Trainspotting

Somewhat appropriately, the performance of this gloriously anarchic take on Irvine Welsh's tale of sex, skag and the underside of Edinburgh was interrupted by the heckling of very drunk audience members. The actors gamely carried on, incorporating or ignoring the rowdiness as best they could in this semi-immersive, promenade adaptation.

Largely faithful to Welsh's text, Harry Gibson's adaptation splits the narration between the characters as the story rollicks along, retaining the novel's distinctive vocabulary and unabashed filth. There are some finely-honed performances, particularly Gavin Ross as the charismatic waster Mark Renton, and the strong ensemble switch between roles to fill in the supporting characters. It's bold, outrageous and not for the squeamish, with the inclusion of distressing moments like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart.

The design is minimalist but mostly effective; a screen of white canvases are pulled apart to reveal various scummy locales, and the skid-marked toilet bowl is especially stomach-churning. Despite the engaging stagecraft, however, scene changes are clumsy, and at points the whole operation feels a bit of a mess.

The piece is also prone to stylistic heavy-handedness, as each scene is bookended by a physical interlude from a monochrome, masked chorus of dancers. The choreography is sloppy and uninspired, failing to illuminate or reflect on the themes of the play and is lit by a gratuitous strobe. The production could do with shaving a good twenty minutes off its running time, as after an hour or so it begins to lose focus and the extended dance sections become less and less palatable.