping to shake off this perception. It should be for everyone; it is for everyone, and it is fantastic to see people - and especially children - giving such a response to a show. It's not as if quietness is the traditional way to watch theatre - just read some accounts of audiences at the Globe on the sixteenth century. I don't pretend to speak for the cast, but I'd say from the look on their faces at the curtain call they were delighted at the involvement of this excitable and boisterous crowd. The theatre felt alive as the audience were united in a wave of emotion, and I for one would not have had it any different. Forget etiquette, a bunch of noisy teenagers did it right.

THEATRE REVIEW: Blood Brothers

Phoenix Theatre, London

4th Oct 2012

In just a few weeks the striking backdrop of the Liverpool skyline will come down from the beautiful Phoenix Theatre as this production of Willy Russell’s Blood Brothers departs from the West End; and a sad day that will be, as this cast have put on a superb production of the tear-jerking “story of the Johnstone twins”. The show is of course intrinsically linked with a particular place and time – Liverpool, and the toughest days of the 1980s – but this production truly shows it off as a modern classic, by maintaining this heritage yet avoiding any sense of being dated. There is still freshness here and, to invoke a horribly over-analysed concept, relevancy; and no need to take my word for it – just listen to the raucous, enraptured reaction of the hordes of schoolchildren at this midweek matinée. Much of the appeal lies in the blend of bitter realism and stylised superstition which is kept in perfect harmony: although “harmonious” seems an inappropriate word to choose for a drama that pulls you in so many directions. It is harsh but warm; heart-wrenching but funny; bleak but uplifting; at the end of the first act the girls around me were bopping in their seats to the tune of Bright New Day, yet by the end of the second the tears were steaming down their cheeks. The production delivers in every area.

Blood Brothers is nothing without its perfect Mrs Johnstone, and this run gives Vivienne Carlyle her turn to join the lengthy list of stars who have taken on the role, from Petula Clark to Mel C. Carlyle gives a strong and soulful vocal performance as her rich tones bring deep emotion to the lyrics, and her ‘Mrs J’ is likeable and pitiable in equal measures. At times there are some odd vowel sounds, when the mostly-perfect Scouse accent doesn't quite gel with Carlyle’s singing style as she negotiates the break in the voice: yet this is really a minor niggle. The trio of Mark Rice-Oxley (Mickey), Paul Christopher (Eddie) and Louise Clayton (Linda) work together with confidence and ease, mastering the range of child to adult which these characters demand. Rice-Oxley in particular steals the show, bringing the audience from hysterical laughter as the cheeky, scruffy schoolboy and awkward teenager, to gut-wrenching sympathy and edge-of-the-seat desperation as the older, embittered Mickey. Michael Southern is solid in his supporting role of Sammy, but somewhat less successful at the tricky task of, as an adult actor, playing a child; however, the problem lies in aesthetics more than anything as Southern simply looks a little too old to pull off the portrayal of a young boy in quite the same way as other cast members.

The direction of Bob Thomson and Bill Kenwright emphasises the underlying themes of desperation and paranoia which pervade the tale of Mrs Johnstone, through the Narrator’s constant yet seemingly invisible presence in the action, as the figure of Philip Stewart lingers at the edge of the set or at an upper window. His powerful voice and at times menacing performance reminds the audience constantly that this is a tale heading for tragedy. Designer Marty Flood highlights this mood without it becoming overblown and without breaking the sense of truth in this piece. As the burning red light of Madman cuts into the realism of the Town Hall chamber, the show lurches from stylised rage to something far more ‘real’: the audience know with a jolt that the inevitably tragic ending is really about to happen.

This production builds and builds as it continues, and the electricity at the explosive climax is palpable. As the last verse of Tell Me It’s Not True crescendos and the band and voices swell together, so do the audience’s emotions, and many a tear-stained face emerged from the Phoenix Theatre. Willy Russell has said that the show “relies on that primal, ageless universal thing of “I'm going to tell you a story”” and it is this strong storytelling, with its pure truth and emotion, that keeps audiences coming back for more.

Thoughts on being a critic...

Critics have themselves become the focus of criticism recently, with many an article and post on the matter emerging in recent months. This is me adding my thoughts into the mix - possibly in a slightly garbled manner, I grant you - about how I see it as a young critic, part of the new breed trying to break through.

Being a critic, in my experience, puts you in an odd position when it comes to the world of theatre. You're in amongst the action - yet you're not really in the fold. You're a part of the industry - but you're never going to be in the thesp or techie gang. It's not hard to see why, either. But, whilst knowing that being best mates and bosoms pals with the people you're critiquing would be not only awkward but potentially detrimental to your review, our strangely liminal position also saddens me a little: I truly believe that theatre critics are a necessary part of the performing arts industry. (Possibly it's also because I can't help a part of me in vain still believing, or hoping, that it's all glitz and glamour and fame.)

