2026 Edinburgh International Festival Fringe

 

[The Edinburgh Festival began in 1947 as a single official, classical arts event to heal the wounds of war, which accidentally sparked the world's largest open-access performing arts movement.  It was founded by Rudolf Bing (1902-97; Austrian-born British opera impresario who worked in Germany, the United Kingdom, and the United States, including as General Manager of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City from 1950 to 1972) to unite Europe through culture after World War II. 

[The main, official event, the Edinburgh International Festival (EIF), focuses exclusively on high-profile, curated classical music, opera, theater, and dance.  It established itself as a top-tier destination for new work and hosted the world premières of T. S. Eliot’s The Cocktail Party (1949) and Thornton Wilder’s The Matchmaker (1954).

[Unlike its open-access counterpart—the Edinburgh Festival Fringe—the main festival deliberately limits its programming.  This carefully handpicked lineup allows the EIF to focus entirely on elite, world-class artistic quality.

[In 2026, marking its modern evolution, the EIF entered a high-profile, three-year co-production partnership with the Holland Festival and France’s Festival d’Avignon, two other international festivals founded in 1947.  The EIF now features 147 individual performances across its month-long run (7-30 August 2026; through 31 August for the Fringe).

[Back in 1947, eight theater groups arrived without an invitation because they were left off the official program.  Refusing to leave, these groups performed on the edges (the “fringe”) of the main event using independent venues. 

[Because the main festival booked the city’s premier theaters, these groups took over whatever small spaces they could find—church halls, a cinema, and even a restaurant.  It was this specific layout in 1947 that prompted a journalist to write that these plays were performing “round the fringe of official Festival drama,” accidentally naming the global movement. 

[Today, the Edinburgh Festival Fringe is the world’s largest arts festival, built entirely on an un-curated, open-access model where anyone with a script and a space can perform.

[The size of the Fringe dwarfs the main official festival, operating as a massive, city-wide takeover.  Currently, the Festival Fringe hosts over 4,100 un-curated shows; over the 25-day run, artists stage 53,884 individual performances.  The lineup features talent arriving from 71 different countries.

[Because the Fringe Society, founded by artists to nurture and uphold the Fringe’s values of inclusivity, experimentation, and imagination, maintains a strict non-vetting policy, the festival’s lineup is highly varied.  Stand-up and sketch comedy make up 38.4% of the entire program (1,401 shows).  It serves as the primary global scouting ground for networks like the BBC and Netflix.

[The festival functions as an incubator for raw creativity, boasting 1,748 world premières.  Beyond comedy and theater, the program heavily features contemporary dance, circus acts, cabaret, spoken word, and musicals.]

“SURVIVING EDINBURGH’S MASS CHAOS”
by Helen Shaw

[This review of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe ran in the New York Times on 22 August 2026 (Sec. C: “Arts”).  (It was also posted as “How to Make Sense of 4,000 Edinburgh Shows: Just Soak It All Up” to the Times’ webpage on 20 August 2026.  Helen Shaw reviewed the performances from Edinburgh, Scotland.]

Amid 4,000 fringe shows, discernible trends emerge.

There’s something ridiculous about the name of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

“Fringe” implies decoration happening out on a margin, threads on the hem of a larger garment. But if you have ever elbowed your way down a crammed Edinburgh sidewalk in August, past hundreds of posters for stand-up shows and circus spectaculars, accepting promotional fliers from, say, a woman wearing a disco ball on her head — you might wonder what garment could possibly be larger than this.

This year, the Fringe includes over 4,000 productions. I went to a critics’ symposium where I heard writers talk about how impossible it is to discern trends in such a huge population. And yet, somehow, they do. Certainly in the 23 pieces I managed to see, themes emerged. For example, I accidentally saw three shows in one day that featured Margaret Thatcher [1925-2013; British stateswoman; Leader of the Conservative Party: 1975-90; Prime Minister of the United Kingdom: 1979-90; known as the “Iron Lady”]. (I could have just as easily gone to three “Heated Rivalry” spoofs.)

Ostensibly, the Fringe operates on the periphery of the Edinburgh International Festival, an event founded in 1947 to bring the world to the city’s stately sandstone theaters. Despite the Fringe’s exponential (and eclipsing) expansion, that international fest continues. This year, I saw two rather lengthy shows: “Seagull” and “A Trial — after ‘An Enemy of the People,’” both of which ran a full two and a half hours without intermission.

“Seagull” — rendered as “[seagull],” as if for closed captioning — was often wildly thrilling. This Belgian adaptation of [Anton] Chekhov’s [1860-1904] unrequited-passion drama [written in 1895; first produced in 1896] features a superb cast of both hearing and deaf actors, all communicating in Flemish Sign Language. The production, directed by Stijn Van Opstel [sic: Stijn Van Opstal; Flemish actor and theater director, b. 1976; co-founder of the theater company Olympique Dramatique, presenter of [seagull]], is easily the angriest “Seagull” I’ve ever seen, placing at its center the depressive Masja (“Masha”; the explosive Lobke Leirens) and her self-loathing love-object, the neglected writer Konstantin (Yana Wuytjens). In one of Van Opst[a]l’s cleverest gestures, the supertitles sometimes stop translating, and we experience the stinging frustration of incomprehension for ourselves.

[Wuytjens is a female actor, but this was a gender-swapping production, and Konstantin remained a male character.]

