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TRANSCRIPT
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Character 5:
Ruth
Synopsis If history is told by the victors, the story of war is usually told by the blokes. Now it's the ‘sheilas' turn. Nearly a thousand Australian women had a part in the Vietnam War as entertainers, typists, consular staff and army nurses. The one thing they have in common is that their lives were changed forever by Vietnam. For many of them it was the most vital and alive they have ever felt. Minefields and Miniskirts records the voices of those who were actually there; ordinary woman revealing how they survived a war and discovered what they believed in. Adapted from Siobhan McHugh's book, this play reveals through a collage of true stories, the extraordinary experiences of ordinary women in surviving a war.
The 100-‐minute play, which has no interval, starts at a 1980's Anzac Day march, where the women meet. When a helicopter flies overhead, the women start reminiscing about their youth during the war. The women "step back" through a curtain, into Catherine Raven's set, of paddy fields, paper lanterns, cyclos and bamboo blinds, and recall why they went to Vietnam.
Sandy says that as a 16-‐year-‐old, she longed to escape the Sydney suburbs. Ruth saw getting a journalist's accreditation for Vietnam as her big adventure, and because a colleague dared her.
The women tell us their first impressions of Vietnam, describe their work there and the experiences they had. Later, they explore how it felt to leave as Saigon fell to the communists, and also reflect on their lives since.
Play: Minefields and Miniskirts Author: Terence O’Connell from Siobhán McHugh’s Book
Web Links: http://www.abc.net.au/stateline/vic/content/2003/s1155919.htm https://varunathewritershouse.wordpress.com/2011/08/30/writer-‐a-‐day-‐siobhan-‐mchugh-‐reading-‐from-‐minefields-‐and-‐miniskirts/
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The playwright (The book) Born in Dublin, Siobhan McHugh graduated from University College Dublin with a B.Sc and worked as an editor, writer, and radio producer, before immigrating to Australia in 1985.
An award-‐winning writer and documentary-‐maker, Siobhan has broad experience of oral history as a practitioner, teacher and consultant. Her oral histories range across social, cultural, scientific, environmental, multicultural and political themes and have been made into books, films, TV and radio documentaries, CDs, a stage play, and featured on-‐line.
Siobhan has won the NSW Premier’s literary award for non-‐fiction and been shortlisted twice for the NSW Premier’s History awards. Her radio documentaries have won international awards [gold and bronze medal, New York Radio Festival] and been shortlisted for a Walkley, a Eureka science award and the United Nations Media Peace Prize.
The play: Adapted for the stage by: Terence O’Connell
Since graduating from NIDA’s Directors Course, Terence has staged some 150 productions in theatres, concert halls, circus tents, comedy clubs and cabaret rooms across Australia and internationally. This year he has worked with Merrigong developing two new productions for children Songs From The Black Sheep and Do Good And You Will Be Happy. He has directed the Australian tour of Empire for Spiegelworld, and remounted a tour of The 39 Steps for Hit Productions. He directed the Australian tour of the UK hit production of 51 Shades of Maggie Muff (Hit Productions) and The 39 Steps. For The Production Company at Melbourne’s State Theatre, he has directed acclaimed versions of They’re Playing Our Song, Oklahoma!, The Pajama Game, Damn Yankees, Crazy For You, The King & I, 42nd Street and Kismet. His national touring productions include Steven Berkoff’s Decadence, Buddy-‐The Buddy Holly Story, Kissing Frogs, The Secret Diary Of Adrian Mole, The Rocky Horror Show, Bouncers, Barmaids, I Only Want To Be With You-‐The Dusty Springfield Story, Flying Fruit Fly Circus, Certified Male, Circus Oz, Busting Out, Dumped! and Minefields And Miniskirts-‐Australian Women And The Vietnam War.
Other work includes Darlinghurst Nights (Sydney Theatre Company), Steaming (Comedy Theatre), Circus Senso (Albany Empire, London) and Life On Mars-‐The Words And Music Of David Bowie (New Moon Theatre).
