As The 100th Anniversary Of The First Year Of World War I (Remember The War To End All Wars) Continues ... Some Remembrances-Writers’ Corner  

In say 1912, 1913, hell, even the beginning of 1914, the first few months anyway, before the war clouds got a full head of steam in the summer they all profusely professed their unmitigated horror at the thought of war, thought of the old way of doing business in the world. Yes the artists of every school the Cubist/Fauvists/Futurists/Constructivists, Surrealists or those who would come to speak for those movements (hell even the Academy spoke the pious words when there was sunny weather), those who saw the disjointedness of modern industrial society and put the pieces to paint, sculptors who put twisted pieces of metal juxtaposed to each other saw that building a mighty machine from which you had to run created many problems; writers of serious history books proving that, according to their Whiggish theory of progress,  humankind had moved beyond war as an instrument of policy and the diplomats and high and mighty would put the brakes on in time, not realizing that they were all squabbling cousins; writers of serious and not so serious novels drenched in platitudes and hidden gazebo love affairs put paid to that notion in their sweet nothing words that man and woman had too much to do, too much sex to harness to denigrate themselves by crying the warrior’s cry and by having half-virgin, neat trick, maidens strewing flowers on the bloodlust streets; musicians whose muse spoke of delicate tempos and sweet muted violin concertos, not the stress and strife of the tattoos of war marches with their tinny conceits; and poets, ah, those constricted poets who bleed the moon of its amber swearing, swearing on a stack of seven sealed bibles, that they would go to the hells before touching the hair of another man, putting another man to ground or lying their own heads down for some imperial mission. They all professed loudly (and those few who did not profess, could not profess because they were happily getting their blood rising, kept their own consul until the summer), that come the war drums they would resist the siren call, would stick to their Whiggish, Futurist, Constructionist, Cubist worlds and blast the war-makers to hell in quotes, words, chords, clanged metal, and pretty pastels. They would stay the course.  

And then the war drums intensified, the people, their clients, patrons and buyers, cried out their lusts and they, they made of ordinary human clay as it turned out, poets, beautiful poets like Wilfred Owens who would sicken of war before he passed leaving a beautiful damnation on war, its psychoses, and broken bones and dreams, and the idiots who brought humankind to such a fate, like e. e. cummings who drove through sheer hell in those rickety ambulances floors sprayed with blood, man blood, angers, anguishes and more sets of broken bones, and broken dreams, like Rupert Brooke all manly and old school give and go, as the marched in formation leaving the ports and then mowed down like freshly mown grass in their thousands as the charge call came and they rested, a lot of them, in those freshly mown grasses, like Robert Graves all grave all sputtering in his words confused about what had happened, suppressing, always suppressing that instinct to cry out against the hatred night, like old school, old Thomas Hardy writing beautiful old English pastoral sentiments before the war and then full-blown into imperium’s service, no questions asked old England right or wrong, like old stuffed shirt himself T.S. Eliot speaking of hollow loves, hollow men, wastelands, and such in the high club rooms on the home front, and like old brother Yeats speaking of terrible beauties born in the colonies and maybe at the home front too as long as Eliot does not miss hi shigh tea. Jesus what a blasted nigh that Great War time was.   

And do not forget when the war drums intensified, and the people, their clients, patrons and buyers, cried out their lusts and they, they, other creative souls made of ordinary human clay as it turned out artists, sculptors, writers, serious and not, musicians went to the trenches to die deathless deaths in their thousands for, well, for humankind, of course, their always fate ….            

Oh What A Lovely War

 

by Joan Littlewood (Editor), Theatre Workshop, Joan Littlewood

Oh What A Lovely War 3.34 of 5 stars 3.34  ·  rating details  ·  127 ratings  ·  8 reviews

This pioneering work is a theatrical chronicle of the First World War,told through the songs and documents of the period, was created in 1963 by Joan Littlewood’s London-based group,Theatre Workshop. It was ground-breaking, not only for its blatant denounciation of the incompetence of political leadersduring World War I, but alsofor its unusual theatrical style and develop This pioneering work is a theatrical chronicle of the First World War, told through the songs and documents of the period, was created in 1963 by Joan Littlewood’s London-based group,Theatre Workshop. It was ground-breaking, not only for its blatant denounciation of the incompetence of political leaders during World War I, but also for its unusual theatrical style and development. Created organically through a process of improvisation which was then scripted, Oh What A Lovely War is a colorful and innovative exercise in ensemble theatre and acting.

It recalls the horrors of World War I through the humor and frivolity of a seaside pier show, mixing famous British war songs (often with alternative words) with gags and dances, and sets hilarious clowning against shocking factual documentation of the war’s casualties. An exhilarating ensemble piece, Joan Littlewood’s theatrical creation is a lesson in Brechtian theatre, in its self-conscious theatricality, and uses humor to present human tragedy.

It received the acclaim of London audiences and critics. It won the Grand Prix of the Théâtre des Nations festival in Paris that year and has gone on to become a classic of the modern theatre. In 1969 a film version was made which extended the play's popular success. This new version of the play, as edited by Joan Littlewood, returns the script to its original version.

Includes a new photo section of the original production, and an Afterword by Victor Spinetti. ...more

Paperback, 112 pages

Published March 1st 1967 by Bloomsbury Methuen Drama