In “A Trial,” the Brazilian actor Wagner Moura [b. 1976] plays Thomas Stockmann, the hero of Henrik Ibsen’s [Norwegian; 1828-1906] 1882 “An Enemy of the People,” in which a scientist is reviled for discovering a contaminated water supply. This modern-day agitprop epilogue to Ibsen’s play, devised by the director Christiane Jatahy [b. 1968; the production was from her Paris-based company, Cia. Vértice de Teatro], consists of Stockmann arguing his case to a jury drawn from each night’s audience.

He wants them to declare that his whistle-blowing doesn’t make him an “enemy of the people,” and at first I was impatient with how the verdict seemed to be a foregone conclusion. After an hour, though, I remembered how many real scientists are being vilified, just like Stockmann. “Why don’t we stop this farce?” I kept thinking, right up until that question — and its political ramifications — finally penetrated.

I thought a lot about theatrical duration during my breakneck trip to Scotland. The International Festival’s generous running times give plays time to pivot: to refashion our understanding of a Chekhov classic, or to move from obviousness into persuasion. But almost every show I saw in the Fringe’s protozoic ooze lasted about an hour. Although stand-ups excel in that format, as can song cycles, I shouldn’t have been so surprised that many Fringe plays relied on bathos, since dramatists can draw a character in that time but have little space to develop more complicated emotions than that’s sad.

Perhaps as a result, among the new plays there’s a vogue for characters talking about fashioning a story. That works in rare cases, as in the Emma Howlett’s [British-Irish writer and director, b. 1997] intellectually generous “The Plot” [presented by theatregoose] or in the eerie nightmare story-hour, “As Far as We Know,” by Sam Ward [British theater-maker, writer, and performer; founder of the contemporary theater company YESYESNONO; b. 1994]. It can, though, slide into tweeness.

For instance, in the much-acclaimed but, to my ear, thinly sentimental “Badgers” by Malaika Kegode [British writer, performer, theater-maker, and producer; b. 1993], a podcaster falls into a supernatural mystery. Instead of watching actual scenes, we hear about them from a narrator (Kegode herself) who swoops a magical pen around as if flying a spoon into a toddler’s mouth. She concludes by telling us, cloyingly, that we all have our own stories, and that these are made up of “moments.” Yech.

Clowning, on the other hand, can cut straight to the metaphorical pie-in-the-face. The world doesn’t make linear sense, so why should a show? Simply by painting their noses red, the athletic clowns Xhloe and Natasha [New York City-based absurdist physical theater, clowning, and playwriting duo consisting of Xhloe Rice (b. 1999) and Natasha Roland (b. 1999 or 2000)] can somersault into the middle of the plot of their “Bigfoot Ripped My Dog in Half I Saw It” and start acting out an entire small town plagued by a (fake) sasquatch. Their satire becomes a strangely sympathetic portrait of conspiratorial thinking: People would rather believe in cryptids than in their neighbors’ brutality.

Another [British] clown duo, Rebecca Biscuit and Louise Mothersole of the docu-absurdist Sh!t Theater, made the trenchant “Evita Too,” exploring the true story of Isabel Perón — Juan Perón’s third wife, who became the world’s first female president when he died — as well as the performers’ own fraught relationship with legacy.

[The reference, for those who don’t catch it, is to the 1978 Andrew Lloyd Webber (b. 1948; English composer and impresario of musical theater) musical Evita, about the life of Eva Perón, (1919-52, Argentine politician, activist, and actress) who served as First Lady of Argentina from June 1946 until her death in 1952. She was the second wife (1945-52) of Juan Perón (1895-1974; Argentine military officer and politician; 29th and 40th President of Argentina: 1946 to his overthrow in 1955, and 1973 until his death in 1974).

[Evita, as she was known, was followed (1961-74) by Isabel Perón (b. 1931; Argentine politician, known as Isabelita) who served as President of Argentina from 1974 to 1976.]

Sixteen years into their collaboration, Mothersole and Biscuit (who spend parts of the show naked and on roller skates) crack jokes about misogyny, often connecting Isabel Perón’s historical erasure — if not her corporate neo-fascism — to aspects of their own experience. For instance, much like Isabelita, the clowns get a lot of unsolicited advice from men. They cheerfully display a cautionary letter from an Andrew Lloyd Webber representative, who seems worried that the show could reflect poorly on his client’s musical “Evita.” (Adorably, the lawyer notes that he assumes that his letter will end up in the show.)

Lloyd Webber’s legal team must have had a busy summer. I also saw the company Flo & Joan’s [British sisters Nicola and Rosie Dempsey] charmingly bonkers “One Man Musical,” which imagines a certain mega-composer of “musicools” [i.e., Lloyd Webber] trying to win over the youth with a preening solo bio-play.

The wonderfully desultory Ed Easton [British actor, writer, and comedian] ambles around, refusing to do an impression of anyone in particular, probably so he can’t be told to cease and desist. He does, though, issue droll commands while demonstrating maneuvers in “Starlight Express”-style roller skates. He indicates Flo & Joan’s critique of Lloyd Webber’s overweening influence while also warning the front row. “You’re going to need to stop my mass,” he says, rolling toward us.

[Starlight Express is a 1984 musical with music by Lloyd Webber and lyrics by Richard Stilgoe (b. 1943; British songwriter, lyricist, musician, and broadcaster). It’s about railway trains and the actors perform on roller skates.]