Terence has worked extensively as Guest Director/Artist In Residence at Singapore’s LaSalle College Of The Arts, Ballarat University Arts Academy, National Theatre Drama School, Showfit and Western Australian Academy Of Performing Arts. Most recently he has directed Barassi (Athenaeum Theatre), Motherhood-‐The Musical (National Tour), They’re Playing Our Song (National Tour), Kitchen Sink (Red Stitch Theatre), Empire (national tour for New York based Spiegelworld) and Cruising Paradise-‐ Tales by Sam Shepard (45 Downstairs).
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Character study
Source: https://australianplays.org/script/CP-‐301/extract
I was there. I was so young. And it was wondrous, like a big Luna Park every day of the week. Let’s try a new ride. Let’s jump out of a chopper and walk through a paddy field. I was traveling in a jeep with two American soldiers when we came under heavy fire. We were three people up against what we thought was a batallion and we were convinced we were all going to die anyway. We dived for cover and a soldier tossed me an M16. I said, ‘I don’t know how to fire this!’ And he said, ‘Just pull the goddamn trigger, ma’am’.”
Context In 1991, I started researching Australian women who had been involved in the Vietnam war. After speaking to two hundred or so, I recorded oral histories with fifty. About half had been in Vietnam during the war, as nurses, journalists, entertainers, humanitarian workers or consular and secretarial staff. A quarter married Vietnam veterans, and thus became embroiled in the psychological and physical after-‐effects of the war. Others had been part of the anti-‐war movement. It took over two years to assemble from the fifty oral histories a book and radio series, both called Minefields and Miniskirts. The book sold over 10,000 copies and was mostly well-‐reviewed. ‘Living breathing history’, wrote Candida Baker in The Age, ‘history at its best’. ‘The eloquence and frankness of the women is unusual’, wrote Helen Elliott in the Sydney Morning Herald, and: … McHugh tells their stories without judgement and with such compassion that nothing is withheld. The result is as shocking as it is informing.1 Alongside humorous and uplifting moments, several of the interviews canvassed traumatic experiences. Civilian nurses described treating children burnt in napalm, or watching them die on the operating table. Military nurses spoke of seeing young men virtually castrated by landmines and of having to ring their girlfriends or family on their behalf. Aid workers recalled the horror of babies lying zombie-‐like in orphanages, limbless children and captive girls in brothels. The most affecting story of this dismal litany was told by a journalist, Jan Graham. She happened to be in a jeep taking an American sergeant to the airport for his flight home after a year ‘in-‐country’. Here is how Jan recounts the story in my book:
He was going home, he’d had his three days off and he’d been getting plastered with everybody else in the camp. He saw something going on in a field and he jumped out—he should have stayed in the fucking jeep, he had no right to do this—he ran in, and there was a big explosion … and I did the most stupid thing of my life, I ran in after him. And his legs were blown off, his penis and testicles were gone, and he was just bleeding—there was not a thing I could do. So I just cradled what was left of his body, torso and head, and cuddled him. And he thought I was his wife, who he was going home to see, to be with for the rest of his life. And he spoke to me of how happy he was to be home, how wonderful it was to be in her arms again—MY arms. ‘Darling, it’s so wonderful to feel your arms around me again. I’ve missed this for twelve months. I haven’t looked at another woman, and I love you so much.’ And I told him how much I loved him and it was so wonderful he was home and what we and the kids were going to do on Sunday … Jan breaks down, distraught once more, as she had been when forcing herself to recall the death of her fiancé. Then the pseudo-‐tough journalistic cool reasserts itself, betrayed only by her anger. It took him fifteen minutes to die, I was told. It seemed like five or six hours. Jan felt deeply traumatised by the incident—not just by
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the horror of the man’s death, and the realisation that she herself could have (or should have) been killed too, but by the fraudulent role she felt she’d played. She went to see the man’s wife in America, and told her what he had said in those last moments. She cried, she said, ‘This is the first tears of joy I have had since then.’ She said, ‘At least he died with somebody who loved him.’ I said ‘No’, and she said, ‘Yes, because you were me.’ She told me she was so proud, so proud to know me—but she should have hated me.
