“And stop shaving. It will soften the lines around your jaw, give more of an impression of weight.”

Just what I wanted to hear. It’s December 20th, a couple of days after I take on the role of Charlie in The Whale. I have stopped by the office of Martin Bensen, one of the founding artistic directors of SCR. Martin will be helming our ship as we navigate this play.

I am not averse to growing a beard for a role. I had to grow one several years ago, to portray Matt Friedman in Talley’s Folly, and as I look at this photofrom the production I actually think I looked pretty good with it. But I also realize that Charlie, the character I am preparing to play now, doesn’t really care about his appearance, so that means no trimming or edging. I’ll just have to let it grow ragged, particularly down my neck, which it seems will be the most difficult part to deal with when trying to make me look extremely overweight. So I just have to start letting myself look like crap and keep it going for the next few months. Great.

Aside from the facial hair, Martin and I discuss the prosthetics that will be used to put another 425 pounds on my frame. This prosthetic suit has a common name in industry parlance, but I will refrain from using it here. It strikes me as disrespectful not only to those who suffer from this condition, but to the character I am to be playing as well, and I think it is of paramount importance to always come to our characters with respect, kindness, and even love, if we can muster it.

Some have advised me to ask that the prosthetic suit be made as light as possible, but I am of a different mindset. As I tell my students, I don’t want to have to do a lot of acting when I am on stage. If we do our work correctly, then at the time of actual performance, we don’t have to do any work at all. The better our preparation, the more we are able to walk out on stage and simply “be.” To that end, the suit will help me with the physicality of the role, not merely in terms of how I look in it, but in how it restricts and affects my movement. The good news from Martin is that ice packs will be incorporated into the suit. That should help, as I’m told it can get pretty toasty in there. Finally, Martin lets me know that we’ll be dying my hair, and probably my beard as well, as it is coming in almost completely white now, despite my tender years.

Aside from the physical realities that have to be planned for well ahead of time, there is a mountain of source material with which I have to start acquainting myself. To that end, Martin and I stroll over to the office of my old friend Kelly Miller, the Literary Manager at SCR, who will be dramaturg for this production. Kelly has compiled a list of source materials for me, including interviews and articles on the playwright and his own influences. She also suggests Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith, by Jon Krakauer, an examination of the origins and evolution of the Mormon Church. For my part, I have already started to read Moby Dick, which figures prominently in Charlie’s interior world, diverting myself along the way with The Book of Jonah and 1 Kings 16-22, which deals with the biblical Ahab. I’m also working my way through The Book of Job, as well as putting some time in with The Book of Mormon. All of this reading will put me in touch with the history, references, knowledge, and themes that work their way through Charlie’s mind, both consciously and subconsciously.

In addition to connecting myself to Charlie’s inner life, I have to figure out how to approach the physicality of the role. I can’t simply say that the prosthetic suit will do all of the work on that front. It will certainly affect how I move, but it will not, I am sure, do the job of making me move exactly like a man suffering from the challenges that Charlie is facing. It will make me move like a man wearing a heavy, binding prosthetic device. I have to start learning about obesity and congestive heart failure, as well as attendant side effects. How will I move? How does it feel to breath? To eat? I’m trolling the internet for information and video (Kelly already sent me some links to a show called “My 600 Pound Life,” on TBS), and reading up on information from the CDC and other sites.

These weeks of research are for me among the most exciting of a new role. They are one of the reasons I chose the profession. The luxury of having a job that requires the exploration of new topics, new fields, the ever changing landscape of our work as we go from role to role, that is one of the greatest rewards of this career. And right now I have the joy of being in the thick of it.

The Whale will be performed at South Coast Repertory from March 10th through March 31st, 2013. Information and tickets are can be found following this link.

Like Ishmael himself, in Moby Dick, I have of late been going through a time of dark humour. It is fitting, therefore, that a daunting voyage has been laid before me. On December 3rd of this year, I received an email from my friend Joanne DeNaut, the casting director at South Coast Rep, containing the following message, somewhat cryptic: “Do you know the play The Whale, by Sam Hunter? I am going to send it to you and I think you should give it a serious read. I’m just saying … (and this is just between me and you). XO, Jo.”

I did not know the play, but I knew that it was on the Rep’s spring schedule, and so my heart immediately set to thumpin’. The prospect of a job is always exciting to me, even before I know much about it. I was already familiar with, and a fan of, both the playwright and his writing, having performed two readings of one of his earlier plays, for theatre companies in New York. Now it appeared I was going to be offered the lead in the West Coast premier of his new play, which was just finishing up a successful run at Playwrights Horizons.

