Edinburgh Festival 2: Beckett Marathon

To be perfectly honest, I didn't feel particulalry keen about going on the "Beckett Marathon" (that's my title, not the official one) which Alice obliged us to attend during the Festival. She didn't force me, but her enthusiasm made me feel I should accompany her - just in case, after all, I missed something good.

Nor do I especially want to write about it. But she insists we say at least something.

Samuel Beckett is a very bizarre writer: either a total crackpot or an inspired genius, depending on your viewpoint.

Samuel Beckett in Paris, 1985

I myself find him a terribly depressing author. I quote from another source:  
he creates a mythical universe peopled by lonely creatures who struggle vainly to express the unexpressable. His characters exist in a terrible dreamlike vacuum, overcome by an overwhelming sense of bewilderment and grief, grotesquely attempting some form of communication, then crawling on, endlessly.
So you can see why I wasn't that keen.

He's best known for his play Waiting for Godot, which Alice first saw many years ago. So long ago, she can't even remember when or where. I suspect it was during her university years, maybe at a Student Drama Festival. But don't let's get her started again on her early acting experiences. . . She claims to have "enjoyed" it straight away. Oh, yes?

Alice decided to try the Beckett on Film events, partly because they were much cheaper than the live theatre ones. There were a total of nineteen plays! Some last up to two hours. Some however, are pretty short, from 35 seconds (Breath) to 20 minutes, so that three could be shown in one slot. Thank goodness, Alice only booked some of these sessions! We'd need our lunch, if nothing else.

The day before, we heard a talk by Michael Colgan, who, with Beckett's blessing, produced the films. This means he got together the money (which wasn't enough, of course) chose the directors and selected the actors he wanted. Not all the directors and actors of his first choice got on together, it transpired, but in the end the mighty project took off.

In the morning we first saw Catastrophe. It was quite amusing, actually, but with a hint of sadness at the end when John Gielgud turns out to be the one who is the butt of the manipulations, followed by triumph when he turns his gaze at the spectators - including us, of course. It was his last on-screen appearance, as he died a few weeks later.

Damien Hirst on the set of "Breath"

Then we had Rough for Theatre II (extremely spooky and sinister) and Breath.  I have to admit the last was a brilliant 35 seconds worth of film! Good old Damien Hirst "directed" it - in other words creatively arranged the rubbish, something we know this artist is good at.

I reckon it's Beckett's ultimate summary of life (but not mine): you're born, it's all a load of old garbage, and then you die.

One of Alice's favourite Beckett quotes is, They give birth astride of a grave. Yes, but we do have some fun as well, don't we? Even the writer himself adds, the light gleams an instant, before he finishes with, then it's night once more. Here's to the gleaming!

After a short break came Happy Days: that one with the woman buried up to her waist in the first act, and up to her neck in the second. She tries hard to pass the time (a common Beckett theme) and seem cheerful, but even so, feels the need of an event sometimes.

Alice actually likes the play but not this rendition. She thought it could have pointed up the different imaginary listeners to whom Winnie speaks, and take more account of her underlying desperation. There have been other interpretations, of course. The best bits for me were when she took various objects from her big black bag to inspire herself: a toothbrush, or a gun.

At five in the afternoon we went to the Lyceum for our one live Beckett event Eh, Joe. An old man is checking his grimy little room to make sure no-one's there, but when he tries to sleep, he hears a woman's voice, taunting him with his past despicable behaviour. He does respond, but says nothing at all.

Originally written for TV, one would then have seen his reactions in ever closer close-up. On the stage, Michael Gambon's craggy face was projected onto a guaze: huge beside the apparently "tiny" figure on the bed. See the picture in The Independent.

The Guardian thought it was worth four stars; the Telegraph admired it as well. Alice and I were more iffy. Perhaps he was getting stale, or saving himself for the evening performance; but we thought his repertoire of expressions was disappointingly limited. Sorry folks, if you're a devoted fan.
It's Joe, no: Dumbledore, yes.

