“Stop acting!” That’s what I remember my father saying to me when I was a teenager and he was giving me input on my work. Now, it’s not as bad as it sounds. He wasn’t telling me to give up the dramatic arts and try baseball or pottery instead. He was giving me the best advice he had; sharing with me his insight into what I needed to do, what anyone needs to do, to rise above mediocrity in the craft, to achieve something more desirable than mere competence. His exhortations, then and for many years, confused and irritated me. “What the hell do you mean?” I wanted to shout. “How can I stop acting?  It’s called ACTING!”  I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

I had the privilege of growing up backstage and on film sets while my father worked. Not only did I watch him like a hawk, but I got to observe while he worked with some of the finest actors and directors of his generation. I listened as they talked about craft, objectives, motivation, character. I paid attention during family dinners as performances and films were dissected and I learned to distinguish between “good” work and “bad” work. This was a great opportunity, but with it all came a kind of curse: As I began my own career, my technique consisted of imitating the work of others. My father, brothers, and mother have impeccable taste, and the examples and evaluations they were making were pretty astute. So I got by for a time by aping “good” work, and avoiding the characteristics of the “bad.” Then I began studying with Uta Hagen.

The first 6 months or so were horrible. I felt like I was having to listen to my father’s criticism all over again. Time and again I would put up a scene with a partner, and afterwards Ms. Hagen would ask, in her characteristic manner, “What can you tell me?” I would tell her what I thought went right with the scene, what I had so carefully planned to achieve, what I felt I had properly executed, and what I needed to focus on next. She would listen and nod, and tell me that it was very good, that it was a wonderful interpretation and showed thorough understanding of character, circumstance, objective, etc., but that it all seemed planned. She could tell I knew what was coming next. I would want to scream at her, as I wanted to scream at my father, “Of course I know what’s coming next. I read the play. I've worked on the scene for two, three, four weeks.”

Finally, in frustration and rage, I decided that I was to show her. I was going to bring in a scene that I had already presented twice in class, that I understood very well, but I wasn’t going to do a damn thing. I was going to sit there and just truly listen to my partner and say the words, but I wasn’t going to do anything else. I was not going to inflect, I wasn’t going to do any of the blocking we had worked on. I wasn’t going to have any emotions or goals, other than to show her that if you don’t plan what to do next, nothing will happen.

The scene began. I sat on the couch, sullen, and focused on listening to the other actor. But then something odd happened. My heart started to race. I began to sweat and shake. I felt confused, and frightened, as if I was in the middle of a big lake at night, with no idea of the direction of the shore. I started to respond to the other character because I had to, because there was nothing else to do. At one point I got up and moved at one point. Something the other actor was doing made me too uncomfortable to stay where I was, so I crossed away from them and found something to occupy me on the other side of the stage. Finally, somehow, the scene reached its end. Ms. Hagen asked, “What can you tell me?”

“It was terrible,” I replied.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t have any plan, I didn’t know what was going to happen from one moment to the next.”

“And,” she said, “it was the best work you have ever done in class. And you’ve done some good work.”

“But I was incredibly uncomfortable,” I cried.

Ms. Hagen paused, and looked at me sweetly, to which she was not given – she was not sentimental. Then she said, “Oh my dear boy. Who ever told you that you were supposed to be comfortable?”

And that was my breakthrough moment as an actor, when I finally understood what my father had been trying to tell me all those years. We may be called actors, but what we are, when we are any good, is “be-ers.” I believe in the power of story and the truth behind the story that wants to be told, has a will to be told, and needs to be told. If we can simply exist in the scene, then the story and its truth will pass through us, and the audience can receive it. It is our job only to be in the scene, to have the experience. That is what audiences come to witness, and that is the lesson my father was trying to impart. It is ironic that I could only learn it by rebelling.