One of the criticisms hurled at the fringe is that brevity often leads to a lack of emotional and intellectual depth. Try telling that to Samuel Beckett, who never used a word more than he needed and never embellished an image if a simpler one would do. Not I is a case in point. It is just an open, talking mouth, set in a sea of darkness. It lasts 20 minutes and yet offers up a whole lifetime.
Andy Arnold's production is done no favours by the venue, but not even the whirl of the air conditioning unit can drown out this vomit of words. Teeth clenched, lips bared, throat red, Pauline Goldsmith's light, almost gossipy, delivery brings a wonderful sense of humanity to the piece, a cackle of laughter before the final screaming silence. Goldsmith reminds you that this is a monologue of affirmation in the face of annihilation. The intensity is almost too much to bear. Get as close to the stage as you possibly can, so it seems as if that open mouth is talking only to you, and allow yourself to fall down that throat into dark, drowning depths.
· Until August 30. Box office: 0131-226 2428.
