undone years
A movement theatre work by Simon Ellis and first year students of the Victoria College of the Arts. Presented in June 2000 as part of the Victorian College of the Arts' Dancescape Season, Gasworks Theatre, Melbourne.
Artists
Performance
Aaron Mackay, Amba McKee, Ann McMaster, Asher Leslie, Brett Smith, Danielle
Jansen, Danielle Lockhart, Eden Read, Eliza Hinwood, Emma Stuber, Inge Gnatt,
Jacienta Hinton, Jenny Atwood, Joanne Jiang, Katherine Ford, Kelly Way, Lauree
Gilbert, Lauren Sharp, Lee Serle, Michelle Bucci, Miriam Bond, Mischa Agzarian,
Melisa Gowen, Rachael Jess, Rebekah Nelson
Choreography
Simon Ellis and the performers
Lighting
Alycia Hevey
Music
Benjamin Britten
Hans Zimmer
Vincent
Sound arrangement
Simon Ellis with Matthew Gronow
Acknowledgements
Elizabeth Boyce, Jan McLean, Lina Limosani, Mark Best, Natasha Mann, Roger Alsop,
Tony Smith
Process
"Certainly, had we been told, when we were enjoying the care free
life of Oxford in the summer term of 1914, that in a few weeks our little band
of friends would abandon forever academic life and rush to take up arms, still
more, that only a few were destined to survive a four years conflict, we should
have thought such prophecies the ravings of a lunatic."
Harold MacMillan "The Winds of Change"
Throughout the explorative process - from initial thoughts in January 1999 to
the present - the underlying basis of undone years has
been the notion of what it is to have one's world turned upside-down. Central
to this exploration has been the contribution of the young artists who perform
the work. Their enthusiasm and sheer determination to share the journey into
an often dark world has been extraordinary. It is also an important coincidence
that the performers are all about the same age as the men who chose to join
the Great War - a choice that forever altered their understanding of the world
and its people.
One such person was Wilfred Owen, a young man whose poetry and letters from
the first world war have been a integral part of the development and performance
of undone years. In particular, Owen's Strange Meeting
has served as a continuous back drop for the work. Rehearsals have been centred
around improvisational tasks based on a number of very broad ideas - fear, regret,
preparing for death, following, and reticence. These ideas have, in time, been
woven into a work that speaks physically to notions of loyalty, longing, nostalgia
and death.
Simon Ellis, May 2000
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Strange Meeting (1917)
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'