Many Fringe pieces seem to see success itself as villainous, not to say demonic. In the explicit solo show “Roleplay,” Hannah Reilly [Australian comedian and podcaster] blames the lure of podcast superstardom for shaping her hypersexualized persona; in “Ay Am!,” the clown Maya Ricote’s [Mexican/Venezuelan-American telenovela actress turned contemporary clown artist; b. 2000] hilariously exaggerated curves (balloons, basically) have been bestowed on her by a Mephistophelean talent agent, who otherwise keeps her in a cryogenic freezer.

Fame is a shared obsession because, while you’re at the Fringe, you can’t help but wonder what will escape the Fringe. The festival’s crossover hits of the last decades, like “Six: The Musical” [2017; West End, 2019; Broadway, 2021], “Fleabag” [2013; British TV series, 2016-19] and “Baby Reindeer” [2019; British television miniseries, 2024], are hard to recreate. And watching so much theater in such excited company makes your own opinions about what’s successful slalom crazily. Even as I sat laughing in a basement in Edinburgh, I wondered how I’d respond to the same show in a basement in New York.

But I did see two productions that seem ready to thrive outside the Fringe’s peculiar hothouse ecology. One of them, Alex Bechtel’s [New York-based multidisciplinary composer, actor, writer, and music director; b. 1986] “Penelope,” is already many years into its gestation, yet it could almost have been called into existence by this summer’s “The Odyssey” [2026 epic film] discourse. You think a Cyclops is bad? Odysseus’s wife, Penelope, is trapped, as she says, in a house “full of monsters.”

The stunning Grace McLean [American actress, playwright, composer, and singer; b. 1984] plays — and collaborated in writing — the long-suffering titular role, performing a cycle of songs about her fury at a husband who has left her in a two-decade lurch. McLean, whose voice ripples like bronze under the smith’s hammer, has both a wonderful siren’s shriek and a smoky, torchy growl. (Impressively, the show actually climaxes in a long, silent moment; like Odysseus’s nurse, you’ll know it when you see it.)

I was also utterly swept away by “The Real Kyle McCarren,” another long-developing musical, composed by Andy Roninson [American musical theater composer, lyricist, orchestrator, and music director; b. ca. 1989] and Sean McVerry [Brooklyn-based singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and producer; b. 1990], with a book by Roninson. It looks like a band gig, but it functions as a wake: Roninson is grappling with the early death of his childhood friend Kyle, the first guy he ever wrote music with. McVerry, on guitar, plays Kyle’s revenant, and between their excellent rock-inflected songs, there’s plentiful frontman banter.

The real story, though, is the interplay among the band. Playing assorted characters (Kyle’s friend, Kyle’s mother, etc.) are several staggering performers, including the astonishing Vincent Jamal Hooper [American stage and television actor; b. 1994 or 1995], sweet Sarah Coffey [Brooklyn-based actor, musician, vocalist, and comedian; b. 1994], and the powerhouse heartbreaker Jaygee Macapugay [Filipino-American Broadway performer; b. 1974]. They have voices like gods, while Roninson, as he frequently admits, does not. He’s a virtuoso on the keyboard, though, and as the group performs, we see each bandmate lost in laughing awe at the others’ gifts.

I was delighted because they were delighted, and this vicarious pleasure summed up my experience of the Fringe — its true power comes from so many artists watching other artists. The rest of us are welcome, but the makers are their own best audience, and we gather strength from their collected heat and light.

[Helen Shaw is the chief theater reviewer for the New York Times.  She trained as a dramaturg at the American Repertory Theater’s Institute for Advanced Theater Training in Cambridge, Massachusetts, during the last few years that it was run by its founder, the playwright-critic Robert Brustein.

[Dramaturgy can often be a bridge to reviewing—the first dramaturg, Gotthold Lessing (1729-81; German philosopher, dramatist, publicist, and art critic), was an embedded critic at the Hamburg National Theater—and it turns out Shaw was learning to be a critic without knowing it.

[Once she moved to New York, she started writing freelance reviews and features in 2003.  Most of her criticism over the next decade and a half appeared in Time Out New York.  Shaw joined New York magazine in 2019, The New Yorker in 2022, the Times in 2026.]

Tom Stoppard & 'Leopoldstadt'

 

[Tom Stoppard is one of my favorite playwrights; since I first encountered his work some fifty-odd years ago, I have reveled in his wordplay and his convoluted logic and intellectualism.  I was delighted when I was watching the PBS NewsHour as usual earlier this month and anchor Judy Woodruff announced a segment on Stoppard and his new play, Leopoldstadt.  I knew at once that I would download the transcript to post on Rick On Theater.

[I first experienced Stoppard’s work sometime between December 1969 and February 1970, while I was in the army and stationed at Fort Knox, Kentucky.  I attended several plays at the five-year-old Actors Theatre of Louisville, just 45 minutes north of the army base along U.S. Route 31W, known as the “Dixie Dieway.”  This was my first encounter with ATL, now one of this country’s premier regional theater companies.

[I saw at least three plays at ATL, then located in the former Illinois Central Railway Station before moving to its present location in 1972.  One was a Hamlet, which suffered an electrical mishap near the start of the performance and had to do the rest of the show under house lights. 

[Another production was Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, directed by newly appointed artistic director Jon Jory and featuring his parents, famous movie actor Victor Jory as Big Daddy and Jean Inness as Big Mama.  This was when I learned that Cat had two endings because director Elia Kazan made Williams change his original last act for the Broadway première in 1955.  (The Elizabeth Taylor-Paul Newman film of 1958 used the second version; Jory staged Williams’s first ending.)