I included Jan’s story, largely as above, in the radio series. The difference in the impact was extraordinary— the spoken version was immensely more powerful. People told me, sometimes years later, how her account moved them to tears , in some cases forcing them to pull over and stop driving. I played the excerpt at conferences and in oral history classes and not once did I fail to see how touched and shaken people were, by Jan’s raw emotion and pain. Her anguish on tape is almost unbearable. In twenty years of gathering oral histories, the only thing that I can compare it to is a Cambodian woman describing her son dying quietly before her eyes, from starvation. As an oral historian, I consider myself a conduit for the interviewee, a go-‐between through whom their story passes, faithfully, to the broader world. It troubled me that Jan’s story became so etiolated on the page. I had tried to inject the body language, the nuances, that might swell the feeling behind the words, but in retrospect, it seemed to taint her testimony, bowdlerise it. In 2005, to my delight, I got a second crack at the whip, when a new publisher re-‐issued the updated book. I informed the interviewees of this chance to correct any errors or make any changes. There were gratifyingly few requests: a nurse felt she had not adequately explained the triage process, an entertainer regretted not mentioning ‘the boys’ in the band, one person disliked a word used about her, others wanted a credit for a photo. In the intervening years, I had read an article by Rosie Block2 where she had grappled with a similar issue concerning an emotional account by a young woman whose parents and brother died when the Manly ferry struck their launch. The original transcript read as largely unpunctuated stream-‐of-‐consciousness, which gave some sense of the urgency. Rosie listened to the audio and reconfigured it using the spacing one would find in poetry, creating mental pauses for effect. I did the same with Jan’s testimony for the new edition of Minefields and Miniskirts, and was much happier with the result.
He saw something going on in a field and he jumped out He should have stayed in the fucking jeep he had no right to do this He ran in And there was a big explosion And I did the most stupid thing of my life I ran in after him. And his legs were blown off His penis and testicles were gone And he was just bleeding There was not a thing I could do So I just cradled what was left of his body torso and head and cuddled him. And he thought I was his wife who he was going home to see to be with for the rest of his life. And he spoke to me of how happy he was to be home how wonderful it was to be in her arms again… My arms. Darling, it’s so wonderful to feel your arms around me again! I’ve missed this for twelve months I haven’t looked at another woman And I love you so much. And I told him how much I loved him and it was so wonderful he was home and what we and the kids were going to do on Sunday It took him fifteen minutes to die I was told It seemed like five or six hours. Jan is still deeply traumatised by the man’s awful death and the terrible intimacy of usurping his last moments with his wife. She went to America and told his widow what he had said as the life drained out of him.
She cried. She said at least he died with somebody who loved him. I said No! She said yes, because you were me She said this is the first tears of joy I have had since then She told me she was so proud so proud to know me She should have hated me.
In 2003 a theatre producer contacted me, seeking the rights to a stage adaptation. I was cautiously elated— pleased that the women’s stories would reach a new audience, but apprehensive about
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how they would be presented. A first meeting with Ken Moffat reassured me that he and his partner, Terence O’Connell, showed a deep respect for the women portrayed and intended to keep faith with the spirit of what they said. But inevitably, a new medium meant a new interpretation of the material.
