RANDOM SPECIFICS
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WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU THINKING?

6/25/2019

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On Adding Depth and Specificity to Your Performance.
It’s always daunting to introduce a new romantic interest to one’s parents. When your father is a well-respected actor and the new girlfriend is an aspiring actron (as this particular young lady used to call herself) the tension during the first dinner can reach comical heights. During dinner on the evening in question my father, not versed in the techniques of Sanford Meisner, asked my date to explain the purpose of the repetition exercise she was studying. I pushed my chair a fraction of an inch further away from the table and focused on my breathing. The new girlfriend proceeded to tell my dad that the goal of the exercise was to get the student to a place where they were able to receive exactly what their partner was giving them and to respond with complete honesty in the moment to whatever that was, which would then be reflected back with authenticity, again, in the moment.

My father thought for a moment. “So they are teaching you to behave on stage in a way that no one ever behaves in real life?”

“What do you mean?” asked the young woman, nonplussed.

“Nobody ever listens to a word anyone else ever says,” said my father, “and no one ever responds with complete honesty.”

The Inner Monologue

My father’s point is well taken. The point of the repetition exercise seems to me to be the stripping away of the layers of self-consciousness and social conditioning that get in the way of the actor’s awareness of his immediate and honest impulses. And of course self-awareness and the ability to feel honest responses to circumstances and stimuli are crucial skills for the actor, a step towards a truthful performance and the creation of a three-dimensional character. But they are only a step. The problem is: What do we do with that awareness and those responses? Do we act on them, spontaneously, all the time and in every scene? I don’t think so. In life, even if we are aware of our immediate response and impulse (which I believe is seldom the case), we don’t always (I might argue almost never) act upon it. Of course there are moments when what you hear or see is so triggering that you do respond immediately, in the moment, without a filter. That will be true as well for the characters you portray. But those moments are for the most part few and far between in drama, as they are in life. Yet I have watched far too many performances by actors relying to a fault on their access to that immediate impulse. They are often lauded for being inventive and spontaneous, but in general these performances are of no interest to me. They may be flamboyant and fascinating displays of a particular skill, but they don’t often resemble most human behavior or create a nuanced, complicated, layered character.

Two questions arise: First, why do we develop the skill of bringing those impulses to the fore if we’re not going to act upon them? Then, what do we do instead?

In answer to the first question, we need to know what is going on inside of our characters so that we know what is driving them. The receiving of the stimulus from the other character is what drives our own reaction. A character is rude to me or loving to me. I need to be able to feel my honest response to those behaviors. But whether I act openly and honestly in the moment depends upon a number of other factors. In response to the rude behavior my honest impulse might be to yell or to strike. But what if I am a respected member of the community and we are in a public place? Alternatively, my reaction to the loving gesture might be to hug or to kiss. But my character may have been a victim of abuse, or might recently have been rejected by another. My impulses need to be tempered. I need to feel them, and then I likely need to mask them. My reaction, the characters reaction, must be filtered through the personality of the character and the circumstances in which he finds himself. This is a topic I covered in more depth in the article Coffee Grounds, Kaleidoscopes, and Character.

Take some time to examine your own behavior. The next time you’re in a conversation, notice how many things you’re thinking that you are not saying. Observe that while you’re speaking, you’re thinking at the very least one other thing that you’re keeping to yourself. When you’re listening, thoughts and images are being triggered by what you’re hearing, and you are for the most part actively deciding to which of those triggers you will respond. Some things you hear might make you want to keep your mouth shut. Then something you hear makes you decide to speak. This is why it is so important to know your lines absolutely cold. (For an interesting discussion of this necessity and the depths to which you must go, take a look at this clip of Peter O’Toole in an interview with Charlie Rose.) If you don’t, the only thought in your head is “What’s my next line?” But what your head should be filled with is all of the thoughts that your character might be thinking as he filters through the decision process of what to say next. These thoughts are the internal monologue, and finding it is the beginning of being truly in the moment.

Turning Out and Turning In

There is an interesting exercise through which we can begin to examine the interplay between the honest response that might be expressed, and the inner response that, although felt, might be masked. I call it The Turning Exercise. It is quite simple. Once you and your scene partner are thoroughly off-book, try running through the scene once without the blocking. Instead, stand facing each other at a comfortable distance. Take a few moments to simply look at each other. Make contact and become present, but don’t start saying your lines yet. First, examine your own inner emotional stance at the beginning of the scene. Is your character open to receiving from the other character, or trying to get something from them, or ready to giving them what they want? If so, face your partner. If not, if your character’s emotional stance at the beginning of the scene is more inner-directed, caught up in their own struggle, or hiding from the other character in some way, then turn around and face away from your partner. The scene might start with you both facing each other, with one of you facing away, or with each of you with your back to the other.

The only two positions allowed to you in the exercise are facing directly towards your partner or directly away, and once you have determined your starting position through your examination of your character’s internal stance, the scene begins. As it progresses you and your partner choose to turn towards each other or away from each other, based only upon your assessment of your internal stance: Are you at that moment, either saying your line or listening to your partner, open and receiving, engaged with them? Face them. Are you instead caught up in your own internal struggle, hiding, searching for words,  or engaged in an internal struggle. Turn away. None of your choices should be tied to any blocking that you may have had for the scene up until this point in your explorations. The exercise is meant only as a technique to help you ascertain your internal emotional stance vis à vis your partner. Once the exercise is completed, you return to the scene as originally blocked, although the exercise itself may lead to the discovery of some needed adjustments. It will also guide you as you explore areas for a more thoroughly imagined internal monologue, which in turn will bring to a deeper, more richly layered performance.
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​Behind the Scenes: The Storyteller’s Eye

6/12/2019

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It is one thing for an editor to tell you to show, rather than tell. It is quite another to figure out how to do it. We work every day with authors, some of whose first foray into the literary world is writing a full-length novel. They have an idea—quite often a wonderful idea—and a toolbox stocked with words and the notion that the work should be set down in paragraphs and broken up into chapters. Sometimes they’ve never taken a writing course. Some have written a novel from beginning to end and sent it to us for critique without ever having read the manuscript all the way through. These authors are often dismayed to discover that their first draft is just that, a first draft, and that much more work is required; sometimes more work than it took to put the first pass down on the page to begin with. Overwhelmed, some simply give up.

