In Edinburgh, All the City’s a Stage

Shakespeare had it wrong. All the world’s not a stage but merely a rehearsal for one summer month here, when every theater, assembly hall and cobbled street springs to life with music, dance, literature and film. Forget kilts, haggis, bagpipes and whiskey. In Edinburgh, the play’s the thing--as is anything else that might draw a crowd.

Billed as the largest celebration of arts in the world, the Edinburgh festivals--there are seven of them--set the city reeling for four nonstop weeks in August. It’s a dazzling display of opera, street theater, concerts, poetry readings and movie premieres that overlap, interweave and leave you wondering what’s left for an encore.

Last year, after five months of planning, my wife, Margie, and I arrived as the curtain rose on the third week. We had purchased tickets in advance for some of the most popular festivals, including a Scottish musical extravaganza called the Edinburgh Military Tattoo and three performances within the International Festival, the most prestigious of the seven. For two others, the Festival Fringe and the Book Festival, we decided to take our chances. Most events run simultaneously in venues throughout the city, so we knew we wouldn’t be disappointed.

Overlooking the mouth of the Forth River on Scotland’s southeast coast, Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, and as we stepped from the shadows of the train station after a 4 1/2-hour ride from London, all was a blur beneath tall white clouds and rain-scoured sunlight.

Walk the streets in August and you collide with the future while traveling in the past. Buses and taxis, banners and pennants and hundreds of people crowd Princes Street, window-shopping its Gap, Body Shop and Laura Ashley stores. Meanwhile, high on a volcanic ridge above green and flowered gardens, a soot-dark row of ancient apartments leads to the wind-swept, 14th century Edinburgh Castle.

And Margie and I, she who had never been to Europe and I who thought the festivals a perfect introduction to this distant land, dived right in and quickly discovered this magnificent stage called Edinburgh.

Sure, the calendar said high summer, but on our first evening it was breezy and cold on the castle’s esplanade, where ancient battlements leaped about under the light of the torches.

We were waiting for the Military Tattoo to begin. But as we sat, squeezed into bleachers, chatting with the Canadian vacationers seated next to us and listening to an announcer rev up the crowd (“How many of our friends are here from . . . India?”; cheers ensued), we warmed to the moment.

Then the lights dimmed, and over the castle drawbridge and out of the mists of time (a fog machine, actually) streamed an army of bagpipers, horn players and drummers, all raucous and harmonious at once.

The tattoo, the city’s best-known summertime event, draws 200,000 visitors each year (and 10 million TV viewers worldwide) and has nothing to do with body decoration. The tattoo comes from a centuries-old Dutch cry, “Doe den tap toe” (“Turn off the taps!”), heard on the Continent when the bars closed and the fife-and-drum corps escorted soldiers back to their barracks. But in the last 50 years it’s come to refer to a kind of patriotic floor show.

The nearly two-hour performance features a mix of music, marchers, battle reenactments and kilted dancers. It closes with a fireworks display and then the real showstopper: a bagpiper standing alone on top of a castle wall, playing a haunting, winsome melody. Who could not fall in love with this Braveheart of a country?

It’s good weather in Scotland when it’s not raining. The skies are raked by winds off the North Sea and the Highlands, and we had our share of good and bad weather.

One drizzling morning, we walked beneath an umbrella through the churchyard at the Parish Church of St. Cuthbert and the adjacent Princes Street Gardens, and by late afternoon, we stood in blinding sunshine admiring the kaleidoscopic paint job of the Merry Prankster’s Magic Bus, made famous by Tom Wolfe’s “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.” We introduced ourselves to Ken Kesey, here for a Fringe event, looking as ruddy and robust as ever.

With a population of only 450,000 (which doubles in August), Edinburgh is a perfect city to host these events: Its intimacy intensifies everything.