On a basic level, it provides the public with a service: recommendations of what to see, what to avoid (I know, you know this. There's a point to it, promise...). Just like a travel manual for a city, it's a map and a personal tour guide through the must-sees and don't-sees of what's currently on. Of course, it's the 'personal' bit that people can object to. Subjectivity of reviews is a common complaint that I've heard; and then, occasionally, there are those accusations of "Well they just didn't get it". Of course one person's opinion isn't necessarily the be-all and end-all on a show. We all know that. That's largely why I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing that more and more reviewers are emerging from different corners. The Edinburgh Fringe epitomised this issue this year, with a few whispers about too many reviewers diluting the relevancy of critical opinion. Yet the shows complain if anyone dares to suggest their (negative) review could represent a definitive truth - so we can't win really. The increasing number of opinions out there - from nationals to smaller publications to humble little blogs such as my own - should be celebrated (look at how many people are watching theatre, and thinking about it, and writing about it - it's GREAT!), acknowledged and used as a platform for conversation and debate. Critics should be speaking - personally and publicly - to each other to a wider extent to get even more people discussing and engaging with theatre. How could that possibly be a bad thing? Of course people want to reach the top of their field, and of course there's the practical business element: publications want to be selling more copies or getting more hits than their rivals. But - and I know I'm starting to sound a bit like that girl from Mean Girls - it would be exciting to have more visible communication and support between different kinds of critics to get conversation about theatre to a higher profile. Twitter is of course a great platform for this, and the debate just the other week about 'Ageist Arts' threw up some very interesting viewpoints and arguments. Yet it would be fascinating if there were more in-depth opportunities to discuss performances and industry issues in an open community (not just those who are lucky enough to get paid for what they write), interactively (the speed of Twitter is what makes the debate come alive) and without the restriction of 120 characters.

This of course would allow the old masters and the new kids on the block to converse and debate on an even playing field. Which brings up another issue in the world of the critic. Amateurs. Anyone with access with the internet can call themselves a critic these days, as a small number of disapproving writers have pointed out, their words dripping with disdain. I suppose you could say I'm proof of this, although my experience pre-blogging does come from positions and contributions I've had to apply for in some way. But I doubt it would have stopped me from publishing this blog if this hadn't been the case. It was a point that was thrown directly in the faces of some of our EFR reviewers at this year's Fringe: on two occasions that I know of, our student critics were challenged, on the Mile or in a venue, by someone who felt we were unfit to review. Who were we? What training had we had? What right had we to write "anything we liked" about these shows? Well, in a world of blogs and social networking and online interactivity, we can technically - within reason and the law of course - write anything we like. Of course, we don't. We have a particular aim, our reviewers were presented with style guides, tips and of course their reviews were edited if necessary. But the issue goes beyond practical points of organisation. These comments and accusations were troubling and offensive to me because of their attitude to young critics and student writers. I'm not sure what "training" these people expected us to have, but the best form of training is experience. Yes, you can improve your grammar, or perhaps be given lessons in the art of a witty opener. But if you're seeing lots of theatre, thinking lots about theatre and most of all writing lots about it, that's training: and that's the way to improve. Certainly, young and amateur reviewers such as myself and other EFR reviewers (and many, many others at the Fringe and beyond) will have less experience. It may appear laughable that I'm here writing about the way to becoming a good critic when I am only 21 and have only been reviewing for a couple of years. But to suggest that we stop reviewing for these reasons is ludicrous. The whole point is to encourage and, if you like, "train" a new generation of critics. Take, for example, the current production of Twelfth Night at the Globe: there is no press night until the West End transfer, a point discussed by Mark Shenton in his blog for The Stage ('Shenton's View'). Therefore, for the large part, the reviews coming in are unofficial, from the pens and keyboards of paying audience members: from those well-known for their writing (e.g. Dominic Cavendish, who took it upon himself to purchase a ticket in order to review the show) to those lesser known members of the public putting their opinion out there on blogs or social networking sites. And oh look - some of them are interesting, articulate, well-informed! Who knew! And although they may not have quite the readership that Cavendish's Telegraph review will have got, on that one night they saw and heard the same show as him, and decided to write up their thoughts, opinions and judgements just as he did. Some of them will be better written and have more supporting knowledge than others; but the point is that, unusually, these opinions are the ones that might be read for a change, in the absence of organised press. Which is great! Let's face it, if we leave it all up to the Michael Billingtons and Lyn Gardners of the world, what happens when they're no longer writing? And how does a new breed of young, enthusiastic, talented writers emerge if not through experience, practice and recognition?

This is one of the most frustrating elements of being a critic in the context of student theatre in particular. The investment into student productions can be epic in terms of time, emotion, creative belief and - sometimes - money. It is of course natural that nobody likes getting a negative review. Furthermore, it is certainly reasonable that performers, directors and anyone else involved should not expect to be personally attacked, mocked or insulted in a review - every comment should be fair, relevant and justified. But are reviewers extended the same courtesy? Well, not always. I have seen and heard critics being slated by dissatisfied thesps and comedians more savagely than the critic themselves slated the show. Why is it acceptable in one direction and not the other? There can be (and in most cases should be) a tendency to show generosity towards young performers, which is important to encourage fresh creative talent: they're trying something new; the intention was there, if not the execution; credit where it's due, they're a young team with potential; they're learning their way in the industry. Well, so are young critics. We too are learning how to be the best that we can be - developing our art, finding our voice, adjusting and practising and finding our way, and always improving. Feedback is great. Rejection and dismissal is not.