I wrote to the women and asked those who had not already granted me copyright in their interview to do so, to make the material freely available for the adaptation. Remarkably, all but one wrote back wholeheartedly endorsing the play and signing over copyright. (The one who did not want to be involved had plans to write her own book and felt it might undermine her story’s chances.) I was humbled at their trust and support. I was also even more apprehensive. What if they felt misrepresented, let down, by the end result? Terence O’Connell created five composite characters for the play: a nurse, a journalist, an entertainer, a church volunteer and a veteran’s wife. About ninety per cent of the dialogue came from the ‘real’ women’s oral histories, the rest being written by Terence to flesh out the ‘back story’ and provide colour. But though most of what ‘Kathy’, the nurse, said was true, in real life the words belonged to about eight women. Not only were several individuals’ experiences conflated into one, but military and civilian roles had also been blended. The Entertainer spoke lines belonging to four singers and a go-‐go dancer. The Veteran’s Wife was largely derived from one woman, as was the Journalist, while the Volunteer was a blend of two. I did not have an inkling of how the play was shaping until opening night at the Malthouse Theatre in Melbourne in July 2004. It was a surreal experience, to sit there in a crowded theatre, and hear Kathy utter Yvonne’s story about the injured child, followed by Colleen’s wistful desire to help ‘our boys’ and Kay’s spirited defence of treating a wounded Viet Cong man: No-‐one had ‘I’m a friend’ or ‘I’m a foe’ tattooed on their forehead. For the audience, it clearly gelled and because of the unmistakable ring of truth in the verbatim stories, ‘Kathy’ represented an entirely believable Aussie nurse in Vietnam. More confronting was to hear stories grafted from one role to another. Jan Graham, the real-‐life basis for the journalist character Ruth, had such a fund of powerful stories from her ten years in Vietnam, that her character threatened to dominate what was supposed to be an ensemble piece. Terence adroitly carved up the cache. In one powerful scene, three women move to front of stage and tell interspersed tales. Sandy, the entertainer, recalls an old Vietnamese woman desperate to find the body of her son, killed in a massacre. Eve, the volunteer, describes how she watched the interrogation of an old man and is filled with despair. I said to the GI, ‘Why are you doing this?’ He replied, ‘He’s a suspected Viet Cong informer.’ ‘Well so could I be!’ I said. He looked at me. ‘Hardly likely Ma’am— you’re not a Gook’. Kathy, the nurse, is overcome with joy as she witnesses a peasant woman give birth in a rice-‐field. In real life, all three stories belonged to Jan Graham, or ‘Ruth’. What was most unsettling was to hear Jan’s harrowing story of the blown-‐up American soldier, framed for a different narrator. ‘Eve’ is a God-‐fearing type who would not swear, as Jan does, or use earthy language. Thus Jan’s bitter ‘He should have stayed in the fuckin’ jeep’ is transmuted to ‘the bloody jeep’. The rawness of ‘his penis and testicles were gone’ is cut and the story of going to see the man’s wife is shortened. The strange and ambiguous last line, ‘she should have HATED me’, is lost. This sanitised version loses much of the power of the original. ‘Eve’ is a blend of two very different women in real life: Barbara Ferguson, a volunteer who worked with World Vision and other aid agencies in Vietnam for nine years, and Susan Timmins, a diplomat’s wife, who did charity work at orphanages in the afternoon before the round of cocktail parties and social niceties that occupied her evenings. Both women were profoundly altered by their time in Vietnam. Barbara spent so much time in remote villages with the Vietnamese that she forgot what Europeans looked like, commenting once, to a friend’s great amusement, on the ‘ugly pasty-‐faced children’ of a white missionary. She gradually renounced her evangelical Christian orthodoxy for a more compassionate, Buddhist-‐like perspective on life: ‘No-‐one holds all the right and all the truth’,
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she told me. Susan, who arrived in Vietnam as a starry-‐eyed newly-‐wed who assumed that anything the government did must be right, discovered what she called the personal meaning of right and wrong in Vietnam. She was horrified by the casual violence, the dead and disabled children, the incongruity of the diplomatic high life amidst the carnage: You sat sipping champagne and the whole time there was boom-‐boom-‐boom and if you stopped to think, one of those booms might have been killing someone. The restless consular sophisticate and the highly Vietnamised volunteer had to be woven together into one woman, Eve. Inevitably, some of the complexity was lost.