[The third play I saw at ATL knocked me out because I’d never before seen anything like it: Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.  The deconstruction of Hamlet, the verbal play, the twisty logic, the philosophical underpinning, the fundamental question of how we know what we (think we) know, all made my mind spin and my mouth gape.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern immediately became one of my top favorite plays. 

[I’ve seen many of Stoppard’s plays since then.  I did one of my first acting-class scenes from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  Later I played Moon in The Real Inspector Hound and I used a speech from Jumpers as an audition piece for a number of years.  I haven’t caught all of them, but many of the plays listed below have been part of my theater experience.]

“PLAYWRIGHT TOM STOPPARD GRAPPLES WITH HIS HIDDEN PAST IN LATEST WORK”
by Jeffrey Brown and Anne Azzi Davenport 

[This is the transcript of correspondent Jeffrey Brown’s interview with British playwright Tom Stoppard from the PBS NewsHour broadcast on 17 October 2022.  Following this, I’ve posted a short biographical sketch of the Czech-born dramatist with a run-down of his writings, and then a review from the New Yorker of Stoppard’s current Broadway offering, Leopoldstadt, which is the topic of the NewsHour interview.]

In a new Broadway play, one of the world’s greatest writers, grapples with his own hidden past and its implications for our time. Sir Tom Stoppard’s “Leopoldstadt” chronicles a family history he only learned about in his 50s when a relative told him that all four of his Jewish grandparents had been murdered by the Nazis. Jeffrey Brown talks to Stoppard for our arts and culture series, “CANVAS.”

Judy Woodruff: In a new Broadway play, one of the world’s greatest writers grapples with his own hidden past and its implications for our time.

Jeffrey Brown talks with playwright Sir Tom Stoppard for our arts and culture series, Canvas.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): You are not looking.

(LAUGHTER)

Jeffrey Brown: The year is 1899, Vienna.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): It is a beautiful star, darling, but it’s not the star we put at the top of our Christmas tree.

Jeffrey Brown: The members of the Merz clan, an assimilated Jewish family in which a confused grandchild can put a Star of David atop a Christmas tree, feel themselves full members of our highly cultured Viennese society and Austro-Hungarian empire.

Over the coming years and generations, they will learn how wrong they are.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): To a Gentile, I am a Jew. There isn’t a Gentile anywhere who at one moment or another hasn’t thought, “Jew.”

Jeffrey Brown: Nearly every family member we meet in the play “Leopoldstadt” will be killed or die as a result of the Holocaust.

It’s a devastating story of a family tree cut down, one that’s impacting audiences and playwright Tom Stoppard himself in ways he hadn’t expected.

Sir Tom Stoppard, Playwright: I came out very dry-eyed and quite happy with the show. A woman approached me. And she was drenched in tears. And I suddenly started crying with her.

I just went — I just switched straight into her state of mind. And, actually, this is new with me. I have shed more tears over watching “Leopoldstadt” than the rest of my work put together.

Jeffrey Brown: Stoppard, now 85 and often described as the greatest living English playwright, has written some 37 plays and earned four Tony Awards.

Speaker (scene from “Shakespeare in Love”): That woman is a woman!

Jeffrey Brown: He also won an Oscar for the screenplay of the movie “Shakespeare in Love.”

“Leopoldstadt” is different and more personal, a kind of coming to terms with what he saw as the charmed life he’d lived and all that it concealed.

We talked recently at famed Broadway restaurant Sardi’s.

Sir Tom Stoppard: And by the time I was an English schoolboy, then an English journalist, and then an English playwright, the idea of having a kind of charmed life was familiar to me, until it turned and bit me, because, finally, I felt rebuked by the attitude.

Jeffrey Brown: Tom Stoppard, the English playwright, was born Tomas Straussler in 1937 in Czechoslovakia. His parents, Jewish on both sides, took him and his brother to Singapore to escape the Nazi invasion. His father was killed by the Japanese, and his mother fled again, taking her sons to India, where she later married an Englishman.

At age 8, young Tom was brought to England, his Jewish past and family left behind.

Was it a question of knowing, or a suppressed past, or a lack of desire to know about it?

Sir Tom Stoppard: All of the above. My mother was very relieved to have found sanctuary for herself and her two sons when the war ended. She didn’t want to look back, and she never spoke about the past, except just very casually occasionally.

And I also have to own up to not really having sufficient curiosity about it, partly because my mother didn’t want to talk about it.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): There are thousands leaving every month. The Office of Jewish Immigration can’t get rid of the Jews fast enough.

Jeffrey Brown: “Leopoldstadt” is the result of years of reckoning with a history Stoppard only learned about in full in his 50s, when a Czech relative told him that all four of his Jewish grandparents and three of his mother’s sisters had been murdered by the Nazis.

The play’s family is not his, but their experiences would have been similar.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): By miracle, Hermann has kept the business going through war, revolution, inflation and now Anschluss, and saved it for Jacob. Why give it all away now?

[Anschluss (or Anschluß) is the common German word of ‘connection,’ but in this context, it’s usually translated as ‘annexation,’ specifically of Austria by the Third Reich (in 1938). (That funny little squiggle at the end of the second spelling is the Eszett, a letter only used in Standard German—the Swiss no longer use it, for instance—that represents a double-s in certain instances.)]

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): The Nazis will take it.

Jeffrey Brown: The Nazis do take, all of it, the business, the home, and most of their lives.

