What happens if you watch a satire, the subject matter of which is tiresome and dull, the characters in which are single-track people with little going for them? What happens when you are confronted with a comment on a middle class pseudo-intellectual existence that is so ultimately vacuous that you can't quite bring yourself to care about the writer's point? In truth, not much happens, except that a dull pressure builds behind your eyes and you do start fantasising about firmly placing a pillow over the characters' faces.
It did not bode well on entering the theatre. The heat was intense. If you can imagine sitting around an open fire, in Singapore, at noon, on a particularly hot day, in a fleece, with your feet in hot water, you'll be close enough. The programmes were essential - not for finding out more on the play, but to circulate some air. Much applause to the actors for fighting through their tropical environment.
I do feel there probably is a better play in here than I saw. It is not a play about art (I think) but about dysfunctional relationships and the things we talk about when we have (over time) run out of things to say to good friends. As it was, the arguments about art became the centre-piece, removing any interest for those of us who have realised how empty such arguments are (you know, it really doesn't matter if one person is a postmodernist and another is a classicist). The characters were pretty straight forward and with not much depth or variety. The blame must land on the shoulders of director Anthony Pinnick.
The story follows Mark (David Mouriguand) who takes exception to his friend Serge (Danny Fisher) buying a canvas with a white background and white diagonal lines - so, yes, a white canvas. Their neurotic friend Yvan (Benjamin Darlington) acts as the equivocator in the middle, never really taking sides and infuriating them both because of it. Sounds inconsequential? Funny that...
The performances were solid enough. Mouriguand was possibly a bit more one-dimensional than the others. I really could find nothing in Mark that makes him interesting or sympathetic. Without any desire to be anywhere near him I couldn't quite understand why the other two would stay in his company, which essentially took out the heart of the play. Fisher was quite straightforward, but had a certain smarmy charm that might evoke an invitation to a twice-yearly dinner party. Darlington was the strongest actor - handling the awkward physicality and often manic flip-floppery of Yvan with aplomb. A weaker actor would have become flappy and incoherent. Ultimately, though, it was hard to feel much sympathy for him either.
Between the heat, the snobbish, macho, supposedly cultural, neurotic nonsense and the wholly discardable characters I could just never really see the point. There is a good play here, but it is somehow lost, melting into the ether in the tropical heat of an Edinburgh evening.
At C Central (The Blue Room) at 10.10.
3 out of 10.
- James Grogan
It did not bode well on entering the theatre. The heat was intense. If you can imagine sitting around an open fire, in Singapore, at noon, on a particularly hot day, in a fleece, with your feet in hot water, you'll be close enough. The programmes were essential - not for finding out more on the play, but to circulate some air. Much applause to the actors for fighting through their tropical environment.
I do feel there probably is a better play in here than I saw. It is not a play about art (I think) but about dysfunctional relationships and the things we talk about when we have (over time) run out of things to say to good friends. As it was, the arguments about art became the centre-piece, removing any interest for those of us who have realised how empty such arguments are (you know, it really doesn't matter if one person is a postmodernist and another is a classicist). The characters were pretty straight forward and with not much depth or variety. The blame must land on the shoulders of director Anthony Pinnick.
The story follows Mark (David Mouriguand) who takes exception to his friend Serge (Danny Fisher) buying a canvas with a white background and white diagonal lines - so, yes, a white canvas. Their neurotic friend Yvan (Benjamin Darlington) acts as the equivocator in the middle, never really taking sides and infuriating them both because of it. Sounds inconsequential? Funny that...
The performances were solid enough. Mouriguand was possibly a bit more one-dimensional than the others. I really could find nothing in Mark that makes him interesting or sympathetic. Without any desire to be anywhere near him I couldn't quite understand why the other two would stay in his company, which essentially took out the heart of the play. Fisher was quite straightforward, but had a certain smarmy charm that might evoke an invitation to a twice-yearly dinner party. Darlington was the strongest actor - handling the awkward physicality and often manic flip-floppery of Yvan with aplomb. A weaker actor would have become flappy and incoherent. Ultimately, though, it was hard to feel much sympathy for him either.
Between the heat, the snobbish, macho, supposedly cultural, neurotic nonsense and the wholly discardable characters I could just never really see the point. There is a good play here, but it is somehow lost, melting into the ether in the tropical heat of an Edinburgh evening.
At C Central (The Blue Room) at 10.10.
3 out of 10.
- James Grogan
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