But if I felt nonplussed at seeing the ‘real’ women flitting in and out of character on stage, how did the interviewees themselves feel? Jan Cullen, basis for much of the veteran’s wife story, attended the Sydney opening at Glen St Theatre in May 2005. She was seventeen when she met ‘Len’, who was about to join the army. ‘That was no big deal’, she told me. ‘Half of us had never heard of Vietnam in 1967.’ Len saw horrific things in Vietnam. He was wounded and pinned by a log during a protracted firefight, expecting to die at any moment. Len came back a broken, angry shell of the man Jan first met—but she married him anyway. ‘What could I do?’ she asks. The marriage followed a dismal pattern familiar to anyone dealing with veterans with post-‐traumatic stress disorder. Len had nightmares in which he imagined himself back in combat, Jan the mate at his side. He drank heavily and was prone to sudden violent rages and paranoia. Three children and many brutal years later, the marriage ended, after Len abducted and raped Jan at gunpoint, and threatened to kill them both. The 1987 Welcome Home March, in which Vietnam veterans were publicly acknowledged after years of vilification, began the slow process of catharsis. Jan helped found a support group for wives and children of veterans and gradually put her life back together. In 1989, Len rang out of the blue. He’d had two years without alcohol and for the first time, he talked about his experiences in Vietnam. ‘Twenty years later he tells me, and he cried. And I cried with him.’ At the Vietnam Veterans march on August 18th, Jan pinned Len’s medals on him. ‘He actually put his arm around me’, she recalls. Terence O’Connell opens the play Minefields and Miniskirts with the veteran’s wife, Margaret, watching an Anzac Day march. ‘I’d been married to a Vet’, Margaret says, ‘so I felt like I’d had my own Vietnam.’ Those are Terence’s words, not Jan’s. But they resonated with her. The actor Tracy Mann, who played Margaret, had never met Jan before opening night, but her affinity with her was extraordinary. Like many in the audience, Jan cried as she watched ‘Margaret’ unfold on stage. The naïve girl who falls in love with the handsome soldier gets subsumed by menace, confusion and pain, before the tentative first steps towards rebuilding identity and self-‐esteem. The mature Margaret emerges, a feisty advocate for the rights of veterans and their families. Jan had never been able to read her story in the book, she told me later—not till she saw it on stage. She returned to the show three times, once with her adult daughter, who seemed less comfortable with the performance. Although the ultimate ‘message’ is one of great compassion for veterans, it must be confronting to see something strongly resembling the violence between your parents played out on stage. Besides Jan Cullen, seven other women who featured in my book attended that first night in Sydney. Each found it highly emotional, to be transported back to the place that had shaped them so profoundly, and to hear their own experiences told in their own words, in a public place. Terence made the actors middle-‐aged, looking back to their youth, just as the real women were when I interviewed them. The cast relished such powerful flesh and-‐blood roles (rare for older women) and at times the similarity of tone or presence to the real women I knew was uncanny. Wendy Stapleton, who played the entertainer, Sandy, even looked the spitting image of Maureen Elkner, a singer who had run off to Vietnam at the tender age of sixteen. A virgin, Maureen’s first sexual experience came when an Australian soldier lured her back to his hotel and raped her, giving her syphilis in the process. When she related this to me on tape, she was measured and calm. She understood that she had been a naïve child, whose pursuit of adventure
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saw her thrust into the brutality of war. She was even fired upon on stage while— surreally—singing My Boomerang Won’t Come Back. This last detail was too good for any writer to forego and it made its way into the play. But much of the complexity of Maureen’s journey had to go, as other entertainers’ stories fought to be included—equally potent, and as drama, perhaps more complementary to the other protagonists. It was confusing to see Sandy, looking so much like Maureen, but now speaking Elizabeth Burton’s line, about how the go-‐go dancers stopped the war the day the Viet Cong watched from the trees. The night Elizabeth Burton attended the show, Barbara Ferguson was also there. For me, the evening assumed new levels of delight as I saw how well these two women from vastly different worlds connected. Elizabeth, the apprentice hairdresser who’d gone to Vietnam at twenty to see the world, and Barbara, the upstanding Christian who now laughed at her early self-‐righteousness. Yet they were not that different really, for instance where it came to principles. Like many who entertained the U.S. army, Elizabeth was asked to sign a document agreeing to ‘associate with none other than Caucasians.’ The miner’s daughter from Wollongong rebelled. ‘My Dad taught me to treat everyone as a human being.’ For fraternising with black and white soldiers, she was deported, as ‘a race-‐riot risk’. Sadly, not before she had been gang-‐raped, by six GIs—black and white. The gang-‐rape makes it into the play. The racial segregation does not.