And then Stoppard gives us a final scene set after the war in 1955.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): No more family business.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): And not much family, a New Yorker, an Austrian, and a clean young Englishman.

Jeffrey Brown: With three survivors, one of them a young Englishman, who’d come to his new country at age 8 and was oblivious to the Holocaust horror and toll on his own family.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): I’m sorry you had a rotten war.

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): A rotten war?

Speaker (scene from “Leopoldstadt”): Yes, I’m sorry.

Jeffrey Brown: A stand-in for Stoppard himself.

Sir Tom Stoppard: The boy in the play is rebuked in the words, you live as if without history. And that was rather me.

Jeffrey Brown: The specific line is: “You live as if without history, as if you throw no shadow behind you.”

That was you?

Sir Tom Stoppard: Yes. Yes.

And I guess this play “Leopoldstadt” is the shadow behind me.

Jeffrey Brown: The play also, he knows, has a new relevance and force to it . . .

Marchers: Jews will not replace us!

Jeffrey Brown: . . . as overt antisemitism has been on the rise around the globe.

Sir Tom Stoppard: There’s a line in the play where the young man says to the Jewish survivor, he says, it can’t happen again. And it feels such a clunky line. It’s a line plucked from the clunkiness of how long people have been in the past.

But it’s inescapable now.

Jeffrey Brown: It’s resonating again.

Sir Tom Stoppard: It’s certainly resonating. And all kinds of things are now happening in America, as in Europe, which you would not have anticipated a generation ago, half-a-generation ago.

Jeffrey Brown: After “Leopoldstadt” premiered in London just before the pandemic began, Stoppard caused tremors in the theater world by suggesting this could be his final play.

Now, as it stuns audiences on Broadway, he’s resolved to continue.

Sir Tom Stoppard: I don’t know what the thing is that I’m going to be turned on by. And it could be anything. And that is my situation as I sit here talking to you, Jeff. It could be anything. And I’d like to get back to my desk and write another play.

Jeffrey Brown: “Leopoldstadt” is scheduled to run through March 12.

For the “PBS NewsHour,” I’m Jeffrey Brown on Broadway.

[In his more than 30-year career with the PBS NewsHour, Jeffrey Brown has served as co-anchor, studio moderator, and field reporter on a wide range of national and international issues, with work taking him around the country and to many parts of the globe. As arts correspondent he has profiled many of the world's leading writers, musicians, actors, and other artists. Among his signature works at the NewsHour: a multi-year series, “Culture at Risk,” about threatened cultural heritage in the United States and abroad; the creation of the NewsHour’s online “Art Beat”; and hosting the monthly book club, “Now Read This,” a collaboration with the New York Times.

[Anne Azzi Davenport is the Senior Coordinating Producer of CANVAS at PBS NewsHour.]

*  *  *  *
A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY OF TOM STOPPARD 

Sir Tom Stoppard, widely regarded as the English-speaking world’s greatest living playwright, was born Tomáš Sträussler on 3 July 1937 in Zlín, Czechoslovakia (now in the Czech Republic).  One of the most intellectual of modern playwrights—though he never went to university—his work has been described as “plays of ideas,” philosophical deliberations made entertaining mostly by their wordplay, jokes, innuendo, and sense of fun.

Stoppard’s parents, Eugen Sträussler (1908-42), a doctor, and Marta (Becková) Sträussler (1911-98), were non-observant Jews and when Germany invaded Czechoslovakia in July 1939, the Sträusslers fled to Singapore, where the company for which Dr. Sträussler worked had a branch. 

After the Japanese invasion (February 1942), Eugen Sträussler sent his wife and sons Tomáš and Petr (b. 1935) to India while he stayed behind to help the British army as a medical volunteer.  Dr. Sträussler was killed trying to escape Singapore in 1942 when the ship he was on was bombed by the Japanese.

In late 1945, Marta Sträussler married Major Kenneth Stoppard of the British army.  The next year, the family went to live in England where Tomáš Sträussler became Tom Stoppard and Petr became Peter; both boys took their stepfather’s surname.  Stoppard quit school at 17 and started his career as a journalist in Bristol in 1954.

He began to write plays in 1960 after moving to London.  His first play, A Walk on the Water (1960), was televised in 1963 and the stage version, with some additions and the new title Enter a Free Man, reached London in 1968 (New York première at the Theater at St. Clement’s Church, 1974).

1966 saw the publication of Stoppard’s only novel, Lord Malquist & Mr. Moon (U.S. publication, 1969).  That same year, Stoppard’s play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead was performed at the Edinburgh Festival.  Arguably his best-known play, it rapidly became internationally renowned.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern transferred to Broadway in 1967 and received a Tony Award for best play.  More successes followed.  

[I posted a two-part analysis of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, entitled “Theatrical Structure,” on Rick On Theater on 15 and 18 February 2011.]

Among the playwright’s most notable stage plays are The Real Inspector Hound (1968; Off-Broadway, New York, 1972), Jumpers (1972; Broadway, 1974), Travesties (1974; also Broadway, Tony Award for best play), Every Good Boy Deserves Favour (1978; New York City’s Metropolitan Opera House, 1979), Night and Day (1978; Broadway, 1979), Undiscovered Country (1980, adapted from a play by Arthur Schnitzler; U.S. première by Connecticut’s Hartford Stage Company, 1981; no New York production), and On the Razzle (1981, adapted from a play by Johann Nestroy; U.S. première at Arena Stage in Washington, D.C., 1982; Off-Broadway, Bouwerie Lane Theatre, 1999).

