EDINBURGH FESTIVAL
PIPE-BANDS marching along Prince's Street. miles of tartan in the shop windows, St. Andrew's crosses proliferating from a multitude of flags (which one Englishman took for Danish till called to order)—at first sight the Festival appears more'of a national than an international event. Here, one thinks, is something on which the effete hand of an outworn cosmopolitanism (or words to that effect) has not yet been laid. But one realises just how international it is: French girls giggle and murmur Cest formidable' in front of the forbidding countenances that Rae bu rn painted, Austrians and Germans look as though they felt that lederhosen were not quite the wear for so Northern a climate, while the ubiquitous American of both sexes seem as neat and glossy and well turned-out as if they were newly sprayed Ford cars. Of course, the variety of accents and tongues does credit to the festival's far-flung reputation, but still fewer concessions are made to the invaders than would be the case in other countries: notices are resolutely in English and foreigners—even those from south of the border—have the impression of being Considerably outnumbered by native-born festivalgocrs.
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Yet an examination of the programme raises some doubts: is the Festival really as Scottish as all that, even as Scottish as it should decently be? The most Scottish thing we have seen up to date is Macbeth and its national quality might be called traditional. It is true that Michael Benthall has tried to give us a genuinely Caledonian production: Pipes wail, thanes in kilts and fur caps swarm up on to the apron stage, and the three witches' accents are masterpieces of misplaced ingenuity. This is a full-bloodcdly savage Macbeth: the actual death of Macbeth himself was as unpleasant a bit of beheading as 1 have seen on the stage. Paul Rogers's Performance chimed in with this barbaric atmosphere : he made of Macbeth a good wild beast turned bad wild beast and, in so doing, abandoned most of the nobility and Much of the subtlety in the part. Mr. Rogers is also afflicted by the jinx that has ravaged Past Old Vic productions: the speaking of Shakespearean verse. And it is no good blaming it on the permanent set this time. An apron stage gives the actor every chance. It is for the producer that it creates difficul- ties—difficulties which Mr. Benthall over- came very creditably. The play moved rapidly, the battle scenes were genuinely ferocious and the playing of the minor parts good (I leave the witches' accents out of account). I especially enjoyed Ann Todd's interpretation of Lady Macbeth: it is a Pleasant change to see it played in a way that Snakes her human and desirable. Presented as a sort of walking python, her power over _Macbeth is quite incomprehensible. Miss Todd's queen fortunately belonged to the World of Raymond Chandler rather than to that of •Kings 1 & 2.
• • « Scotland is even leSs represented in the ether main theatrical event of the week: The Matchmaker by Thornton Wilder.
Mr. Wilder, the well-known American novelist, has, written a play of the familiar comedy of errors type, based on a long series of past plays of intrigue and given a strong Yankee flavour. Three loving couples get mixed up in the usual commedia dell'arte complications against a background of mixed Americana. Good clean fun is had by all, but principally (one gets the impres- sion) by Tyrone. Guthrie who produces with his usual attention to detail. Sam Levine, Ruth Gordon and Esme Church combined to keep the fun fast and furious, but after a little the sense of strain began to communi- cate itself to the audience. Only good pro- duction and good acting managed to save this fundamentally flat play from appearing so.
The artistic side of the Festival is incon- testably superior to the dramatic. The exhi- bition of Cezanne's paintings is calculated to give aesthetic pleasure in its most unadul- terated form. Sixty-five paintings, many of them, surprisingly enough, from British collections, give a fair panorama of the artist's development. To compare three pictures like Montagnes en Provence, Aix; Paysage Rocheux and Le Mont deCengle is to become fully aware of the increasingly schematic quality of his work. In the last of these paintings the rocks and the sky form an almost entirely abstract pattern of quadrilaterals that only suggest in the vaguest, but at the same time the most precise way possible the real Provencal scenery on which they are based. It was Cezanne's destiny to bring mind into Impressionism. How he did it may be seen by anyone who looks at his still-lifes, plentifully represented in this exhibition and recalling the equally intense concentration of a Braque.
But we are far from Scotland here, and it is apparent. that the international element in the Festival programme heavily outweighs the national. Should this be so? Should not Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, present a more distinctly personal programme to its visitors? To answer these questions it would be necessary to define what I take to be the function of the Festival. I hope later to have an opportunity for dealing with these basic principles at the length they deserve.
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