The Elemental Actor E-Book

Mel Churcher

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 521

Beschreibung

We are all a complex mixture of the elemental energies identified by many different cultures throughout history: Earth, Air, Fire, Water – and a fifth element called Quintessence or Spirit. As an actor, you need to be able to access each of them, so that you can draw on whichever element you need to bring your role fully into life. In The Elemental Actor, Mel Churcher explores these deep, primal drives, and gives you practical tools to harness them to make your work more powerful and alive. Her unique approach combines elements of actor training, voice work and movement to increase your range and help you bring depth, specificity and intensity to your performance. The book includes over one hundred games and exercises to help you explore each of the elements, incorporate this work into your practice, and apply it to the world of your role. There are also tips for preparing for auditions and dealing with performance anxiety, as well as advice on how to stay healthy in body, voice and mind. Offering an everlasting palette that will enrich any performance, whether on stage or screen, The Elemental Actor will help you release the wellspring of your imagination, and put elemental power into your work. Mel Churcher is an international acting, dialogue and voice coach who has worked with companies including the Royal National Theatre, Royal Shakespeare Company, Regent's Park Open Air Theatre, Shakespeare's Globe, Young Vic, Royal Court Theatre and Graeae Theatre Company. She is one of the top acting and dialogue coaches in TV and movies, and has worked with some of the biggest stars of stage and screen.

Leseprobe

In memory of

Cicely Berry—friend and mentor

Where words prevail not, violence prevails.

Thomas Kyd, The Spanish Tragedy

Contents

Once Upon a Time…

Part One—How to Be an Elemental Actor

Playing the Game

Myth, Magic and the Primal Drives

Harnessing the Power of Ancient Myth

The Quest

Elemental Metaphors

The Elemental Zoo

The Magic Circle

Actors Don’t Play Scenes; Actors Play Lives

Preparing the Ground

The Power of Muscle Memory

Living a Particular Life

Time and Space

The Medium You Work In

Give a Man a Mask

There Has to Be Joy

Flying Free

Part Two—Elemental Playing: The Games

Earth

Air

Fire

Water

Quintessence

And in the End...

Thanks and Acknowledgements

Indexes

Once Upon a Time...

View all the Works of Providence above,

The Stars with Harmony and Concord move:

View all the Works of Providence below,

The Fire, Water, Earth, and Air we know,

All in one Plant agree to make it grow.

George Farquhar, The Beaux’ Stratagem

Every play or film starts with a story to tell. It begins with a picture in someone’s head; an idea; an ideology to share. To share in order to entertain, thrill, educate, immerse or transport the listener or viewer—in any proportion, or all at once. These ideas may be sketched out, storyboarded or written down. Eventually most of them are scripted via dialogue to be said by actors. Thespis, in the sixth century BCE, is reported as the first named actor to play a character on stage. Thespians have been doing it ever since.

The drive to perform is in our genes. It is part of being human. It is elemental. This book shows you how to put elemental power into your work to explore a multi-dimensional world. How to harness the forces of nature to make your roles come alive; how to uncover the hidden primary drives that lie beneath our social selves; how to burn with a fire that reveals or conceals itself.

There is no one route to salvation, damnation—or acting. There are no rules, recipes or systems. There is no magic bullet. Instead there is a continuum of teachers, practitioners and a wealth of theories. Here is an everlasting palette/toolbox/toybox for the eclectic, and elemental, actor to use. A fusion of acting, voice and movement. Just as we fuse all those elements in life.

All acting and performance techniques, tips and tricks drive to the same ends: how to lift those ideas and words off the page and make them come alive on stage or screen; how to communicate this life, story and world through the interaction between roles and their circumstances; how to move, elucidate or entertain an audience.

In other words, how to set up a magical game that involves the actors and audience alike. Where you both agree to suspend all daily routine in order to enter, wholeheartedly, into this new imaginary world together. The original idea is now given life by the memories and imagination of all the game players—both those who perform, and those that watch, hear and believe.

Scientists now believe that memory and imagination are formed in much the same way, and in the same part of the brain. And every human being contains infinite possibilities of each. Unearthing our memories is a very creative process. No two human beings remember the same incident in identical ways.

We store innumerable memories, dreams and desires that either remain in sharp focus, or leave a residue in our minds and bodies. And in every way, we are elementally fashioned. The carbon that formed us and the oxygen we breathe came from the stars above us. As Joni Mitchell wrote, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sang, and Moby agreed, we are (literally) stardust. Yet we are also firmly rooted on Earth. And each living being is a unique mix of all the components for life.