I read the play in one sitting, something I recommend to my students. (See SCENE STUDY STEPS: A Primer for the Amateur and the Pro.) When I came to the end, my impressions were hazy. Certain plays lay themselves open to me almost completely upon first reading. This is not to say that they are simple or shallow. Certainly no one would say such a thing of Dinner With Friends, for example. But if the mind of the playwright is exceedingly simpatico with my own pertaining to the subject matter, the undercurrents of the play are often readily apparent to me. Not so with The Whale. Considering the plot and the main character that I would be playing, it seemed on first read that it should be depressing. Yet for some reason I felt a dense layer of hope lurking in its depths, under some distant thermocline. I was glad for that, as hope is a quality I much prize in work I undertake. I also knew that I could not begin to understand the play at all other than by going through the process of working on it. Even then, perhaps, my understanding would be only partial, as a four week rehearsal process coupled with a three week run does not allow for the deepest exploration of all aspects of such a rich and detailed work as this. And so, armed with the knowledge that the journey would be to some extent incomplete, despite my very best efforts, I immediately called Joanne and told her that I was in. I would be their whale.

Charlie, the character I will be playing, is an on-line teacher of expository writing.  The play deals with loss, failure, death, the search for redemption. Moby Dick, The Book of Jonah, Mormonism, homosexuality, estrangement from parents, lovers, and children are explored. On some of these themes and topics I have a multitude of experience, on others a dearth, and so I will be doing much reading and research.

Another of the challenges of the piece is that Charlie weighs in at 600 pounds and suffers from congestive heart failure. In future entries in this diary I will detail how the matters of weight and physical infirmity are to be handled, both by myself with exploration of the physicality and movement, and with photos of the work of the creative team giving support in the way of prosthetics.

For now, I am sitting in Starbucks, reading Moby Dick. I’ve never read it before. I have written a paper on it, at least one, in high school, and perhaps another in college. Listening carefully to lectures and skimming always served me well enough. Now as an actor, assaying a new role, my work ethic is different. Having finally settled on the path that I truly want to follow, I will be more assiduous in my efforts. I hope this diary will prove instructive, as well as inspiring, to my students, and to such others as have an interest in the actor’s craft. I will also note that the style of future entries will not attempt to imitate, however poorly, that of the great Melville, whose words I am now enjoying for the first time.

The Whale will be performed at South Coast Repertory from March 10th through March 31st, 2013. Information and tickets are can be found following this link.