(The National Theatre staging of On the Razzle was filmed and broadcast on the BBC on 30 January 1983.  It was subsequently aired in the U.S. on PBS’s Great Performances on 3 January 1986.)

The Tony-winning The Real Thing (1982; Broadway, 1984), Stoppard’s first romantic comedy, deals with art and reality and features a playwright as a protagonist.  Arcadia, which juxtaposes 19th-century Romanticism and 20th-century chaos theory and is set in a Derbyshire country house, premièred at the National Theatre in 1993 (Broadway. 1995), and The Invention of Love, about A. E. Housman, was first staged in 1997 (Broadway. 2001).

During a lunch break in rehearsals at Arcadia one day in 1993, a year after the fall of European communism, Stoppard met for the first time with visiting Czech relatives.  A cousin made a stunning revelation: the writer’s parents were both Jewish. (Immediately after the war and the Stoppards’ move to England, his stepfather had told him to keep his Jewish heritage a secret for safety’s sake.  He’d thought that just his father was Jewish.)

The dramatist also learned that many of his relatives, including all four grandparents, a great-grandparent, and three of his mother’s sisters, had perished in Nazi death camps.  He was stunned.

Stoppard didn’t confront the matter of his lost past directly as a dramatist until 2020’s Leopoldstadt (see below), a play about several generations of a Jewish family like his own might have been, living in Vienna through the Anschluss, World War II, and the Holocaust.

The trilogy The Coast of Utopia (Voyage, Shipwreck, and Salvage), first performed in 2002 (Broadway, 2006/07), explores the lives and debates of a circle of 19th-century Russian émigré intellectuals; it received a Tony Award for best play.  Heroes (2005; U.S. première, Los Angeles, 2007; New York première, Off-Broadway, 2009), translated from a play by Gérald Sibleyras, is set in a retirement home for French soldiers, and it received a Laurence Olivier Award for best new comedy (see my report on ROT on 26 March 2009). 

Rock ’n’ Roll (2006; Broadway, 2007) jumps between England and Czechoslovakia during the period 1968-90.  In The Hard Problem (2015; Off-Broadway, Public Theater, 2018), Stoppard explored consciousness.  Leopoldstadt (West End, 2020), Stoppard’s latest play, follows a Jewish family in Vienna from the early 20th century through the Holocaust; the critically acclaimed work won the Olivier Award for best new play.  Leopoldstadt opened on Broadway on 2 October 2022.

The new play, possibly Stoppard’s last, he predicts, was met in London with laudatory reviews.  The production received two Olivier Awards, including one for Best Play.  In New York City, where it opened just three weeks ago, it’s received good to excellent notices (one of which is posted below) and is being seen as the writer’s most emotional play of his canon.

Stoppard also wrote a number of radio plays, including In the Native State (1991), which was reworked as the stage play Indian Ink (1995; Off-Broadway, Roundabout Theatre Company, 2014).  He also wrote a number of notable television plays, such as Professional Foul (BBC, 1977).  

Among his early screenplays are those for The Romantic Englishwoman (Dial Films and Les Productions Meric-Matalon, 1975), Despair (Filmverlag der Autoren, 1978), and Brazil (Embassy International Pictures, 1985), as well as for a film version (Brandenberg and WNET/Channel 13 New York, 1990) of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead that he also directed.

In 1999, the screenplay for Shakespeare in Love (Bedford Falls, 1998), cowritten by Stoppard and Marc Norman, won an Academy Award. Stoppard also adapted the French screenplay for the English-language film Vatel (Legende Enterprises and Gaumont, 2000), about a 17th-century chef, and wrote the screenplay for Enigma (Jagged Films snd Broadway Video, 2001), which chronicles the English effort to break the German Enigma code in World War II.

The dramatist later penned scripts for a lavish miniseries (BBC, 2012; HBO, 2013) based on novelist Ford Madox Ford’s tetralogy Parade’s End and for a film adaptation (Working Title Films and StudioCanal, 2012) of Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.  He also cowrote the historical drama Tulip Fever (Worldview Entertainment, Weinstein Company, and Ruby Films, 2017), which is set in 17th-century Amsterdam.

Stoppard received a C.B.E. (Commander of the Order of the British Empire) in 1978 and was knighted in 1997 for contributions to theater by Queen Elizabeth II.  His numerous other honors include the Japan Art Association’s Praemium Imperiale prize for theater/film (2009) and, he was awarded the Order of Merit in May 2000 and elected an Honorary Fellow of the British Academy, the United Kingdom’s national academy for the humanities and social sciences, in July 2017.  

On 23 February 2021, Alfred A. Knopf released Hermione Lee’s biography Tom Stoppard: A Life (also available in paperback and audiobook).  Leopoldstadt was published in 2020 by Grove Press.

*  *  *  *
“TOM STOPPARD RESURRECTS THE PAST IN ‘LEOPOLDSTADT’”
by Helen Shaw

A crowded portrait of a glittering prewar Jewish milieu exorcises the playwright’s own ghosts.

[Helen Shaw’s review of Leopoldstadt ran in “The Theatre” section of the New Yorker in the 17 October 2022 issue.  It was posted on the magazine’s website on 6 October 2022.]

