Coffee-Table Notes

One of the earliest Edinburgh sightings of Koyaanisqatsi, the first of Godfrey Reggio's remarkable trilogy of films scored by minimalist composer Philip Glass was in an old porn cinema opposite what is now the Festival Theatre, then a bingo hall. Some bright spark had the idea that showing late-night weekend double bills of art-house classics was just what the student community on its doorstep required. Shown in tandem with Luc Besson's early feature, the suitably subterranean The Last Battle, to suggest that both the venue and the hour lent Koyaanisqatsi's dizzying panorama of awe-inspiring landscapes upended by the rush of urban chaos an extra frisson of sensory overload caused by the room's seedy gloom followed by an escape into the full weekend after-hours melee of Edinburgh's south side would be an understatement. Never was the phrase 'Life out of balance', which the Hopi Indian word Koyaanisqatsi translates as, more appropriate. Now almo

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, the Victorian   Bar in Glasgow's Tron Theatre is more atmospheric than most. Which   should lend itself perfectly for its forthcoming transformation into   Rick's Bar for post-show drinks following performances of Morag   Fullarton's stage adaptation of Casablanca in the main house. Even   before the bar's forthcoming make-over, sitting alone at a table on a   wet Wednesday afternoon waiting for a woman you've never met before ,  and without so much as a piano player to set an extra layer of   melancholy, one can't help but feel like you're already part of the   movie. When Fullarton arrives straight from rehearsals, however, we're   returned in an instant to the Glasgow where this most singular of   writer/directors cut her theatrical teeth before moving into   television, working on dramas such as This Life, Taggart and Rebus. At   the moment, however, it is her three actor version of one of the

A Diary of A Film-Shoot 1 It's the morning after the day the world never ended, and everything feels fine. With the much vaunted Rapture of 18.00 hours Greenwich Meantime on Sunday May 21st 2011 having passed without incident and apparently revised for October 21st later this year, it's a windy and rainy Sunday morning in Edinburgh, but nothing 30,000 marathon runners can't handle. The Collective Gallery, too, is a hive of activity equally of its own making. In the gallery space itself, the regular Sunday marketplace is in motion, while by the door, something called the Feral Trade Cafe is taking place. More significant, however, are the two sets of placards leant against the wall while a woman in tracksuit bottoms and an orange hoodie polishes down several large silver coloured triangles so swishly you can see your face in them. Which, as it turns out, is the point. Slowly but steadily a stream of women arrive at the gallery, all dressed down in utilitarian shades o

Every bugger's a curator these days. What used to be a rarefied, aloof and ever so slightly dusty job title is now a ubiquitous, catch-all, access all areas kind of thing that implies a power, of intent if not always execution. This isn't just the case in the visual art world. There are curated music festivals as well as exhibitions, shows and events, while in other artforms the word curator can be substituted for other, equally nebulous but just as (self) important sounding worlds, with self-styled creative producers and creative directors occupying chairs where administrators and general managers used to sit. That's not to say these jobs aren't essential for facilitating things and Making Things Happen. They are essential to the process, particularly in the wonderful and frightening world of the DIY, the pop-up and the shop-front, the temporarily autonomous zones made necessary to show one's wares in a nouveau recessionary climate. Some might call it Punk. But w