​Actors new to stagecraft are often unprepared for the close reading of text that is required and surprised at the amount of interpretation and imagination they must bring to the rehearsal process. They approach a play as if it were a novel, with the assumption that the page will contain every detail needed to arrive at a fully realized performance. They look to the surface information on the page, the dialogue and often spare stage directions, and assume that this bare minimum is all that is required of them; that all they have to do is say those words, enter, sit, stand, and exit when they are supposed to. Nothing could be further from the truth.
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The text of a play is a skeleton. It is up to the actor to grow the muscle and tendon over those bones so they can become animate, then to cover the resulting creature with skin and give breath to the new body so that it comes to life. Certainly the playwright supplies all of the information needed for this task. But not the minute, exacting detail. The script may say, “She sets the table.” But how does she set the table? It may say, “He makes the bed?” But how does he make the bed? The text may be silent on these matters. It is up to the actor to discover the minutiae through the rehearsal process, after mining the script for details of the character’s relationships and circumstances. Did she grow up in a slovenly home, with no care for an elegant table? Or did she grow up in a house where her knuckles were rapped if the table wasn’t set just so? Did he grow up in a house where no one cared what his room looked like, or was he in the navy, where his bed had to be shipshape every day? When we ask the right questions of the script, and allow ourselves to play in rehearsal, all of these questions are answered, and the play will spring into unforgettable being.

​In some ways, my experience rehearsing and performing in All the Way at South Coast Rep has been more like working on a movie than a play. In general, scenes in plays are longer than those in movies. This gives the actor the chance to settle into the life on stage, to connect with his acting partners, to feel the rhythm of the work on a particular evening, and bring breath and truth to the event. Of course, there are some longer scenes in All the Way, but my function in Robert Schenkkan’s historical drama is to fill in nine distinct characters that flesh out the action around the central players, Lyndon B. Johnson and Martin Luther King. How to do this presents some interesting challenges.

Of course, much of the work of defining these roles falls to the wardrobe and wig departments, and you can see the results of the hard work of Costume Designer Holly Poe Durbin and Wig Master Laura Caponera in this mug shot array. 

Manny and Levison are the first two characters I play, and with the help of a wonderful team of dressers just off-stage, I exit as Manny and reenter as Levison a mere 97 seconds later. So much for the outward transformation. But how do you deal with the task as an actor?

First, I try to be as simple and clear as possible about my “moment before” and immediate objective. Manny is new to the White House, it is a pressure-filled, volatile situation, and he needs to get LBJ’s accurate measurements so he can tailor the President’s new suit. Levison, too, is under pressure, but it has been a long meeting, and he still needs to persuade MLK that LBJ’s presidency offers real opportunities for the Civil Rights Movement. Next, add accents — French for Manny, Brooklyn for Levison, two different Southern dialects for Seymore Trammell and the Reverend Edwin King, Boston for Speaker of the House John McCormack — with the help of our wonderful dialect coaches Tracy Winters and Nike Doukas, who is also in the cast as Ladybird Johnson. Finally, I think about physicality. This develops throughout rehearsal as each character finds his own way to stand and move, and is influenced by my thoughts on time period, circumstance, and activity. Add some props — cigarettes for Levison, a reporter’s mic or notepad, the Speaker’s gavel — and the transformations are complete. With all of these elements in place, I can internalize a different character, have the internal life supported by all the necessary outward accouterments, and translate a clear and detailed picture to the audience.

Why put all this work into every character, even the very, very minor ones? It’s true that in some of my scenes, I’m almost an extra. In one scene, I’m a nameless FBI agent digging for the body of James Chaney, the slain civil rights volunteer. In an earlier scene, I’m another FBI agent recording a meeting between members of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, and the NAACP. Again, the agent is anonymous, while those at the meeting are historical characters we know: MLK, Ralph Abernathy, Bob Moses, Roy Wilkins, and Stokely Carmichael. Although the only thing the audience will see, if they look at me at all, is a man digging, or another listening on headphones, I still believe it is crucial to bring an internal life to these characters who are never part of the main focus of the scene. On a purely selfish level, it makes my work more interesting and enjoyable. But on an artistic level, it brings energy, integrity, and detail to the theatrical event. If a member of the audience glances for even a moment at a minor character, and that actor is not fully engaged, it will shatter the illusion, and lessen the impact of the storytelling. And that, ultimately, is what it is all about.

Actors hate getting headshots. Oh, perhaps not all actors – on occasion I meet one who claims to enjoy sitting for a still camera. But most actors hate it. Not that they hate actually having a compelling photo to send to agents or casting directors; they hate (or at least fear) the process of getting them done.