The word on “Leopoldstadt,” the latest drama by Tom Stoppard (at the Longacre), is that this time, at last, he gets personal. In Hermione Lee’s immense 2020 Stoppard biography [Tom Stoppard: A Life, 896 pages], in recent interviews and profiles, and even via links e-mailed to ticket buyers before the show, we read that the playwright has finally abandoned what Clive James [1939-2019; Australian critic, journalist, broadcaster, writer, and lyricist who worked in the U.K.] called his “ebullient detachment” and broached the topic of his Jewish identity and a long-gestating survivor’s grief. Some critics have been looking for this turn for decades. In 1977, in this magazine, Kenneth Tynan compared the stories Stoppard used in his plays (wild coincidences with peacocks and shaving foam) with the one he never did share: his 1939 flight, at the age of eighteen months, from the Nazis. He was then Tomáš Sträussler, and he travelled with his Jewish family from Czechoslovakia to Singapore; his mother then evacuated him and his brother to Darjeeling, and from there to England, where he was given a new name and little knowledge of all that had been lost. Stoppard was fifty-six before he learned the facts about his Czech family’s religion, the extent of their persecution, and the long list of cousins and aunts and grandparents who were murdered in the camps.

Given the rumors of “Leopoldstadt”’s autobiographical underpinnings, it is somewhat surprising to find that when the curtain rises we are not in Prague but in Vienna, in a bustling apartment where two intermarried, interfaith families, the Merzes and the Jakoboviczes, meet and celebrate. In five intermissionless acts, Stoppard rappels down the twentieth century: we see the families in 1899, 1900, 1924, 1938, and 1955. The set designer Richard Hudson shows us the Merzes’ stately apartment as it changes over time, from brocade-upholstered warmth to interwar sleekness, then from post-Anschluss tenement squalor to a terrible postwar emptiness. In each section, characters turn to or away from their Jewishness, often looking for a sense of belonging or national identity or safety. Of course, there is never safety. We hear history (a subliminal rumble from the sound designer Adam Cork) preparing to break over the families like a wave.

In 1899, the Merz family is prosperous and variously assimilationist—we begin at a glittering Christmas party, which has a tree topped accidentally with a Star of David—but they and the Jakoboviczes will fall through two World Wars, losing nearly everything in the process. “Leopoldstadt” requires more than two dozen performers, and many actors play several parts, including children who grow up and whose identities must be referred to at a dash. How to keep the generations straight? A handwritten family tree appears several times in slides on a black scrim that serves as the stage curtain, and the program helps, but for much of the show’s two-plus hours the audience is left scrambling to remember when Hermann Merz (David Krumholtz) and his wife, Gretl (Faye Castelow), had a child, and whether shy Hanna (Colleen Litchfield) is Gretl’s niece or her sister-in-law. Stoppard makes jokes about this complexity—characters stumble over the relationships, too—though the humor is not always intentional. One cousin asks another if she remembers a certain dead soldier’s childhood, and the woman responds, “He was the nicest big brother in the world.” We can assume she remembers him.

The first scene is a welter of references to Viennese thought and art—Freud, Mahler, Klimt—and the coming destruction of that golden culture is one of the tragedies of the play. Over whiskey, Hermann and his mathematician brother-in-law, Ludwig Jakobovicz (Brandon Uranowitz), argue about Hermann’s blithe disregard of Austrian anti-Semitism. Hermann is joining the Jockey Club and—a mathematician, you say? Your inner Stoppard gong should ring at that; this is the playwright who taught us chaos theory [Arcadia] and probability [Rosencrantz and Guildenstern]. When Ludwig later tries to demonstrate coördinate geometry using a cat’s cradle, we can see that one of Stoppard’s famous Knowledge Metaphors is twisting itself into view. And, indeed, like the knots on Ludwig’s cat’s-cradle string, family members change positions yet maintain their connection. By the bitter fifth act, set in 1955, there are huge differences between the destroyed families’ three lone revenants—an American émigrée, an Auschwitz survivor, and an English humorist who remembers nothing. They stand in an apartment that’s as bare as an abandoned lot. Nevertheless, they are cousins, still tied by the family string.

The armatures of Stoppard pieces are often other plays: “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead” rests on “Hamlet”; “Travesties” travesties “The Importance of Being Earnest.” Here, his vision of Vienna borrows from the provocative turn-of-the-century Austrian playwright Arthur Schnitzler (Freud called him his “psychic twin”), whose work Stoppard has adapted several times. In the 1900 section, he reworks elements from “Dalliance,” his own adaptation of Schnitzler’s cynical “Liebelei”—again, there’s a cavalier dragoon named Fritz having an affair (this time with Gretl) and the threat of a duel. “Leopoldstadt” makes reference to another Schnitzler play, “Reigen” [usually translated as La Ronde] in the course of the action, and begins to echo its structure, with two-character scenes linked in a daisy chain: Hanna and Gretl, Gretl and the dragoon, the dragoon and Hermann. Stoppard uses content and structure to point to a playwright whom many in the audience will not know, and even this unknowing is important. Stoppard’s subject, after all, is forgetting.