Think of it as a city (pronounce it Eddin-burrow, not -burg) with only two main streets, Princes Street and the Royal Mile. Everything else--and there is, rest assured, more--runs in relation to these. Happily, it’s that simple. The time we saved negotiating maps, we spent combing through performance schedules.

Seven festivals, each representing hundreds of performances, can be a little daunting. Thanks to the Internet, we did some navigating and ticket-buying in advance, but we missed even more.

The Jazz Festival, for instance, ended two weeks before we arrived. As for the Film Festival, tempted as we were by the premiere of Scottish director Bill Forsyth’s sequel to “Gregory’s Girl” and a tribute to French director Robert Bresson, we knew we wouldn’t have the time.

Our bed-and-breakfast was 20 minutes outside town. We should have booked lodgings in advance, but even with 167 hotels and 495 B&Bs; (not to mention university dormitory rooms and a dozen hostels), it is not unusual for festival goers to commute from the neighboring town of Stirling--and even from Glasgow, 49 miles away.

Things worked out better than we expected. We rode the bus each morning and evening (for about $2 each way), reading the newspapers for upcoming performances and favorable reviews.

On our second night we had tickets for a production of Maxim Gorky’s 1902 play “The Lower Depths.” When we arrived at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, the houselights were still on, and the stage--a disheveled basement in a Moscow tenement--began to crowd. Before we knew it, the play had begun, and for the next hour and a half we watched a woman die of tuberculosis; a naked man intimidate the landlord by performing a lewd act in front of him; and a drunk soak the set with a hose. Then there was a murder and, in the end, something else.

“What is a man?” asked one player at the end.

As the question hung in the air, hundreds of votive candles rolled across the stage, leaving the remaining characters to measure, in this galaxy of light, their place in the universe.

The Edinburgh International Festival has been in existence since 1947, when Sir Rudolf Bing, then general manager of an English opera company, wondered if, after the devastation of World War II, cultural events like the Salzburg Festival could ever be staged again. Bing imagined a new festival based in Britain, and when he approached Edinburgh’s city fathers, they jumped at the idea.

The first few years were dramatic. In 1947, conductor Bruno Walter, an Austrian Jew who had fled the Nazis in the 1930s, was reunited with the Vienna Philharmonic. In 1948, German conductor Wilhelm Furtwangler, fighting accusations of Nazi complicity, conducted Richard Strauss’ “Death and Transfiguration.” In 1949, T.S. Eliot’s drama in verse, “The Cocktail Party,” premiered. Operating today on an annual budget of about $12 million, the International Festival rivals the Vienna and Salzburg festivals.

In time, more events jumped on the bandwagon, most notoriously the Festival Fringe--an avant-garde playground for comedians, musicians and street actors.

One night, for instance, we stood in the quadrangle of the University of Edinburgh. Against this backdrop of 18th century neoclassical architecture, a proscenium, fashioned of plywood, was laid on the ground. A hook-and-ladder fire truck sat behind the stage, and off to the side stood a tower of loudspeakers blasting strange, beat-driven techno loops.

“Cinderella,” as this Fringe production was called, is a cross between a rave, “Terminator 2” and Cirque du Soleil. Told in pantomime, the story is set in a Mad Max-like wasteland where men drive ATVs and motorcycles and wield flamethrowers.

A scientist enslaves a girl; he torments her with his creations. A local prince plans a party; the clock strikes 12. The girl escapes; it’s a high-wire act. War breaks out; the prince is kidnapped. Helicopters are lifted overhead by cranes. More wreckage, flames and synthesizers.

When the smoke cleared and the ovation ended, we drifted back into the city, a little embarrassed to be so amazed at what, on the surface, seemed rather silly. How could we ever explain this to the folks back home?

“I want to encourage the adventurous,” Faith Liddell told us. She directs the Book Festival, a bibliophile’s dream that crams nearly 500 events and 400 authors into a little less than three weeks.

“People want to think,” Liddell said with enthusiasm. “The idea is to share that pleasure. And Scotland has such a huge range of voices. Our goal is to put them in harmony and conflict.”