Del Heuke, a former RAAF nurse in Vietnam, sent me this email response: On Tuesday night Minefields and Miniskirts played in Taree to a full house and a standing ovation. It was confronting, challenging and bitter sweet to sit in the audience and hear private thoughts and moments spoken by someone else on stage. I loved the concept that it was a conversation between women and we the audience were eavesdroppers. It was beautifully portrayed, especially the way the Vet’s wife’s experience was woven into the story. Wives did not volunteer for the great adventure and yet they carried a disproportionate part of the load. I heard gasps when the comment [came]from the RSL. ‘Come back when you have fought in a real war.’ I pray that attitude has disappeared for the current Iraq and Afghanistan veterans. One of the unexpected outcomes of the play was the cult following it developed among Vietnam veterans. Night after night, men with raddled faces clustered in the foyer after the show, their wives, or sometimes children, by their sides. When the actors emerged to share a drink, they were met with an outpouring of stories, unleashed by the emotions aroused by the play.
While male veterans had warmly endorsed the first edition of my book, the play reached the veteran community in a new, more visceral, way. The cast became so embroiled in the fall-‐out that during the Perth season, they were invited to the Vietnam Veterans’ Remembrance Day, to lay poppies at the Roll of Honour there. Robyn Arthur, who with Wendy Stapleton played every single performance of the five month Australian tour (the rest of the cast changed along the way), was honoured to be so chosen. And yet, as she wrote in Alliance magazine, thirty-‐five years before, she had marched in the Moratorium anti-‐war protests! Vietnam was a part of my life from the time I was 11 to 21. Cousins were conscripted and some friends were conscientious objectors… The gift that has gone with performing the show has been meeting the people who were part of that extraordinary time in our history… Another time as now when we followed the USA into a war where we don’t belong. This comes up constantly during the open forums that we have had with high school audiences everywhere (the play is on the Year 12 syllabus in Victoria). The telling of these remarkable stories is opening up a dialogue between Vets and their families for the first time in many instances… Its been an incredibly rewarding and enriching journey for us all and in every way it comes back to the people, the living history of the women we represent and the extraordinary legacy that connects Australia to ‘that time and that place’. Close to 50,000 people saw the show before it ended in October 2005—a lot more than have read my book. Is it enough that the stories are being
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disseminated, even with dramatic licence? Or is the blurring of the individual experience, so central to oral history, too high a price to pay? In writing the play, Terence O’Connell wanted to convey ‘the bravery, fortitude and sheer guts of these amazing women and their adventures in Vietnam’. I think he succeeded. The response of fifteen women from the book who have seen the play has been overwhelmingly positive. The actors too have always been conscious of the ‘living history’ they represent.
As drama, it elicited very favourable newspaper reviews. The Age, in Melbourne, wrote: This is the performance to catch for 2004. Laugh, cry, reflect—or all of the above. But don’t miss this magnificent socially focused musical theatre piece. The Australian said: The true war stories—delivered in a simple, unvarnished style—are intensely moving, provoking many in the audience to wipe away a tear or two. Diana Simmonds in the Sunday Telegraph wrote: Entertainment with heart, soul and reason—don’t miss it! Only Stephen Dunne, of the Sydney Morning Herald mused on the process, of adapting oral history for the stage: O’Connell’s direction stresses the documentary aspect, but there’s a little too much glibness… making each character a slightly too-‐neat compendium, the instant, off-‐the-‐shelf Vietnam experience. But the casting is strong and it works well as selective oral history. But what about the central question for the oral historian—does dramatisation distort the truth? Even though much has been omitted, and the stories that do get in have been reconfigured and amalgamated, I believe the essence of the play captures the essence of the experiences of the women whose stories I recorded some fifteen years ago.