[Click on the images, won't you?]

Immediately after that, it was back for the rest of the films. We were certainly getting a bit tired by then, and there was no time for our afternoon cup of tea! We're getting a bit tired now as well, writing this up, so forgive us if we're a bit more succinct, and just follow the links for extra info.

Go on, Alice, you can be succinct if you really try hard enough, can't you?

Ohio Impromptu

We saw Ohio Impromptu (a sad self-referential tale, with the wonderful Jeremy Irons and his seductive, mellifluous tones) Rough for Theatre 1 (two tramps, one blind and one disabled, in a brutal demonstration of how we both sorely need, yet still persecute each other) and Not I  (a horrific isolated mouth gabbling at speed) - all three at the one sitting.

Then it was on yet again,
with What Where (a political work about power, torture and guilt, slightly sci-fi in setting) plus Footfalls (a spooky atmospheric piece - about the legacy of generations perhaps?) and Come and Go (a three minute repetitive, geometric and emotional dance between three old women, about secrets, belonging and outcasts) in another block of short films.

And guess what the grand finale was? That original shocker, Waiting for Godot, no longer quite so disturbing to contemporary audiences. Despite the much parodied central idea of waiting for a mysterious individual who'll set the world to rights but never actually arrives, and the cruelty of some incidents, it's actually a very funny and poignant play, full of wry humour, and compassion for humanity.

Maybe Beckett's lovely aphorism, Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better. sums up the spirit of this classic drama. I grew to feel very fond of poor old Vladimir and Estragon, and even mellowed in my appreciation of Samuel Beckett. So, thank you Alice, it was a good marathon to have run.

Who's reading this blog?

Are you? Well, of course you are in one sense, or you wouldn't be reading the question. What we mean is, are you a regular or occasional visitor? Maybe you only came accross it by chance today, and certainly won't be back. Maybe you like what you see, and think you will return. Possibly you'll even put it on a Bookmark!

Google, who operate Blogger, gives writers some regular statistics on the number of times their pages get viewed. See the screenshot below, which is seen most clearly on a separate tab or page. [Alice added the question-mark face to make our point of puzzlement.]

According to this - and note they're not counting the number of times we ourselves view the blog - we've been viewed quite a bit since May 2012, when we started up. 2,692 times in all as of 8th September 2013. Wow! With no real publicity, that's not at all bad. But we still don't know what that means, in terms of appreciation - or not...

Checking out another page, which tells us where the requests to view come from, we see that in the last month most have come from the US and the UK (to be expected) but also some from Russia, South Korea, Australia and even China.

Who are you? What do you think of what we're writing? Does it seem ridiculous for a Monkey like me to be writing a blog at all? Or do you like the dual nature of my relationship with Alice? In all fairness, although the humour is mostly mine, she's the technician of the team, responsible for the look of it.

I admit we've made it hard to post Comments, by limiting it to people with specific accounts. That's because we don't want silly stuff from silly people. I'm sure you know what we mean. But - and we're taking a great risk of being swamped with derision - we're now inviting you to email Alice at the address in the image below and give us your feedback. If you're serious you'll have to type it out. It won't take you there with a click. We've done it this way, to avoid the spambots!

We've discovered that to sign in to this account, we have to sign out from our blog one first. Hmmm. So we might not get to check for your emails every single day - just now and then.
Be patient - we might even reply. No promises, though.

Kiki Smith

Postscript to the previous post, plus two other follow-ups.

Kiki Smith. We were recently reminded that Marina Warner spoke of another interesting artist near the end of her talk. (If you haven't read the previous post already, scroll down to it or open separately, as this one makes more sense in context.) She saw Kiki Smith as a feminist artist reclaiming the concept of "witch" with more positive images.

You can read more about Kiki in an interview with the Journal of Contemporary Art or try an interactive site about a 2003-04 exhibition of her work at the  New York Museum of Modern Art. The photo to the left, Sleeping Witch, is the sort of thing Ms Warner meant.