Mankind has always lived between the heavens and the earth. The sun rises and sets each day, and the moon, with its cycle of waxing and waning, appears in full glory every lunar month to remind us that time and the seasons are passing. We survive thanks to air and water, and what grows in and on the earth; we are fuelled or destroyed by fire, flood and tempests. And we now have a pressing duty to preserve our elemental inheritance.

The ancient Greeks believed that the world was composed of four elements: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Plato’s disciple, Aristotle (who knew a lot about acting, saying that mankind does it from childhood onwards out of sheer delight) added a fifth element to his list. He called it Aether, Quintessence or Spirit. In some traditions it is referred to as space or void. These five elements may also be found in both Hinduism and Buddhism. The same elements are part of the ancient cultures of Egypt and Babylon, Tibet and Japan.

The ChineseTaoist Wu Xing, or five phases, are often translated as the five elements. But these are not about the formation of matter or its natural qualities, but about interactions, relationships and ongoing change—all of which are deeply important to drama. They are another way to look at the seasons of the year—or the phases of the human life: wood/spring—a time of growth; fire/ summer—when energetic nature swells and blossoms; earth/late summer—when that fire stabilises, moderates and brings all to fruition; metal/autumn—a space to harvest and collect; water/ winter—when it is wise to retreat, be still and store.

Similarities can be found in the Indian Tantric system of chakras. Chakra in Sanskrit translates as ‘wheel’. It is an energy point, node or centre. This invisible energy that it produces is the vital life force, or prana in Sanskrit (a word which Stanislavski borrowed to describe the concentrated energy that flows between actors, and from them to the audience). It is known in different cultures as life energy, life force, chi, ki or qi.

In Indian thought, there are seven chakras. These have some connections to the elements of earth, air, fire and water. As this is an acting book, and I am using these traditions and ideas in a different and looser way, I shall call these chakras ‘nodes’: a point at which lines or pathways, of mind or body, intersect or branch. We use energy centres intuitively. They don’t need to be learned; only recognised.

The four elements or similar ideas, such as compass points, directions or seasons, can also be found in the medicine wheels, pagan rituals and astrology of the Native American and the Indigenous Australian people. They are buried in tarot cards and even in modern playing cards: the clubs (wands) representing Fire, the hearts (cups) being Water, the spades (swords) are Air, and the diamonds (pentacles) are grounded in Earth. We have always been—and still are—pulled by these ancient energies, forces and visions that are within and around us. These elements are all powerful. They can be life-giving or bring destruction.

In these days of DNA listing we find infinite possibilities contained inside us—twenty-four thousand genes so far—and counting… We look up at the Milky Way above us to see billions of stars, and send rockets and cameras up towards them. Our telescopes check for supernovae, white dwarfs and dark holes. Our research notes the Earth is made up of molecules, atoms and particles. Scientists currently list one hundred and eighteen elements in the periodic table. And almost every element came from the heart of a star. From that stardust.

Scientists now calculate that almost half our body’s atoms were formed beyond the Milky Way, travelling to our solar system on intergalactic winds. That is almost beyond imagination. But from the moment we are born, we imagine. From childhood we have been creatures of imagination. Every day our hopes and fears construct a parallel universe; play us internal horror films, adventure stories or romances; release pictures and sounds into our consciousness. They provide us with a basis for dreams, plays, roles.

And yet, the combinations of atoms, our genes, and our experiences are unique. Nobody thinks precisely like anyone else. No imagination is the same. How do you step into the shoes of a role who is embodied by you, but who has—to a greater or lesser extent—led a different life and is dealing with different needs, relationships and situations?

How can you release an imagination greater than your own? Or stay whole and heart-free when dealing with a play or film that peers into the darkest pit of human nature?

Our imagination doesn’t have to be sourced from only the mind. And we don’t need to have experienced everything we imagine. We may not even need to think directly about the darkest situations. We can find our way to them through our bodies and senses; via metaphor and images; through breath and gesture. Our bodies and souls can know what our brains can’t comprehend.

Some genres are non-naturalistic and require us to tap into something archetypal, something primal. This can be achieved through a thousand variations of body and mind; muscle memory and intuition; research and experience.

Perhaps it is possible to tap into the ancient elemental forces— Jung’s collective unconscious—in the way that shamans and seers and actors have always done. Jung called this approach the ‘visionary mode of artistic creation’ and wrote:

It is a primordial experience which surpasses man’s understanding, and allows a glimpse into the unfathomed abyss of what has not yet become.