In some cases, as with the veteran’s wife character, the play transcends the book. In others, like Ruth, the journalist, the reality is more powerful. But even a diluted version of truth is still truth, and that is the real power of this play—the audience and the actors know that this stuff is not made up. My twelve-‐year-‐old son came with me to one performance. Despite my parental watchfulness, he regularly plays computer games in which he negotiates death and destruction with frightening cool, seemingly inured to violence. As Ruth spoke on stage about witnessing a Vietnamese girl being tortured, he leaned across to me with a look of concern. ‘Mum, is that TRUE?’ ‘Yes’, I said. ‘That happened.’ His eyes widened. No special effects, no multicoloured explosions on a screen—just words. But they had hit home—because they were true. Surely that response is a vindication of oral history.
Source: ro.uow.edu.au/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1029&context
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Theatrical style KEY FEATURES OF VERBATIM THEATRE
1. Purpose or intention of verbatim theatre pieces • Empowering marginalized groups and communities by staging their stories, enabling them to make their experiences visible / performative •Political purposes: unveiling the nonpublicised story, the alternative story to a well known event or issue so that audiences can rethink their own politics or views. •Excavating the story of a localised event or issue so others can understand, communicating the extraordinary in ordinary stories and worlds • Exploring histories and stories that do not normally get aired or shared •Reporting on how communities respond to and make sense of disasters or difficult events
2. Approach to dialogue and action Actors treat the characters in a Brechtian sense, they are presented as witnesses to the street scene. Dialogue is selected for its potency and relevance to furthering the play’s narrative. It is layered rather than chronological in its treatment. There is little collaborative stage actionOften actors sit on stage or speak directly to the audience, but they may react to each other and work together to create motifs in the space.
3. Approach to dramatic structure – Uses interviews, transcripts and material is distilled and selected, then layered or woven across broader themes or motifs or steps in the event being represented. The process of structuring the drama is often a collaborative process with the subjects giving feedback at critical phases in the development of the work. Brechtian elements are used to weave the piece together, such as narration, imagery, song, addressing the audience, re-‐enactment.
4. Notion of the subject and personal testimony -‐ uses the drama form to capture events through the stories of those who experienced them or who were affected by them. Verbatim Theatre uses theatre to capture multiple realities, multiple voices in a dynamic, complex relation. Verbatim theatre works on the basis of trust and responsibility as writers and theatre workers record and interview real people about their lived experiences. Direct language and testimony is used as dialogue, however what is said and when it occurs structurally to create particular meanings; all this is crafted and structured by the playwright. Some verbatim plays are more truthful than others to the original materials other verbatim plays have to be considerably ‘massaged’ because of their sensitive content or the need to collapse and condense a series of narratives.
5. Relationship with audience: Positioning the audience as witnesses, watchers and listeners, privy to confidential personal reactions and stories. Audience gains understanding by seeing all the contradictions and complexities as stories are juxtaposed and arranged for them to compare.
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Source: http://www.curriculumsupport.education.nsw.gov.au/secondary/creativearts/stage6/drama/drapres10.htm
What you do get in this play, unlike most US portrayals, is a sense of the Vietnamese experience of the war, even though there is still a feeling that the Vietnamese were extras in this most Western of dramas. For the purposes of the play, Terence O'Connell has adapted and conflated these fifty interviews into five representative characters: the Correspondent, the Entertainer, the Nurse, the Volunteer and the Vet's Abused Wife. He has then sliced and spliced to make five interleaving monologues punctuated by archetypal songs from the 60s and 70s -‐ Joni Mitchell, Carole King, Joan Baez. This play relies heavily on the intrinsic interest of its source material, some snappy choreography and the charisma of its performers, but none of these are enough to make it theatre. It's not primarily a question of the play's structure, although that counts. The problem goes deeper, into what you might call the DNA of theatrical language. The director Peter Brook put the problem of theatrical writing in his book The Empty Stage: "If one starts from the premise that a stage is a stage -‐ not a convenient premise for the unfolding of a staged novel or a staged poem or staged lecture or a staged story -‐ then the word that is spoken on this stage