I believe this is a mistake. Writing is a craft, difficult and painstaking. It requires talent, of course, but also skill, dedication, and practice, to at least the same degree required of other artists—painters, sculptors, dancers, woodworkers. To think otherwise is folly. But there is hope. There are many excellent books and courses that can help you improve your writing. You can learn how to conjure evocative details, catch yourself when you’re telling, figure out how to show, and ultimately bring your fictive dream to life on the page.

I’d like to share an example of the progress one of my students made recently. The following passage was written by Stephanie McIntyre, who has graciously given permission to share her work with you.
In the first draft of Stephanie’s fantasy adventure novel, a character named Viktor arrives for a meeting at a pub called The Sleeping Dragon.The passage is on page 10 of the novel, and we do not know much about the fantastical story world. As Viktor enters the pub, he is confronted by a bouncer, and we read the following:
​
      “You are welcome to drink, but take heed. There will be no violence in this establishment.”
Viktor nodded and walked to the back of the room, where an elf sat impatiently waiting.
      “It’s about time. I got word two days ago.”
 
Although this meeting is crucial to the plot, the reader is unceremoniously thrust into it. We are new to the world, and we have no idea what it looks and feels like. We don’t really know where we are. I wrote in the margin of this early draft, “Do you perhaps want to give us more detail here, and some of the dialogue? His interaction with the barkeep and what he sees as he scans the pub while he waits for his drink are opportunities to tell us a lot about this world and the characters in it.” I also sent her an example of a bar scene. (It happened to be from my own novel, but any one good one would have done the trick.)
I pointed out that pubs are rich ground to till; they can tell us so much about a world or a society. Think about the Star Wars Cantina, Rick’s Café Americain, Cheers, Callahan’s Place, the Gold Room at the Overlook Hotel, the Korova Milk Bar. Restaurants, bars, and pubs are an intersection of all walks of life, and the interactions there can show us so much information, saving the author the labor of telling and reader the tedium of being told.

After our conversations, here is what the author returned:

      “There won’t be any trouble in my pub. Understand me?” the bouncer continued. Viktor ignored the doorman as he scanned the patrons of the bar. The bouncer reached out to touch Viktor’s arm. “I said—”
      “Don’t.” Viktor turned to look the bouncer in the eye. He watched the doorman pause, give him a weary look, and then slowly withdraw his hand. “I won’t be here long.” 
      Viktor walked to the bar. He ran his hand along the edge of he oak countertop. His fingers trailed along the dents and dings from years of abuse. The bartender stopped shining the surface and looked at him, then laid a coaster printed with a dragon in front of him. Viktor watched as the dragon on the coaster turned around in circles, lay down, and fell asleep.
      “Until noon, get two Disgruntled Elves for a copper,” said the bartender. Pointing to the whiskey barrel marked in green gothic letters, he said, “We’re out of Hag. Everything else we’ve got.”
      “I’ll take the Disgruntled Elf,” said Viktor. He tossed a copper in the direction of the bartender, who caught it and tucked it in the pack at his waist. With his two remaining hands he picked up two pint glasses and began to fill them from a wooden tap marked Old Marge— D. ELF. “Slow day?”
      “Usual crowd.” The bartender tilted his head towards a table surrounded by an orc, gremlin, troll, halfling, and lizard. Each had a small pile of coins in front of them and cards in their hand. “They will be out of money or too drunk soon enough.”
      Viktor watched the couple at the table behind the gamblers. He had trouble figuring out where one individual started from the next. The bartender followed his gaze. “They just had the passion punch.” 
The wench walked over to the bar, turned towards the couple, and then leaned against the bar.  She began to count. “Three . . . two . . . one.”
      The couple got up, bumped into several tables, and finally ran out the door the bouncer had already swung open for them. She turned back to the bartender. “You owe me two coppers. Told you they wouldn’t make it ten minutes.”
      
The bartender reached in his bag and passed her the coins. “You have to admit she seemed frigid when they walked in. I was sure it would take ten.” 
      The bar wench laughed, then glanced to Viktor, frowned, and headed towards the gamblers. Viktor grabbed the two pints and made his way to the empty table in the back corner. As he passed the bar wench on the way, he told her not to bother servicing his table. He took the chair in the corner and sat with his back against the wall. With a view of the entire pub, he took a drink and waited, sizing up newcomers as they entered. His mug was half gone when the pub door opened and in strolled a tall, slender elf.

The difference between these two passages is astounding. By making the simple change of having Viktor arrive before the elf, we have a character in the bar, forced to interact with others, then to observe as he sits and waits. In that interaction and observation, the world of the novel springs to life. We are not simply being fed the facts of plot. Rather, we are invited into the author’s dream, where we become immersed and are able to lose ourselves as the story unfolds around us.

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    RANDOM SPECIFICS

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