I think the one of her Shewolf on the right is a rather gruesome portrayal of the offspring of the wolf and the girl. Couldn't she have been just as hairy, but more beautiful? The one below left, Rapture, is indeed gorgeous, however. Though I'm sorry the wolf is so very finally dead: Alice and I really like wolves, or the idea of them, at least.

I know I keep reminding you, but do please click on the images to see them larger, or open in a new tab for full size.

The illustration below right here, Born, is Kiki Smith's print on a cover for the poetry book Woods Wolf Girl by Cornelia Hoogland.

"The recurrent subject matter in Smith’s work has been the body as a receptacle for knowledge, belief, and storytelling." is from PBS - art21.

It continues: Life, death, and resurrection are thematic signposts in many of Smith’s installations and sculptures. In several of her pieces ... Smith takes as her inspiration the life of St. Genevieve ... Portrayed communing with a wolf, taking shelter with its pelt, and being born from its womb, Smith’s character ... embodies the complex, symbolic relationships between humans and animals.

And we thought she was re-interpreting the story of Red Riding Hood - like Angela Carter and the absolutely wonderful Neil Jordan film, Company of Wolves, for which Carter wrote the script. The wolves in that were real ones, and simply beautiful, especially in the scenes of the pack running through the woods.

But see here: a really excellent site, by the artist and writer Terri Windling, all about the history of the original story, with lots of illustrations. She's also written articles about other fairy tales for the Journal of Mythic Arts, now archived.

If you want a fun, but highly sanitised children's cartoon version of Red Riding Hood, see the British Council's version [best viewed full screen.]

Follow-up 1: Lana Wachowski  

Lana Wachowski was mentioned in our blog post on Cloud Atlas at Yet MORE marvellous movies! She is an extremely intelligent and creative producer and director. Lana and her brother Andy co-directed the famous Matrix films as well.

In October 2012 the Human Rights Campaign presented her with their Visibilty Award. A video of her acceptance speech is on YouTube. It is very moving, yet spiced with some delightful touches of humour. The full text is at the Hoywood Reporter. Lana's speech was one of the longest public appearances that either of the notoriously reclusive siblings has ever given, says Wikipedia.

Follow-up 2: Return to Death
In June we went to see Death to Death at the Scottish Gallery of Modern Art. Read the relevant part of Sorry. Way behind... first (this opens in a new page or tab) then what follows here will make more sense. Back then we only had time to enjoy the Ernesto Neto installation. So we returned to see the rest, just before it finished.

Since it was such a nice day, we took a little picnic and strolled along the Water of Leith first. We ended up right at the back entrance to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art One. Check out what I'm sitting on.

It's a bit of a climb up the steps, but worth it in the end. See!

No, I'm not caving, or even doing re-birthing therapy! It's Reclining Figure, Two Piece by Henry Moore.
 

Alice told me her sons used to climb on it and in it when it was in the Botanic Gardens. An awfully long time ago...

Then we made our way to the cafe, before tackling the actual exhibits.

We've several pictures for you, but won't write great screeds of stuff. Alice complains she hasn't had time for day-to-day necessities and the typing.

[She enjoys it really: much more than dusting.]

On the left is one of the many Piss Flowers filling a whole room.

I kid you not.  Helen Chadwick and her partner peed in the snow, and made moulds of the depressions. Cast in bronze, laqueur white, and Voila!

Then we saw two great contrasts. Left is S’élevant (Rising up) by Jean Arp. There are lots more photos of his work on Pinterest. Right is a copy of the no longer so shocking Fountain by Duchamp. Alice discovered it was really meant as a subversive practical joke on the Art Establishment of 1917. See these articles in The Telegraph and The Guardian.

This time we managed to get a place on the free Gallery bus, by being among the first 16 in the queue.

When we reached the main Scottish National Gallery, the buskers were still playing to tourists, even though all the Festivals were over. That's us finished with our postscript and follow-ups, folks. Hope it was interesting. We've more blogging in the pipeline.