s ALAMY STOCK PHOTO One highlight was American writer Gore Vidal.
“He was so pleased with the photos I took, he asked for a print and sent me a signed copy of one of his books,” he says. “In it, he inscribed that many said it was the best picture taken of Gore Vidal, some said it made him look like God, while others said he looked like Harold Wilson with Alzheimer’s.” At one point, Macleod was asked to record sound as well as
photographs and happened to encounter Tony Benn and John Prescott on the same day. “I asked Tony Benn if he minded if I recorded a small
reflection and he said: ‘Well, let me think, a photograph is a moment’s inconvenience for a lifetime of pleasure.’ Tat was his response and I thought that was really nice. Ten, in the same manner, I asked John Prescott and he said: ‘Shut up and take the bloody picture!’ ” Mark Fisher is a freelance journalist based in Edinburgh. He
clocked up his 40th consecutive festival last year and is theatre critic for Te Guardian. “I don’t think I could have been a freelance arts journalist in
Edinburgh if it hadn’t been for the festival because it’s been a central part of my income,” he says. “It’s not difficult to see five shows in a day if you put your mind to it. Even then, I’ll get to the end of the festival and someone will go ‘Did you see such-and-such?’ and I’ve never heard of it.” Fisher says it is not just what happens during the festival
that can generate work; the event can also lead to interviews and commissions later in the year. Fergus Morgan is also freelance and writes for Te
Scotsman, Financial Times and Te Stage. “You get exposed to such incredible, weird, adventurous,
experimental, mind-expanding work,” he says. “Tere is so much weird stuff, I worry now that I can’t tell what’s weird or not.” Morgan was based in London and moved to Edinburgh in
2019 after meeting his wife at the festival. He says one of the biggest issues is the spiralling costs, which have priced out both artists and freelance journalists.
“People are twisting my arm to sleep on my futon,” he says. “To stay here for a whole month, for a room, you’re talking £2k–£3k at least – too much for a freelance journalist. If your paper isn’t paying for it and you’ve got to foot the bill, that’s an extortionate amount. I think
there’s a real paucity of professional critics on the ground now.” He also believes there is scope for more scrutiny around
“It’s the single biggest gathering of the British TV industry and, from a journalistic point of view, it’s the best place for networking.” Chris Curtis, editor, Broadcast magazine
“It almost got to the stage, say 20 years ago, where you couldn’t shock – the thing had been done.” Murdo Macleod, photographer
“Journalistically, it’s very rich – you get a mood of the times.” Mark Fisher, theatre critic and freelance journalist
how the festivals operate, citing the recent ‘pivot’ towards attracting more acts from America as an example. He tries to cram in as much work as he can for the month of
August and sometimes sees six shows a day. Some do not start until 11pm and he will write a 250-450 word review for each. “I spend a lot of time sprinting around town and I write a lot
on my phone when I’m waiting for a show to start,” he says. “It’s the only way I can stay on top of it.” Like most journalists, he’s had a few ‘traumatic’ experiences,
including being hauled up on stage and shoved in a bin by a stand-up comedian, who kicked it around the stage and hurled abuse at him. “I had no idea what was happening, I was in a kind of daze,” he says. “Afterwards, I said to my friend, ‘Was that any good?’ And he said, ‘Tat was fucking hilarious.’ ” Morgan gave it a four-star review. Another memorable night was a show called Karaoke Saved
My Life. “It was basically this American bloke in a white suit telling the story of his life and, every three minutes, he would clunkily segue into a pop hit and get someone up on stage to sing with him,” he says. “I went on a Sunday evening at 11pm. I thought, I’ll have a
beer and sit at the back and it turned out there were only three people in the audience. Te show started and the guy asked ‘Does anyone want to get up on stage?’ and all four of us were completely silent. Tis went on for 15 minutes, then one of the people left. It was so awkward. Eventually, I turned to the other two and said, ‘Look, lets just get up on stage’. So, the show essentially descended into the performer, me and these two other strangers singing karaoke to a completely empty room apart from the sound girl at the back. It actually turned out to be one of my favourite Fringe experiences.”
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