“the war”, one previous film pops up, keeps popping up the way that calls for mercy and help do from one catastrophic war to the other, featuring some kids, a donkey, and wounded dog with a red cross bandage.
The newsmen are given ample space to reply, but I will not try to summarize the to-and-fro but to say that the points scored by both sides are lost in what strikes me as an overkill of verbiage, Geschwätzigkeit is the fine German word for this, and most unusual logorrhea in the instance of our usually so laconic author. And not state of the art in media analysis I might add.
The play even manages to "work in" some typical Handke stuff about "sacred rage" and puts it into the mouth of the I.T.s, as well as the frequent charge against Handke, especially again then – around 1999 - that "he has flipped out" - and in that fashion, I suppose, the play imagines that it inculcates itself against such very charges, a variation on the tactic of tactical concession, but taken well before entering the malaria infested territory of public discourse...
The IT.'s claim that they have nothing but good intentions is met by The Greek's response: "There is an indifference that is more helpful than your blabbering about being humane, as the right hand pets some of us like Mother Teresa, and the left hand swings the sword of the tribunal against others. Little devils of goodness. Humanity hyenas. There is no one less open to suffering than you official humanitarians. Mars bodies that appear as the protectors of human rights… The people here have become as evil as they are not. And the war has made you tourists as evil as you are. [the verbal casting resembles W.A.T.V.'s "the brown pistol holder is not but the blue sky is."]
The Greek calls for an absence of all reporting, of all media intrusion.. for a ten year period… but how would Handke stand not being in the news for that long? Not being photographed?
The upshot is that the I.T.s resolve that their view cannot be changed, they are unalterably locked into their language, and that they are the language. And the bitter truth of that can be seen in all the U.S. wars since and current preparations for more of the same.
There is a nice moment, after the directors have inquired of The Greek what it might be that he sees beyond the apparently self-evident, and he replies "The wind," and laughs and all the others laugh, too. And then the Greek has one last speech in which he attacks the notion that photos speak in the sense that the photos of Yugoslav camps, by being reminiscent of German concentration camps, spoke falsely, or only seemed to speak. [a notion to similar effect was broached by The Historian already early on in the play and we have reached the nub of the rub of atrocities, and guilt, and historical memories which Handke, in the instance of Serbia has had such a hard time stomaching, - and which I comment on at greater length in some of my footnotes. 
By page 100, after approximately 40 pages devoted to the I.T.'s in their various guises, much of it in a shrill tone, and much unGoethlike derisiveness, that already seeped into the interchanges between The Historian and The Chronicler in the first 60 pages, after a nice side-stepping transition, we come to the section devoted to the Forest Madman and the Beauty Queen/Bearskin Woman during which the F.M. and B.M. rediscover love and the simple things in life, in part a la the kind of lovely simple interchanges, indirect discourse, that we find at the end of W.A.T.V.
The F.M. recounts his prison days in Germany and how he lost his sense of guilt. "Peace, peace here means: the heart is bleeding." And turns into a kind of complete mourner and only seeks the great pure life of mourning; and recounts his life in the forest, rhapsodizes about the taste of raspberries, and then
3] Packer/Wechsler. As noted above, I think to use texts of these two respectable American journalists for what I call the “Mish-Mash” section is not only not the way to go, but unjust, since benighted “Internationals” as they cannot help but be, one grants them the respect of doing better on closer acquaintance. My candidate are Roger Cohen’s texts of the time. As also mentioned in the second footnote, Handke’s The Cuckoos of Velica Hoca then, after all those travelogues with the laconic comments, is an exemplay piece of intimate reporting and of a kind that might set the standards higher than they are in the U.S. if writers of that ability could be trained.
4] To P.A.J’s “welching” on an agreed-upon contract after a year during which I thought I had put that project, Walk About the Villages, to bed, and had left the so distracting city and extracted myself from its sybaritic down-town life style, I responded with as tough a letter I could manage, and copies to P.E.N., because P.A.J., even though they felt they could welch wanted some other piece of work of mine and I wanted to make certain that nothing of the kind would ever transpire – the one principal who is no longer with P.A.J, Gautum Dasgupta, also was someone I myself at one time, as publisher of Urizen Books, had given work to, cc also to Handke.