And if this all sounds too mystical, let me reassure you that this book will be a practical one. Even if we cannot dig into the primordial depths literally, we do it all the time metaphorically. You can use elemental metaphors alongside any other preparation work with which you are comfortable. They will work for the most naturalistic of performances, adding ways to increase depth and nuance. They offer an extra toolbox—a wider palette to use as you need and wish. And they’ll help you prepare tricky roles, or non-naturalistic genres that require a different approach. They will take your imagination further.

John Hurt, who in his time essayed roles like the Elephant Man and Caligula, and experienced Orwell’s grim vision of 1984, said, on receiving his BAFTA Award for Outstanding Contribution to Cinema:

You can watch people until you are blue in the face, do research and understand psychology, but it also has to be a leap of imagination. Without that it doesn’t work.

He suggested that he accessed something that he had no desire to analyse, and said of his work, ‘The one thing I cannot answer is how I do it.’

He is not alone. Judi Dench claims to do it ‘by osmosis’.

Mark Rylance said in a recorded conversation at the Old Vic about his rehearsal process:

I don’t think of imagination as a purely self-generating feature of the mind. The imagination also receives ideas—I don’t know where they come from. And maybe they just come from my own unconscious mind, but I certainly get ideas when I play that are better than I could have thought up…

Many actors, performers, musicians and writers feel that when they work, they enter something other and greater than themselves; a world where anything is possible. By using the suggestions that follow, you may find yourself, unwittingly, opening a door to a parallel universe.

You know how you feel when music takes you over, or you sing as if you were not the owner of the voice? Or you write furiously and, when you look at what you’ve written, you don’t recognise how you had those thoughts; you find things there that you didn’t know you knew. At these times you feel in control, capable of anything, but in touch with something outside of yourself. Some people call it a sixth sense; sports people know it as being ‘in the zone’; actors call it ‘flying’. When we are ‘flying’, we sense that we are tapping into something larger than our own imaginations or memories. Some call it ‘soul’; Jung called it ‘the collective unconscious’; shamans would suggest it is a direct channel to all creation. But you could also call it belief, playing, make-believe. Acting out another life. Playing like a child in a world where anything is possible.

My imaginative roots began in games, then as an actor in theatre, TV and radio. Later, I directed for theatre, and worked as a voice coach. With the Royal Shakespeare Company, Shakespeare’s Globe and Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, I immersed myself in rich, elemental language. For decades now, I’ve coached within the film world, and have written two books on screen acting out of that practical experience. This book is intended for all kinds of performances.

As you prepare, I suggest routes you can take—games you can play that unleash your subconscious knowledge of the place you need to be in—without your brain getting in the way. The trick is not to attempt to ‘control’ your performance, but to allow your role to lead you to where you must go—into unworn paths that you don’t have to decode, analyse or explain.

The sections that follow introduce and explore the elemental power of myths, metaphors and the deep primal drives of your role, and suggest ways in which you can use these ideas to increase the power of your performance. The next parts hone down into the world of the actor: how to build life into your role; how to deal with performance anxiety; how to make your character powerful and particular. This is taken further through muscle memory work and physical exploration. There is preparation work for auditions and tips and exercises that allow you to explore the specific world of your role, as well as the medium in which you are to embody it. These suggestions will enrich your work, while helping to keep you safe in body, voice and mind.

Having set the groundwork, this book then separates out each element (though you are free to mix them as you will) for you to tailor a whole new toolbox or toybox to your specific needs— to increase your range and to give you inspiration to find new depth, specificity and intensity in your roles—whether you are working in comedy or tragedy; classic or contemporary work; or preparing for theatre or screen.

Throughout the book I’ve deliberately merged the psychological with the physiological; the imaginative with the physical. (There’s an index to guide you back to specific exercises or games.) Voice, body and mind fuse in the instant, both in life and acting. They are not separate, and it is only logistics that keep them taught that way during drama training. In life, we do not decide: now I think—now I move—now I speak. Or if we do, we are undergoing some physical or mental crisis. When all is well, everything works seamlessly. And sometimes our bodies know things quicker than our brains.

These ideas are to inspire your preparation; to spark thoughts and words into unique life. These games allow you to play in the widest and wildest sense of the word, and in a way that allows your work to grow. And they keep you whole within the darkest worlds you may need to inhabit.

Whichever way you rehearse, it’s vitally important to separate preparing from performing. Once you have done the work, you can trust it. The preparation allows you to have the confidence to let go. The safer you feel, the freer you are. Michael Caine says the best advice he ever received was from the theatre director Joan Littlewood: ‘Preparation is the work; performance is the relaxation.’