exists, or fails to exist, only in relation to the tensions it creates on that stage within the given stage circumstances. ...The choices (the dramatist) makes and the values he observes are only powerful in proportion to what they create in the language of theatre." Which is to say that writing for theatre is an extremely specific art, in which, as David Mamet says, language is not about action: it is action. O'Connell's adaptation stays in the realm of the "staged story": little imagination has been devoted to making this material theatrical, except in the most superficial sense of that word. O'Connell, who also directs the show, says his major concern was to "give (the material) a beginning, a middle and an end", and this, in the most earnest traditions of deadly narration, is precisely what he does. The signals are given early: there's a projection on a scrim as the audience enters which tells us exactly what we are about to see. After the first song, during which the characters are serially introduced, each telling the first instalment of their story, the rhythm is set: the women will speak their monologues, and sing, and speak their monologues, and sing; and you know they will do so until they reach the "present", which for the purposes of the play is an ANZAC Day march. What saves the evening from tedium is the performances. Minefields and Miniskirts has a celebrity cast, and these women belt out some great songs. Perhaps it is worth it to hear these amazing singers tackle Carole King's Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow, which is a genuine show-‐stopper. But in all the performances there is a tendency to over-‐act, perhaps from a subconscious recognition of the inherent non-‐theatricality of the text; a dragging out of tears which has the perverse effect of draining the stories of their power. The show's other saving grace is its visual spectacle. Catherine Raven's design, stunningly lit by Phil Lethlean, uses the simplicity of bamboo blinds to create a flexible and evocative theatrical space, swathed in the gorgeous colours of Thai silks. The set has some breathtaking moments of its own -‐ when the blinds are drawn back and silhoheutted to reveal a backdrop of blue sky, for example, or a moment where it goes dark and "stars" come out all over the theatre It seems that O'Connell can't decide whether Minefields and Miniskirts is feel-‐good commercial theatre or worthy documentary, and so falls between two stools. Using the commercial musical as a vehicle does raise the question of whether the experiences described in the play can really be
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approached as sheer entertainment. In the end, it escapes trivialising them, I think; but only just. All the same, you are probably better off reading the original book
Source: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com.au/2004/07/minefields-‐and-‐miniskirts_16.html
Interpretations of the character
Minefields and Miniskirts
Reviewed by Stephen Dunne
Ruth the journalist (Anne Wood) is recalling the bloke she fell in love with in Vietnam. He was a Green Beret, strong, tall, tanned, handsome and Jewish. They had an imagined future in New York, until he went on a mission and never returned.
Ruth says she insisted on seeing his corpse. "He was swollen like a water buffalo, his skin was all black and cracked," she says, dispassionately. There's a slight, hanging pause, then the abstraction of slaughter becomes more personal.
"I still wear the Star of David I cut from his neck," she says.
It's such casual details of atrocity and its aftermath -‐ the star was "cut" out of his bloated flesh -‐ that are among the strongest elements in these stories of five women and the Vietnam War.
Terence O'Connell's stage version is adapted from Siobhan McHugh's excellent history of the same title. Various lives are compressed into five composite characters -‐ the journalist, Eve the volunteer (Robyn Arthur), Margaret the veteran's wife (Tracy Mann), Sandy the entertainer (Wendy Stapleton) and Kathy the nurse (Kristin Keam).
The adaptation benefits and suffers from such compression, allowing each character to have a rounded, solidly constructed life but also making each character a slightly too-‐neat compendium, the instant, off-‐the-‐shelf Vietnam experience. But the casting is strong, and it works well as selective oral history.
O'Connell's direction stresses the documentary aspect, but there's a little too much glibness. The singing (era-‐appropriate songs by Joan Baez, Carole King, Joni Mitchell and John Denver) is excellent.
The piece and its characters deplore war's waste of life, the atrocities and deformities and the warping of cultures. Yet there's manifest excitement as well, embracing adventure, intoxicants, sexual freedom and the necessity of escaping the stultifying normality of 1960s suburbia.
As a reminder of the role and suffering of women in the dreadful boys' game of war, this is a useful work. As a way of reminding people of the individuals behind such abstract nouns as "military forces" and "service men and women", it's equally relevant.
Source: http://www.smh.com.au/news/Review/Minefields-‐and-‐Miniskirts/2005/05/12/1115843313038.html