Literacy, Drama, Music, Art & Design (Textiles) and ICT
Year 8 pupils from Kingsdale Foundation School created a performance of the Diana and Actaeon myth. Pupils wrote their own script of the myth, further developing the narrative through drama.
Pupils designed and created textiles to make costumes for their performance. A soundtrack to accompany their performance was composed and performed by the pupils in music lessons and the performance was recorded on film. The pupils documented and promoted the development of their project on a website.
Narrator 1: This story that we present today imitates vanity and death. The stakes are high and someone will pay. The end victim will fail the test.
Narrator 2: The strong and proud warrior treks to his fate. He puts his family’s name to shame with his ambitious and arrogant state. Actaeon is the hunter’s name.
Narrator 1: Diana is the name of a proud goddess. Who be this that enters her lair? This man who is considered godless, who she can’t even think would dare.
Narrator 2: So listen with anticipation. This myth will have you standing in ovation.
Narrator 1: Vain and scheming, very sly, draws men in and helps them die. The magic locked in her heart, stuck in a mirror, another glance. Arrogance, hate and death involved, this mystery’s yet to be told.
Vanity and arrogance were seen in many of the mirrors.
Narrator 2: They held shallow faces all for another outing.
Narrator 1: They shred clothes, merciless.
Narrator 2: Twisted pouts with eyes of glass, powdering their angelic two faces.
Narrator 1: They aimed to allure.
Ensemble: We are the hunter’s men.
Actaeon: I am Actaeon.
Unidentified male speaker 1: I am fierce.
Unidentified male speaker 2: I am strong.
Unidentified male speaker 3: I’m flesh.
Unidentified male speaker 4: I am death.
Unidentified male speaker 5: I am [muffled].
Unidentified male speaker 6: I am [muffled].
Narrator 1: Lost not found, no place to go, the wind blows in his face. He walks through not knowing what lies ahead. Vines hit his body as if on target. His heart then skips a beat. Eight stunned women lay before him. Hatred’s burning slowly inside. Instant death and guaranteed slaughter.
Narrator 2: The woman of wonders sat before us, enraged, her soul creeping out of her fuming body, ready to attack its nearest victim.
Narrator 1: Like the bite of a serpent, she plucked the droplets as if a…
Narrator 2: [Muffled].
Narrator 1: One twitch and a sparkle in her eye and this charm swells to a do or die.
Narrator 2: His arrogant stride to back away like a dying bird or even a whimpering stray. Long face, four legs and twisted roots above his head.
Narrator 1: Strangled by the godlike glory, his life had become all the more boring.
Fierce as lightning, live for fighting, loves ambition, no limitations. Their trophy is death, which makes them very proud. They’re vain and boastful and extremely loud.
Narrator 2: Here it is, the clock has struck, where curtains shall be calling.
Narrator 1: There was no real hero here. All characters are falling. Dignity of all kinds has perished beneath our paws.
Narrator 2: We tell this story out of spite as they manipulated our furious jaws.
Narrator 1: Our saintless senses, our vicious cause. How we had to abide their laws.
Narrators 1 and 2: We are hounds, free to roam, for ever more we live without home.
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