Lloyd Evans on the esotericism of the Festival and the ragamuffin risk-taking of the Fringe
Here we go again. Like some vast, hairy, attention-seeking arachnid, the Edinburgh Festival has settled its gross and gorgeous shape in the shadow of Arthur’s Seat. Ever since its inception in 1947 the Festival has grown steadily and spawned a rowdy litter of symbiotic events. Comedy, literature, classical music, film, ballet, modern dance, jazz and blues and even ‘spirituality and peace’. All are represented. But the Festival’s heart, its alpha and omega, is the theatre.
Whenever I flip through the International Festival brochure I’m staggered and slightly alarmed by its strenuously esoteric contents. Daring. That’s the word. It’s daring you to pack it all in. To admit you’re not high-minded enough for high art. It offers Homer in Lithuanian, Shakespeare in Catalan, Goethe in Javanese, Mozart in Martian.
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