"Reality is brilliant," observes Hugh Hughes, the wide-eyed alter ego of Hoipolloi's Shon Dale-Jones early on in 360, his new solo show at the Pleasance Courtyard.
But reality is also unpredictable, as became apparent halfway through the same performance when a woman fainted. She recovered quickly, but the show had to stop in the meantime. It was eventually decided that things would continue; while some people had already moved on by then, Hughes persevered and was able to pick up where he had left off. But it wasn't possible for us to forget what had happened.
Incidents like this happen reasonably frequently at the festival. The intrusion of the outside world is part of the fabric of the fringe; the turnaround times are so short and the venues are so closely packed together that the potential for things to go awry is high. It's impossible to ignore the outside world: music from productions in other parts of the building, the jangle of bottles and glasses at the bar and the voices of passers-by all serve to remind you not of where the play wants you to to be but of where you actually are.
Some shows are better than others at incorporating the unexpected. When James Lance appeared to ingest a bit of his fake Alan Whicker moustache at Pythonesque yesterday, the other actors were able to fill in his lines as he coughed and spluttered. The subsequent bout of offstage hacking didn't impact on the production. Other shows, admittedly, might have not had it so easy.
Theatre is, by its very nature, fragile – a layering of words and music and images to transport you to some other place, a delicate pact between audience and performer. A line is drawn; sometimes it is also breached. I'm not sure if this is always such a bad thing. Cocooned in a plush theatre in the West End or on the South Bank, it's easy to focus on the play – it's dark, you've got a comfortable seat, and you're effectively insulated against anything that might interfere.
In Edinburgh, you have few of these comforts, but perversely that can make the experience far richer. Everyone – the performers and the audience – is in this together. During 360, a plane shot overhead with a sonic roar so loud that it was difficult not to react. "Has a war started we don't know about?" Hughes asked.
It was a shared moment, an unrepeatable thing – a needle piercing our collective bubble – and in a way it enhanced the performance, reinforcing this strange temporary connection between the man on the stage and the people sitting in front of him. Such moments make it all worthwhile.