At university, there are so many opportunities to be a critic; beyond this, the trail in search of a paid job runs cold for many. Amongst all the schemes encouraging youngsters into the arts, critics should not be forgotten. Being dismissed as "amateurs" and therefore not worthy of having our opinion heard is disheartening, rather insulting and not healthy for the field, which needs to have new blood just as much as the realms of directing, writing and acting. I'm not saying everyone would write good reviews. But many would. And yes, I'll be confident and brave and say it - I would. We're all part of this fantastic industry, this amazing world of theatre - and we shouldn't be shut out.

Lessons From The Fringe

After a week at home recovering from Fringe Fatigue, it's time to reflect on my time in Edinburgh. In list form, because I'm moving to start a job tomorrow so things are a bit busy at the moment! So, with apologies for the slight lack of coherent prose, here's a smattering of things I learned at the Fringe:

1) Expect the unexpected.
I very quickly discovered that my capacity to be surprised dissolved and vanished away in Edinburgh. Things that I was doubtful about took my breath away, shows I looked forward to let me down; the Royal Mile was always providing another unexpected sight; old friends popped up at every corner, new friends emerged; and you never quite knew if you'd just walked past an unusually glamorous woman or one of the Ladyboys of Bangkok. So, I learned to leave all expectations behind me and be prepared for anything!

2) Deep fried Mars bars are not as nice as people tell you.
I was assured by two very trustworthy (or so I thought...) EFR reviewers that this stereotypically Scottish snack was in fact addictively tasty. I found it was disappointing and gave me stomach ache. Although, the fact that the Marchmont Takeaway (whose staff are lovely, by the way) will deep fry any of the confectionery that they sell makes a return visit tempting. Next time I'm going for a deep fried Crunchie - maybe that'll convert me to the cause. But I doubt it.

3) Do not attempt to walk down the Royal Mile if you're late.
Or, don't be late if you know you have to walk down the Mile. Or else, perfect your kamikaze dodging technique. The number of times I left with plenty of time to spare yet ended up sprinting the last couple of streets would fill an entire blog post of their own, and it was always because my route took me down the Mile. Even if you're a persistent flyer-dodger, it is a simple fact of the Fringe that you cannot get down that road quickly. Although quite honestly, why would you want to?

4) Living statues' paint is surprisingly waterproof.
Ok, this may not be a vital life lesson, but I was intrigued to hear from a silvery lady in Caffe Nero that in fact her metallic body paint would not run in the downpour that the Edinburgh skies were dumping on us. It's just that she didn't like rain very much.

5) ZOO Venues and Edinburgh Zoo are NOT the same place.

Before someone makes a joke about dumb blondes, I never had to learn this lesson - obvious, I thought. Apparently not, as one of our reviewers proved when, just as she was enjoying the gift shop and panda exhibit, she realised that in fact the play which was due to start ten minutes later was not somewhere between the monkey and the meerkat enclosure, but the other side of Edinburgh. In a theatre. Not a zoo. Just in case you're still confused, here's a brief description from their websites: we've got "one of the leading venue management companies on the Edinburgh Fringe, with two thriving theatres at the heart of the Festival" and "the largest and most exciting wildlife attraction in Scotland, committed to the highest standards of animal welfare, conservation and environmental education." Worked out which one is which? Excellent. Remember that.

6) Not everything should have 'The Musical' stuck onto the end of the title.

There seems to be an ever-increasing sector of shows with this particular suffix. I love musicals - always have and always will. But not everything should necessarily be given the all-singing, all-dancing treatment. Bereavement: The Musical and Sex Ed: The Musical both get a big fat YES. Andy and the Prostitutes: The Musical? Doubtful. The Tibetan Book of the Dead: The Musical? No. Just... no.

7) Arthur's Seat is worth an afternoon away from the festival.

It's quick and easy to climb and the views are beautiful. And you hear some gems of bad geography if you eavesdrop on conversations at the top as people try to get their bearings. "Isn't Stonehenge near here? Oh no, wait - that's in Italy isn't it..." I have no idea if this person made it back to her house without getting lost, but I have my doubts.

8) The Fringe is addictive.

I came home sleep-deprived, never wanting to send an email again and seeing press releases and reviews and stars whenever I closed my eyes. But I'm going back next year, no question. I may have got Fringe fatigue, but I also caught Fringe fever - I'm officially a life-long fan. No matter how tired you get, the sheer amount of amazing, surprising, hilarious (whether intentionally or not) and heart-rending theatre that is on show here is unparalleled, from the most traditional of Shakespearean productions to the newest comedians on the circuit to an eleven minute performance in a prison cell. One year's taste of it is not enough. Thank you Edinburgh, you were great.