Facing this anxiety, actors find almost any excuse to put off scheduling a headshot session; their reluctance might lead one to think that they’d prefer root canal to posing for portraits. Eventually, though, their agent says they need them, or their manager says they have to get them, or the actor finally realizes that he or she no longer looks like their decade old headshot, and the level of embarrassment at such an obvious age discrepancy is now too much to bear. It is resolved, with equal parts resignation and resentment, that New Photos Must Be Taken. Oftentimes this occurs at the beginning of a New Year, much like a resolution to lose weight, floss daily, quit smoking, or join a gym. Rarely is there excitement or delight – these emotions are reserved for getting the damn part. No, in all my years of photographing actors, I’ve rarely heard one of these “athletes of the heart” express anything other than trepidation and various levels of dread at the prospect of having to sit still for a photographer armed with a camera.

Doesn’t this strike you as something of a shame? Actors do need headshots, which are a vital tool in the acting business. Why must it be such a Herculean task? I want to assure you that it needn’t be. You see, in addition to being a photographer, I’m an actor, too. I used to feel the same dread and discomfort that many of my clients (initially) feel.

I studied acting at the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco. My professional training, which led to my MFA in Acting, was rigorous and comprehensive. We studied everything, it seemed, that could be of use to us on the stage – Scansion, Phonetics and Ear Training, Stage Fighting, Ballet, Jazz Dance, Voice, Heroic Speech, Scene Study, and of course many techniques and approaches to Acting itself. Upon completion of our training, one of my classmates suggested we should all get new headshots. It made a kind of business sense, even if it caused a bit of panic amongst us. Someone had a few names of local photographers, so our first step was clear: We had to make a phone call or two and set up an appointment. But after that, what were we to do? For all of our training, we hadn’t a clue as to HOW to get our pictures taken.

I think that’s the problem. We don’t know what we’re doing when we sit in front of a still camera. No one teaches us that.We schedule a session, crossing our fingers, hoping that we get a good night’s sleep, and that our skin is relatively free of obvious eruptions. We hope we like the photographer, we hope we have a good hair day, we hope it isn’t too embarrassing or awkward or humiliating. We write a check, and we hope we haven’t wasted our money. We hope for a lot, but we feel we have little control.

This has to change. We have to take control. No longer can we cross our fingers and hope for the best – there’s just too much uncertainty and chance to such an approach, and there’s too much at stake. Our headshot is often the very first impression we make with agents, managers, and casting directors. We need to know how to take a great headshot. We need tangible, specific techniques – we need to know exactly what to DO when we’re sitting or standing in front of a camera. It’s my job to teach you.

I hear quite frequently from clients that they don’t think they’re photogenic, that they “take a terrible picture.” Look, we can ALL take a bad picture. I’m sure Marlene Dietrich’s publicist tossed out many a photo. It happens, even to the most gorgeous people on the planet. But if we approach a photo session with the idea that we take a terrible picture, we’re not doing ourselves any favors, and we’re setting ourselves up for failure and disappointment. Imagine an actor walking into an audition saying to him or herself, "God, I'm terrible at auditioning." Now, I don't know many actors who truly enjoy auditioning, but walking into a casting office expecting to do poorly won't help. If we face the camera with the attitude that we’re not photogenic, chances are we’ll look uncomfortable, embarrassed, apologetic, guarded, and resentful. As real as those feelings may be, they aren’t the qualities we want to capture.

What do we want to capture? Casting Director Joanne DeNaut, who’s seen thousands of actor headshots, says, “I want to recognize the person walking into the audition based on the photograph I’ve seen. The headshot needs to reflect who you are, and that you are comfortable with yourself. It should not be the younger, more glamorous you; it should just be you. At your best, yes, but still you.” She’s right. Your headshot needs to be about you, not about how clever, quirky, or brilliant the photographer is. It needs to look like you, and it needs to capture something real and compelling about you. No single photograph is going to capture everything about you – that would be impossible. You could have a portfolio of two thousand photos, and together they couldn’t encapsulate every facet of your personality. But when you look at your headshot, you should feel that it expresses something – an essence or spirit – that resonates with you as part of your authentic self. “Yeah,” you should say, “I like what this photo says about me.” When you hand your photo to a casting director, or hit the “Send” button as you email your photo to a prospective agent, you should do so with confidence that the photo represents you honestly and compellingly.

At its best, the relationship between an actor and a photographer is a rewarding and exciting collaboration. Before that kind of relationship can be forged, though, you need the confidence that comes from learned skills. Mastering any skill takes practice, so I remind my clients to think of their session not as an audition, but as a rehearsal. Remember: You got the part. It’s you.

If you need new headshots, you can look at Daniel's portfolio and contact him at Daniel Reichert Photography.