In the mid-80s I was not someone you wanted to fool with, nor threaten. Handke’s response was that to write such a letter was something “that could not be done TO HIM!” and he threatened abrogation of a friendship. As far as I was concerned, Peter Handke had abrogate whatever possibilities for personal friendship existed with certain actions in 1975 and 1976, I realized the man lived in a delusion when we three all met at the Algonquin for tea one afternoon.
The upshot of all this was that  Handke turned to Ralph Mannheim to do a second translation of thetext, which Handke, in my translation, had called the “best he had ever seen,” and which was eventually published by Ariadne Press, an outfit that never sends review copies even to Publisher’s Weekly or Library Journal, and  that I was free to be even-handed and also critical of Handke texts, and eventually write a great length about him and his work, including a psychoanalytic monograph.  That Handke memorialized my sending him postcards from various hamlets all over the Chihuahua desert that I and my new wench loved our way through during the year 1985-8, prior to the blow-up.
When Alfred Kolleritch once published a critical piece about Handke in Manuskripte he, too, our Pasha also threatened that he would never get another Handke text if he persisted, as we find out in Malter Herwig’s Handke biography Meister der Daemmerung
It appears it was a bit of a shock for Don Cuckoo from Griffen to find out that he had been a known quantity for a decade, and but for this act of dastardliness he might have had a happier time in NY while writing and coming acropper on the novel section of what is called A Slow Homecoming in American, since, though I worked late hours, I also did some downtown clubbing during those so musical years. Thus, though there are occasional instances when I am quite critical of Handke’s work, that is when I feel that he is not living up to his own standard of wanting to be judged within his own terms, I cannot be said to feel ambivalent about it, as I do about the person, who can also be a sweetheart of a darling and generous, as his ex Marie Colbin testifies as well, no matter that she blew him out of the water as well about at the time of the premiere of Voyage by Dugout. Marie and I considered getting married at one time, we thought we’d never get bored telling each other Handke stories!
5] Here a note from Scott’s diary:Several hours ago NATO and the Yugoslav Parliament came to some kind of agreement ending the bombing after 78 days. And, I'm just back from the world premiere of Peter's "The Play of the Film of the War," directed by Claus Peymann. I’ve never attended the world premiere of a play of this magnitude; and I’ve seldom been this moved, this challenged, by a work of art. Peter has filmmakers John Ford and Luis Buñuel in a Serbian town ten years after the war trying to decide how to make a film of the war. Characters who appear before the directors tell conflicting and complex stories as the play feels its way to questions about war and its aftermath. The really bad guys of the play, three "Internationals" who know all the answers, who dictate all the terms, who can think only in absolutes, appear on the stage as follows: "Three mountain bike riders, preceded by the sound of squealing brakes, burst through the swinging door, covered with mud clear up to their helmets. They race through the hall, between tables and chairs, perilously close to the people sitting there. 'Where are we?' the First International asks. 'Don't know,' the second answers. 'Not a clue,' the third says."American and European moralists, functionaries with no hint of self-irony or humor, absolutists who run the world because of their economic power – these sorry excuses for human beings were depicted this evening as mountainbike riders. Žarko, I said, Don’t you ever tell Peter I ride a mountain bike. No, he whispered, I’d never do that. Rich with thoughts, savory with sentences, the voyage by dugout was also a riot of comic action in Peymann’s staging. It was over before I even realized it was underway. The play drew on several incidents from our trip, including when Peter put his coat around the shoulders of the OSCE woman in Višegrad. The long sentences and long speeches of the play felt like well structured seriousness. The play trusted the audience to pay attention, and rewarded those who did with intellectual and aesthetic depth. But the play is playful too, and Peymann's direction brought that out impishly. The juxtaposition reminded me of the scene near the end of "Wings of Desire" where Peter's long and reflective sentences are being spoken against the sounds and rock staging of Nick Cave and his Bad Seeds.