​Part 2: The First Rehearsal, and Beyond.​     

You’re taking a scene study class, and getting together with your scene partner to rehearse for the first time. Where do you begin? I am assuming that you have already read the play, at least once. (No small assumption when dealing with people taking a scene study class for the first time; see Part 1 of this article.) You have already done some of your own preliminary homework, thinking about your character’s circumstances, the relationship between the characters in the scene, what your character wants from the other character. You have not memorized the scene, for reasons that will be touched on elsewhere. And now you are showing up at the home of another actor, someone who may be a relative stranger to you, who may have more or less experience than you. How do you proceed?
     First, some matters of etiquette. If you are the guest, arrive on time. If you are the host, offer something to drink, water, coffee, or tea. If you need to straighten up, be sure you do so before your partner shows up. You should plan on rehearsing for a specific period of time. I recommend an hour and a half, two hours at the most. Anything more than that in a single session gives, I believe, diminishing returns. You should start working as soon as you get together. Don’t socialize and waste time. You can do that afterwards, if you both want to. But make sure that when you have rehearsed for the allotted time, you are ready to leave, in case your partner has things to do.
     Next, just sit together and read the scene. Read it once or twice before you engage in any discussion about it. Read it very simply, with no acting allowed. By this I mean pay attention to meaning and syntax, but don’t put any spin on the words themselves, express no point of view, convey no subtext. Let’s take for example a simple circumstance: A man is asking his wife, “What time are you coming home for dinner?” If we have no preconceived notion of what is really going on in the scene (and we shouldn’t, yet), then you will simply ask the question. It is a simple question, and it  calls for a simple response: the time that the wife will be coming home for dinner. Ask the question as a request for that simple information. Later, as you explore the scene, you may have discovered, or decide to try out, different underlying questions that are really being asked with those words. For instance, “What time are you coming home for dinner?” can be read to mean “I know you already told me, but I wasn’t paying attention. What time did you say you were coming home again?” Read another way, it means “You’re always late.” Read yet another way, it means “Are you coming home for dinner? Are you ever coming home again?”
     After you have read the scene a couple of times, you can begin to discuss things with your partner. But it is important to note that there are some things the two of you should discuss, and other things that you might want to keep private. First, let’s look at what should be discussed and agreed upon between you.
     You need to determine and agree as to when the scene takes place: What is the year, the season, the month? It may be necessary to determine the actual date or the day of the week, if that is something that would have significance. Friday and Saturday night are different than Sunday. Characters in a scene that takes place on November 21st, 1963 live in a very different world than those in a scene in March of 1964, even if the events of November 22nd are never discussed. Other elements of time are important: The hour of the day, how long it has been since you have seen each other.
     What is the relationship between the characters? Is it familial, or are you just friends, co-workers? Are you strangers? If friends, how long have you known each? How did you meet, and where?
     Where does the scene take place, and how should you set up the space? If the location in the story is under the control of one of the characters in the scene, then that person should have more say about how to set it up. For example, if you’re doing a scene from The Rose Tattoo, by Tennessee Williams, the actor playing Serafina should have more weight in deciding how the set is laid out, after paying due deference to what is in the script. If, however, you are doing a scene from Talley’s Folly, by Lanford Wilson, you should discuss the set up and agree to it with your partner. That’s a location that is not under the control of either character. After you have discussed this, set up your space as best you can in the living room you are in, or wherever it is that you are rehearsing. Do your best to come up with a layout and set that you will be able to replicate using what is available in the class space. You want to be able to transfer your work into the class as easily as possible, and not be in a situation where you are saying, “Well, when we rehearsed it, the door was over there.” Keeping these things in mind when you set up will allow you to focus on the work, and not the logistics. The same should be kept in mind as you determine what, if any, activities you need to be doing in the scene. If the scene requires you to be ironing, as in Tennessee William’s The Magic Tower, work with an iron, ironing board, and shirt in your rehearsals, and then bring them to class. Whether the activities are dictated by the scene, or are activities you have chosen yourself, make sure you have all your props so that you can actually do them, rather than faking it.
     Next, you want to divide the scene into beats. Beats in a scene are not clearly defined, so this may take some discussion between you and your partner. With a little practice, you’ll get the hang of finding them. They are the small energy shifts in a scene. A husband and wife enter the kitchen and are making breakfast, exchanging small talk. Then the wife says, “I didn’t hear you come in last night. You must have been very late.” If the play is about the husband’s suspected infidelity, such an exchange will shift the energy of the scene, and there you have the end of your first beat. You will find that dividing the scene into these beats gives you a deeper understanding of what is going on underneath the surface for you.
     Next, you want to select a manageable portion of the scene to present in class. This will vary from class to class, depending on how many students there are, and how much time the teacher has to devote to each pair of partners. Initially, you might want to do only three to four pages. Don’t feel it is necessary to do the whole scene. Remember, you’re not there to entertain, but to learn. If the scene is really bearing fruit for you and your partner, you can always work on more of it later. To start, you want to simply spend your energy diving as deeply as you can into a small portion of the scene, really fleshing it out, exploring all facets of it. You will get much more benefit out of it that way then if you do a more shallow presentation of the whole scene.
     Now that you have your set, and you’ve selected how much of the scene you’re going to put up, start playing with it. Script in hand, dive in. Get up on your feet, or stay seated, if that’s how you are at the beginning of the scene, and start reading. Start putting action into the scene. Find the activities that you would be engaged in and do them, until something compels you to stop. If you’re supposed to be making salad dressing or putting on a tie, getting undressed or ironing, do so.  But never say to yourself, “Boy, I’ve been sitting here a long time. I should get up and do something interesting.” Move, but don’t move until you are moved to. Have an activity to do, but only if it is something that furthers the exploration of the character, and his or her needs and desires.
     Test different approaches to the scene. Don’t worry about the right way to do it. Probe it. Try it one time as if you both hate each other, and then another as if you love each other, then as if one of you hates and the other … you get the idea. Try going through it once where neither of you can say a line without finding a way to physically touch the other character, in as justified a way as possible. It might be that none of these approaches is the right one, but each of them will teach you something. For instance, in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, George and Martha may be at each other’s throats, it may seem to all the world that they hate each other. But how much more interesting, truthful, real it will be if there are other colors and layers underneath, if there is love underneath, fueling the rage over unfulfilled needs.
     Note: A good guide to use as you continue the rehearsal process is Uta Hagen’s list of six steps, set forth on page 134 of her text, A Challenge for the Actor. Examine these questions as you approach the text, and return to them between your rehearsals to confirm, challenge and deepen your discoveries.
     Now, as to memorization: This is often the first thing about which theatergoers ask an actor: “How do you learn all of those lines?” and it’s something that many beginning students worry about excessively. Don’t. First, the necessary repetition during rehearsal will take care of much of the learning. But more than that, as you rehearse, test, probe, and explore the scene, you will begin to connect with the needs and wants of your character. Your inner thoughts will start to take shape. You will begin to build what is underneath the dialogue, and then the next line will be that much easier for you to learn and remember, because your desires will be leading you there. Moreover, since you have not slavishly learned your lines by rote, you will not be tied to meanings that you have assigned to them arbitrarily, and you will be more free in your explorations. Then, as you arrive at the meanings that work for you, in the moment, the lines will be learned.
     A question I frequently encounter is, “What shape should the scene be in before we put it up in class?” There are differing views on this, and some teachers are happy to work with students when very little work has been done on the scene, guiding them along as if they were engaged in some sort of rehearsal process. I will do this, as well, if by chance there is not much work going up in class that particular week, or if there are students who need a demonstration of techniques for approaching the work. But this is not how I prefer to work, and I think it is a waste of the resources of a good class. The metaphor I use when discussing the issue with students is this: Suppose we were in a carpentry class, and the assignment was to build a table. You go home, get to work with your tools, and at the next class you present me with a beautiful table top, and four finely turned legs. I’m going to look at that and say, “Great. You have a tabletop and four legs. Now, go home, and attach the legs to the table.” The student will then say, “Well, I know that, but what else?” My response: “What else? Nothing else. I don’t know if you know how the proper way to attach the legs to the table, or if after you do, the table will stand after I put a heavy book down on it. And that’s what I need to know.”
     Likewise with a scene. The teacher doesn’t know what is in your head, where you’re planning to arrive after all your work and exploration. Neither do you. Only after you have done that work on your own can we really dive more deeply into the scene. Only then can we see if the choices you have made will support the weight of the character’s needs and desires. So work as hard as you can on it. Get it in the best possible shape. Prepare if as if you were going to be appearing on Broadway, or on a live television broadcast. Only then can a skilled teacher take you further than your own imaginings, talents, and skills. That is what you want — to grow beyond the limits of your current vision. 

