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Friday 5 December 2008

Edinburgh’s cultural jamboree

Lloyd Evans on the esotericism of the Festival and the ragamuffin risk-taking of the Fringe

It’s not about making cash. It’s about entering a lottery. The glory of the Fringe is that it’s a gamble, a blind-date, a Klondike full of mapless nugget-hunters stumbling through its stony gulleys at random. No one has a clue where to look but the gold is always there. Every year an unexpected show-from-nowhere takes the city by storm, delights audiences and critics alike, and sells out. And you can bet that every last one of the Fringe’s greasepaint warriors secretly believes that this will be their year. In their hearts they feel certain that come September they’ll be fielding calls from Bill Kenwright and Cameron Mackintosh begging them to ‘come into town’. Shows that win ovations at Edinburgh must face a final cruel hurdle. The curse of the A1. For reasons no one can fathom, Fringe hits don’t always succeed in the West End. Many die of neglect. Audiences shun them and even reviewers who have bear-hugged a particular production ‘up there’ lose faith when it arrives in London. One critic explains these tragic abandonments as follows: ‘I suppose we all live in London whereas in Edinburgh we’re on holiday. There’s a euphoria that wears off when we come home.’ Fame-hunters beware. Still, there’s always next year.

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