Taking place a block from Princes Street in tree-shaded Charlotte Square, the Book Festival delivers in readings, conversations and interviews all the pleasures of a university seminar without the final exam. Last year, its authors included Annie Proulx, Doris Lessing and Jay McInerney.

One morning we listened to Scottish author J.K. Rowling answer questions about her creation Harry Potter from a sold-out crowd of preteens. “Hello, fellow Muggles,” she greeted them, and a sea of arms shot into the air as they vied for her attention.

Striking a more serious note was Edwin Morgan, Scotland’s unofficial poet laureate, who talked about the meaning of Scottish nationalism in a world collapsing under the weight of the Internet and the new global economy. It was a bracing exhortation on the adventurousness of Scottish writers in an age of “global porridge.” Never a people to shy away from their accomplishments, the Scots are as fierce about their identity as Mel Gibson had us believe in “Braveheart.” Perhaps it’s only natural after nearly 1,000 years battling the English--and winning only once.

For a glimpse into that history, we forgot the festivals for a moment and stepped into the Museum of Scotland, opened in 1998 and just down the street from where “Cinderella” was staged. Inside an austere Victorian facade stands an atrium of glass and steel, and on the seventh floor is a rooftop garden offering one of the best views of this multi-spired city.

In between, six floors took us from 8000 BC to the present. We were lost among communal drinking cups and 12th century chess pieces on one level. On another, we stood beside an 1861 steam engine, looked up at a two-story re-creation of a Scottish lighthouse and saw a display of 19th century clubs and gutta-percha balls for what some say is Scotland’s greatest gift to the world: golf.

Hold the haggis, tatties and neeps, please. At Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, we went with the fish ‘n’ chips and a pint of beer as a rerun of “I Dream of Jeannie” played on the telly. A cabinetmaker and city councilman by day and cat burglar by night, Brodie inspired Robert Louis Stevenson to write “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Soon enough we were back on the Royal Mile, where the daily August street carnival takes place. The city closes off a part of this road for the festival crowd, some of whom looked like celebrants at a Grateful Dead concert.

Not far from St. Giles Cathedral (founded in the 1100s and well worth a visit), a red-haired man in a black suit played “The Sounds of Silence” on an electric guitar. A half-naked girl pretended she was a windup doll. Acrobats, fire eaters, jugglers and musicians plied their trade. We stopped and listened to one.

Aside from the kilt, this bagpipe player would have been at home with any garage band. He wore dark glasses and played the pipes like Charlie Parker played the sax. He set up one song as a tour of the Highlands on a Harley. If you think the bagpipes are good only for “Amazing Grace,” think again.

On the final night of the festival we joined the crowd streaming down the hill to Princes Street.

We stopped on the Waverley Bridge, packed with teens, locals and tourists in various stages of inebriation. Before long we were watching the most extraordinary fireworks show we had ever seen.

Red and green, silver and gold, blue and white pinwheels and chrysanthemums, fire falls and fireflies flitted and fell across the night sky. An orchestra played in the hollow of Princes Street Gardens. Strauss waltzes blared out of a boombox set up behind us.

When we first arrived, we wondered what this amazing city could do for an encore. Now we knew.

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Edinburgh Festival Bookings Edinburgh’s seven August festivals offer hundreds of performances. Ticket prices vary widely; some events are free. We ended up spending $20 to $40 per seat.

Edinburgh International Festival: The city’s oldest and most highbrow; runs Aug. 13 to Sept. 2 this year. Highlights include the Stuttgart State Opera performing Handel’s “Alcina” and the Scottish Opera performing Wagner’s “Das Rheingold”; performances by the New York City Ballet and the Nederlands Dans Theater; and concerts by the Cleveland Orchestra, the Budapest Festival Orchestra and the Czech Philharmonic.