In this spirit, I offer the following ideas. Some of what I outline here I would consider to be rules. Other items are merely guidelines, a flexible approach to use as you embark on what I hope is an exciting and fulfilling journey of exploration.

Get a Journal.

     If you don’t already have a journal or a notebook that you are using for your class, get one. I am partial to the ubiquitous marbled composition books that we all know so well. They’re inexpensive, and if you’re really pursuing this craft, you’re going to be going through a lot of them. Have it by your side all the time as you go through your work, whether it’s in class, when you’re alone examining the text and the character, or in your rehearsals with your partner.

Read The Play.

     The first thing you must do after your teacher assigns you a scene is read the play. The whole play. This I consider a hard and fast rule, with absolutely no exceptions. Now some of you reading this may be thinking, “Really, he had to tell us that? Of course we have to read the whole play. Who would think we didn’t?” Well, I’ll tell you. After several years of teaching, the answer is, “Many, many more students than you would like to think.”  If you already have a firm grasp on this and don’t need it explained, or you think it is too elementary, feel free to skip ahead to the next section. Why must you read the whole play? Here’s a story that might help to explain: I was once teaching at an acting school that shall remain nameless, and one evening I received a telephone call from the director of the school.
     “I have to ask you something,” he said.
     “Shoot,” I said.
     “Why are you only allowing students to do scenes from plays you have read?”
     I sighed and groaned, very loudly, but only on the inside. Clearly, he had gotten a complaint from one of the students regarding some very strong criticism I had leveled in class that day. The student had been working on what I call “The Hot Dog Scene,” from Angels in America. He was playing Joe Pitt, and at one point in the scene, when Louis was talking about how his friend is ill, the actor playing Joe put his hand on his arm, attempting to console him. I immediately stopped the scene. I knew in that moment that he hadn’t read the play. He didn’t know that Joe was gay, and hiding it. I asked him if he had read the play and he said no. I said, “You have to read it.” He said, “The whole thing?” And then I had some choice words for him.
     Back to my phone call with the director of the school: “Well,” I said to him, “as I have explained several times to the class, when I assign a scene from a play, they have to read the whole play, and …”
     He cut me off. “Why?”
     Another sigh and groan from me, and I think that the sigh might have been audible. “Because, even if I assign the first scene of the play, if the last line of the play involves your character saying something like, oh, I don’t know, let’s say it’s, ‘But Mom, I’m GAY!’ followed by a blackout, that is perhaps information that you need about your character even if you are only working on the first scene.“
     “Oh, I get it,” the director of the school replied after a moment’s thought. “But then how come they can only do scenes from plays that you have read?”
     Another sigh, another groan. This time, both were audible. “Because it is also information that I, the teacher, also need to have if I am going to effectively guide the student through the scene.”
     “Oh. Okay,” he said. He clearly didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue with it, and so he had to go back to the disgruntled student and explain that, yes, learning how to act was indeed going to take some effort on his part.
     It is a good idea, if possible, to read the whole play in one sitting, since that is how they are meant to be experienced. At scene breaks, if there are any, close your eyes for a brief moment. Take a few breaths, then read on. If there is an intermission, go ahead and take it. Go to the bathroom, have a cookie or a glass of water, then get back to the play. Don’t have a drink with alcohol. Stay present with the story, attuned to which characters, themes, and events resonate with you, and which do not. You may have your journal near at hand as you read, but I would recommend against jotting things down as you go through this first read process. Rather, give yourself the gift of an uninterrupted read so that you can have the experience of the play.

