New writing is not having the desired effect ... An audience, asleep. Photograph: Haydn West / PA
The Fringe has been up and running for more than a week now, and I've been watching shows pretty much back-to-back, but I'm still waiting for it to happen: I have yet to stumble on a new play by an unknown writer that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up because I know I'm in the presence of the real deal.
In other respects, Edinburgh 2008 hasn't been a disappointment. Having spent far too many hours watching slipshod verbatim plays this year, Motherland and Deep Cut - both devastatingly effective - have restored my faith in documentary theatre. There's plenty of dreamy visual theatre around (I adored Polaris and The Idiot Colony), and no shortage of excellent plays by established playwrights to chose from (Pornography and The New Electric Ballroom, to name just two). But the stuff by so-called "emerging" playwrights I've caught so far has left me in a frostbitten mood, making me jittery about the state of new writing.
I still remember the thrill of finding Enola, Al Smith's assured debut play. And last year a graceful production of Declan Feenan's first play, Limbo impressed me. Smith, now a Fringe veteran, is back again with The Bird and the Bee, which I have high hopes for. Feenan's follow-up, Lough/Rain, co-written with Clara Brennan, is more admirable for its promise than its success. A slight and rather forlorn play, it's a contemplative picture of a couple whose relationship has changed forever in the aftermath of a serious accident. The production is staged with great gentleness by Dan Sherer, and the actors (Jot Davies and Kate Donmall) capture the frustration and sad yearning of the characters, but the writing isn't as delicate and sharp as it could be.
If I can, I'm going to check out Steve Walters' Out of Your Knowledge, and I'm excited about The Exquisite Corpse, put together by a group of up-and-coming Welsh writers. But much of the new writing I'm seeing is either embarrassing or so determinedly small-scale that it flirts with innocuousness. Where, oh where are all the young playwrights hiding out? Any and all tips for finding Fringe gems are welcome...