A full program is available on the festival’s Web site, https://www.eif.co.uk. Tickets are available beginning April 15 over the Internet or by mail, phone or fax. Edinburgh International Festival, The Hub, Castlehill, Edinburgh EH1 2NE, Scotland; telephone 011-44-131-473-2000, fax 011-44-131-473-2003. (We ordered our tickets in early May, and by then some events were sold out.)

Edinburgh Military Tattoo: This extravaganza of marchers, pipers and dancers runs Aug. 4 to 26 at 9 p.m. Mondays through Fridays, 7:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. Saturdays. Ordering tickets early is advisable. For information: Tattoo Office, 32 Market St., Edinburgh EH1 1QB, Scotland; tel. 011-44-131-225-1188, fax 011-44-131-225-8627, Internet https://www.edintattoo.co.uk.

Edinburgh Festival Fringe: Runs Aug. 6 to 28; a schedule will be available June 8. For more information: Edinburgh Festival Fringe, 180 High St., Edinburgh EH1 1QS, Scotland; tel. 011-44-131-226-5257, fax 011-44-131-220-4205, Internet https://www.edfringe.com.

Edinburgh Book Festival: Runs Aug. 12 to 28. This year’s authors include J. K. Rowling (of Harry Potter fame), Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, Andrea Dworkin, Sara Paretsky and Tama Janowitz; a complete program will be available at the end of June. For more information: Scottish Book Centre, 137 Dundee St., Edinburgh EH11 1BG, Scotland; tel. 011-44-131-228-5444, fax 011-44-131-228-4333, Internet https://www.edbookfest.co.uk.

Edinburgh International Film Festival: Runs Aug. 13 to 27. Information: Filmhouse, 88 Lothian Road, Edinburgh EH3 9BZ, Scotland; tel. 011-44-131-228-4051, fax 011-44-131-229-5501, Internet https://www.edfilmfest.org.uk.

Other festivals: For the Jazz Festival, the fireworks concert (on the last day of the International Festival) and the Television Festival (an industry event), contact the Edinburgh and Lothians Tourist Board, 3 Princes St., Edinburgh EH2 2QP, Scotland; tel. 011-44-131-473-3800, fax 011-44-131-473-3881, Internet https://www.edinburgh.org.

GUIDEBOOK

Playing in Scotland

Getting there: British Airways has connecting service to Edinburgh from L.A. via London; or fly to London on another airline and connect to Edinburgh on British Midland. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $1,016 for the summer high season. You can also take the Great Northeastern Railway (GNER) from London’s Kings Cross Station to Edinburgh; round-trip fares begin at about $74. Telephone 011-44-8457-225- 225, Internet https://www.gner.com.

Where to stay: Avoiding the central city’s more expensive hotels, we ended up at St. Leonards, a quiet, comfortable B&B; 20 minutes from Edinburgh by bus; 480 Lanark Road, Edinburgh EH 14 5BL, Scotland; tel. 011-44-131-453-1968, fax 011-44-131-442-4406, Internet https://www.stleonards.uk.com. About $60 per person, including breakfast. We spent one night in town at Seventeen Abercromby Place, a Georgian masterpiece in central Edinburgh; tel. 011-44-131-557-8036, fax 011-44-131-558-3453. About $200 for a double room, with breakfast.

Where to eat: On the Royal Mile, the Witchery (local tel. 225-5613) serves Scottish cuisine (seafood, game and poultry) in a 16th century building; dinner about $50 per person, food only. The Abbotsford (3 Rose St., tel. 225-5276), with a beautiful coffered ceiling, has similar fare. Nicholsons Restaurant (6 Nicholsons St., tel. 557- 4567) is the cafe where J.K. Rowling began her Harry Potter books; dinner about $30 per person. The Tower at the Museum of Scotland (tel. 225- 3003) has good food, views; dinner about $40 per person.

For more information: British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., New York, NY 10176; tel. (800) 462-2748, Internet https://www.btausa.com.