The 1924 act shifts its tone, borrowing from [Noël] Coward and [P. G.] Wodehouse, and is animated by both the Charleston and a farcical misunderstanding. The families gather for a baby’s circumcision, and a Gentile banker is mistaken for the mohel [the person who performs the circumcision in a Jewish bris]. (Hermann: “What are you talking about?” Grandma: “Foreskins!”) Some in this generation bear the wounds of the First World War, but these are largely ignored in favor of the new baby, the new dance craze. A [Gustav] Klimt portrait of Gretl in a green shawl hangs above the sideboard; beneath it, her niece Nellie is sewing a red flag, a symbol of the socialist movement that will be a pretext for yet more anti-Semitic vitriol. Swiftly, though, we’re on to the next act. In 1938, both green shawl (art) and red flag (politics) will disappear, trampled by the Reich’s jackboots.  [The Anschluss—Germany’s annexation of Austria—took place on 13 March 1938.]

Stoppard has described his writing as a “series of small, large, and microscopic ambushes,” and there’s a quality of intentional frustration here—dramatic plots crowd in and break off, and key confrontations remain offstage, experienced mainly in retrospect. What happens with Hermann and the dragoon? Or Nellie’s march for the workers? You might find out, but by the time you do there’ll be a Nazi pounding on the door.

Stoppard has always believed in creating difficulty for his audiences, writing intellectual high-wire acts (“Jumpers,” “The Invention of Love”) and idea-in-action masterpieces (“Rock ’n’ Roll,” “Arcadia,” “The Real Thing”). In these plays, dazzling flights of language manage to make us think and feel simultaneously, to experience both sorts of internal action. Here, though, the challenge lies in keeping the narratives straight, and that difficulty crowds out conceptual engagement and emotional connection. It deprives us of the crucial Stoppardian pleasure, the opportunity to think in real time alongside a mental acrobat.

Could this be deliberate? Is Stoppard snatching away the expected, fictional climaxes in order to point to the “real” grief of the last scene? Certainly, the final moment is wrenching: the audience gasps with tears as the survivors tell their English cousin (who knows as little as the young Stoppard did) what happened to each old man and sweet child. But the drama’s other emotional currents simply haven’t registered. In his rush to cram so much into abbreviated scenes, Stoppard veers toward self-parody, particularly when Ludwig talks about math like a character aware that he’s speaking the theme of the play. The writer’s many gifts do not include compression on this scale. His orchestration is off; in all the hurry, we cannot hear the motifs when we need to, or the individual voices.

The staging is at least partly to blame. The director, Patrick Marber, has imported his production from the U.K., and his mostly new, mostly American cast has, for some reason, been told to speak with a British accent. (In London, that was the neutral choice—on Broadway, it seems affected.) Perhaps out of nervousness about audibility, Marber has his performers stay far apart and yell their lines from opposite sides of the stage; Hermann and Ludwig, in their first conversation, sound as intimate as two guys trying to park a semi. People must rapidly communicate their backstories (Why am I missing this eye? Where did my first husband go?) amid the clamor of other characters, and this just leads to more shouting. Uranowitz is the only one who goes big but maintains his precision; Castelow resists the melodramatic tide, much to her credit. There is, at least, a prettily staged Passover Seder: the lighting designer Neil Austin bathes the scene in a deep, resinous glow, a moment preserved in amber.

As I watched the play, I couldn’t work out why so much of it left me unmoved, and it was only afterward that I began to follow its bread crumbs into the dark. For instance, why is the play called “Leopoldstadt”? The word refers to the old Jewish quarter of Vienna, but the Merz apartment isn’t situated there. I can think of two reasons. One is that the Stoppard stand-in is called Leopold (changed to the more English Leonard), and this play’s gilt-and-black Vienna is the “stadt” of his lost memory, a city he will need to either rebuild or abandon. The other possibility is that we’re meant to wonder. If we look it up, we learn that the sector was named for King Leopold, the Holy Roman Emperor who expelled Austria’s Jews, in 1670. Of course, the tides shifted, and Jewish families returned a few decades later. They flowed back into a neighborhood now named for their tormentor, setting up house in the ashes of the pogrom.

In the end, much of what I found moving about “Leopoldstadt” was not onstage. Instead, it came in the reading that the play persuades you to do, and in the memories of those other Stoppard pieces, which waltz and curtsy in the mind. The show sent me to read [Kenneth] Tynan and James and [Hermione, I presume] Lee; it sent me to those beautiful interviews with the man himself. Stoppard’s frequent collaborator Carey Perloff recently published “Pinter and Stoppard: A Director’s View” [Methuen Drama, 2022], and she spends a chapter discussing his not quite forgotten, always sort of known Jewishness, the way it emerged in past work as stories about doubles and twins, or heritage that is torn down and lost. Her book helped me think about where Stoppard’s experience surfaces in Hermann, a man who both knows and does not know his true situation, a man who thinks he has won the coin toss while the coin is still in the air.

The more you learn, the more you feel. (That might be a central tenet of Stoppardianism.) The particular lesson in “Leopoldstadt” is that we are responsible even for the things we do not know. Here is a play that strikes deepest if you understand its origin: a conversation in a café between Stoppard and a cousin he didn’t realize he had, while his mother sits at the other end of the table, upset that he is finding out the truth. You will have to seek out that story yourself, but at least it’s easy to find. Stoppard, notoriously, is a man who does the research. Why should his audience not have to do it, too?

[Helen Shaw joined the New Yorker as a staff writer in 2022. Previously, she was the theatre critic at New York magazine and also its culture vertical, Vulture. She has also written about theater and performance for 4Columns and Time Out New York and contributed to the New York Sun, American Theatre magazine, the New York Times Book Review, the Village Voice, Art in America, and Artforum. She was co-awarded the 2017-18 George Jean Nathan Award for Dramatic Criticism.]