Begin Your Analysis of the Text.

     When you are done reading the play the first time, now you can go through it again, jotting down notes and questions. Look up definitions of words you don’t know, check Wikipedia for information on references you don’t understand. Make sure you can follow the timeline of the piece, both internal and external, and where it takes place geographically. If the play does not take place in the present day, when does it take place? If the geographical setting is significant, do some research. A friend of mine, Gene Franklin Smith, wrote a play called Boise, USA, that takes place in, you guessed it, Boise, USA. It deals with a scandal and witch hunt circling around the investigation and allegations of child abuse and homosexuality in this Midwestern town in the ’50’s. Do some research. If you type “Boise” and “homosexuality” into Google, the autofill prompts you to “Boise homosexuality scandal,” and if you click on that, you get more than 500,000 hits that bring you to a wealth of information. This is a very simple example of how you can do research and where you can begin your inquiries. Use your imagination, and follow it wherever it might lead you for background on the time, place, and society that surround the events of your text.
     During this process, you now want to have your journal by your side, and use it to jot down facts, ideas, observations and further questions … always, further questions. Use your imagination. Ask yourself questions about your character, even if they seem at first irrelevant to the issues at hand in the play. If you can’t think of enough questions yourself, turn to Google again, and type in “acting character questions” and look at how many hits you get. Any of those results will be fertile ground and yield rich results.
     As you continue on your research on your role, (and it should be a continuous process, no matter how long you are working on the role), don’t be too rigid in your approach. Keep your spirit attuned to the happy accident. More than twenty years ago I was in rehearsal for the play Two Rooms, by Lee Blessing, playing Walker, a reporter pursuing a story from a woman whose husband is being held hostage in Beirut. I figured that Walker would be incredibly well versed in what was going on in the Middle East with kidnappings and terrorism, so I started to wade my way through two books,From Beirut to Jerusalem, by Thomas L. Friedman, and A Peace to End All Peace, by David Fromkin. Weighty tomes, both of them. Reading them was daunting work, and while I found that I was learning a lot about the forces leading to the tensions and crises in that part of the world, it didn’t seem to be helping me with the work of the play, which after all required human relationships between the actual characters. Then one day in a bookstore, an interesting title caught my eye, and I took the book down off the shelf. It was The Journalist and the Murderer, by Janet Malcolm, and it examined the complicated relationship between the journalist and his subject, as they spend time together while the journalist is gathering the information for work. Now that was what I needed, and it ended up informing my performance in that play in a profound way, and changing the way I work to this day. My approach now is to find and inform myself on as much of the world of the play as I can, focusing on such aspects as will influence mycharacter and my behavior. Such inquiry deepens not only my work as an actor, but also my view of, and relationship to, the people and the world around me. That is the greatest reward that this career has to offer: An eye-opening quest for a greater understanding of humanity.

In the next post, Part 2: The First Rehearsal.

You can listen to my father discussing his book An Improvised Life, A Memoir, in an interview on NPR’s Talk of the Nation here, or if you are interested in ordering a copy,  you can follow this link to Amazon.