came into my head last night. Three performers, let’s say (not sure yet how many people will be on stage). Bent forward, facing down, with crudely carved masks of cavemen on the top of their heads, so they have a crouched posture full of intention. Their necks and shoulders are covered by animal skins, and they have antlers or teeth tied onto their clothing so they’re half animal and half human. They move across the stage in a slow and ritualized way, like Noh actors, and they moan together like Noh actors, in a slowly developing harmony. It takes so long for them to complete the strange choreography that the audience sinks slowly into a different time-speed, not waiting for the next thing to happen, but just listening and watching.
The performers exit, and then return with smaller puppet versions of themselves making a similar cross, only appearing further away, in the distance, in the mountains. Maybe there’s some kind of projection of the glacier they’re traversing.
Again, only really small now, they look like they’re miles away from us, in space and also in time; and then, suddenly, an enormous puppet of a dinosaur enters and eats the lot, severing the music and the slowness.