Adapted from the same title of Olaf Stapledon’s 1930 sci‑fi novel about the future of humanity across two billion years, Last and First Men was first a 2017 film directed and scored by late composer Johann Jóhannsson, with Tilda Swinton as the narrator. Almost a decade later, Adrienne Hart, artistic director of Neon Dance, transforms it into a dance piece co‑choreographed by Fukiko Takase, Kelvin Kilonzo, Aoi Nakamura and Makiko Aoyama.
In the first place, Stapledon’s text may not seem the right choice for dance. Describing eighteen different human species evolving over two billion years, the text deprives itself of any socio‑historical context or geological temporality, remaining only sheer, dystopian speculation and contemplation. While Swinton’s cool, soothing voice perfectly matches Stapledon’s half‑essay, half prose‑poem apocalypse, the combination can come across as unexciting and perplexing when translated to physical theatre, where visuality and sensuality recede into second place.
Given the project’s detached, descriptive and contemplative nature, the movement of the three dancers is more explanatory and semiotic rather than visceral or expressive. Thus, physicality becomes a subordinated annotation or footnote to Stapledon’s text, further constrained by Swinton’s narration, where immediacy is overshadowed by endless and lifeless expository definitions.
The three dancers are exceptionally focused and loyal to their supposed characters (those evolved human species), showcasing unparalleled stamina for 65 minutes straight through. I must acknowledge the strength and vitality hidden within their bodies; put it another way, I feel so sorry for them that their energy is continually surrendered to the text, the score and the overall film project, but none of them compatible. Jóhannsson’s cinematic soundscape is vast, intense but also serene, whose steady and solemn pace cancels any form of excitement, rendering the movement sluggish and stale.
The film’s visuals aren’t helpful either. Primarily in black, grey and white and filled with strange abstract sculptures (which may indicate the Ark), it is hardly a film, as it has no storytelling at all. The camera merely drifts in slow zooms in and out at a killingly slow pace that ironically fits the solemnity of the score. Such visual austerity further confines the dance, making it feel like an abrupt third‑wheel forcibly inserted into a not‑so‑exciting but at‑least‑harmonious marriage between the text and score.
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