Once you step across the line from preparation to performance, don’t carry decisions with you about ‘how’ to do the work. You will be too busy being aware of each moment as it happens. You’ll turn off that censor who lives in your head. Then you will be alive in your role.

The games and exercises within this book are not meant to be the whole story—or a system—or the answer to everything. Here is a hidden hoard to unearth together; to sift for treasure. And once you have painted the picture, worn the jewels, found the source—bury your finds deep within you, forget them. Let the preparation resonate as it will. Without any help, it will infuse, seep deep, and organically alter your work. It will leave you free to glide on the wing, change with every impulse and release a new wellspring of imagination. It will make you feel safe. It will give you ammunition. It will anchor you in your imagined world. Then you can be new in each moment, turn off your internal director (or, as I like to call it, your ‘decider’) and surpass yourself. And it will be fun.

Further resources, including videos of the ‘Breathing Circles’ on pages 298-9 and audio recordings of many of the exercises, can be found at www.nickhernbooks.co.uk/elemental-actor-resources

An elemental actor is rooted yet flying; passionate and honest—with thoughts, actions and words flowing freely. An elemental actor is full of life in all its unexpected forms. An elemental actor can play in every medium, in every style and in every genre.

I would say that Judi Dench is one of those many elemental performers. Her work is many-layered, rooted in depth, whether she is playing comedy, tragedy or ‘M’ in the Bond movies. She says that, when the camera turns, she is ‘all ears and all eyes’. This is the very best acting advice—to truly listen and to truly see your world, and everyone in it, at the very moment of performance. To be aware whether what you are doing or saying is altering the other character, the situation—or yourself.

The more you are listening and watching in performance, the more you turn your focus away from yourself in order to engage with the specifics of your imaginary world. A world where you need to survive emotionally and physically and to win what you need.

But first, you have to prepare. Every actor in every role in every type of genre and medium will want to tap into a specific and unique exploration. Whether you work in live performance or on screen, radio or any other recorded media, each production holds its own particular preparation mode.

Whereas theatre usually has group rehearsals with a dedicated director, screen work seldom has formal rehearsals, and is often under the jurisdiction of numerous directors or, in the case of some series, is producer-led. In either case, there is much preparation that can be done, and often has to be done, by the actor working alone.

Theatre work may be stylised or realistic. Screen work is generally more naturalistic, although its content often takes us into dark places or other dimensions. Many roles can be accessed by a mixture of memory and imagination. But some worlds, both on stage and on screen, can be extreme: dark, futuristic or surreal. Some characters cannot be approached via our own experiences of the world. They’re beyond our understanding—or what we, personally, want to understand.

These are the roles, classical and modern, that demand more than our own memories: a Greek god, an earth force, a ghost. We may play parts that are too painful to bear or even imagine: a victim of a massacre, or a child murderer. We may work on a script that makes us glimpse an empty void which we are terrified to enter. How do you play these from sense memory without being reductive? Or by torturing yourself? At these times our memories aren’t enough—you didn’t do it and you wouldn’t.

Sometimes the actions you must take in the role are beyond even murder: actions that are unspeakable; full of horror; beyond any logical comprehension. The great teacher Stella Adler once said, ‘The ideas of the great playwrights are almost always larger than the experiences of even the best actors.’

This book is full of suggestions to approach a role or a script like this—where you don’t want to bring yourself to visualise the dreadful past deeds of the character. In these instances, memory alone—even with substitution—cannot be nearly enough. Is killing a child something akin to what you feel when swatting a fly? No—it really is not! At least—I like to think it could never be, for you, your empathetic self.

You could flavour your memory with imagination—maybe your character has come to regard your victim as an insect to be dispatched. But, unless the character has some brain damage, there surely must have been a specific painful route, or routine indoctrination towards that view. Or some horrific event buried deep in the role’s past. Even when planning King Duncan’s murder, Lady Macbeth has to overcome her natural compassion and urges the dark spirits to ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty’.

And how do you imagine ‘cruelty’ without being judgemental or caricatured? Instead, you might use an elemental metaphor to fill yourself full of ice. Then you will feel no remorse or emotion when you kill your victim. All empathy will be frozen solid— you’ll be as cold as ice. That is, until the metaphorical ice melts— which happens to Lady Macbeth before she kills herself, towards the end of the play. Whether this is remorse or—as has been suggested recently—post-traumatic stress is for you to decide.

But perhaps your role is easier to understand, and you can believe in the situation comfortably. The ideas in this book are still available for you to explore and to excite your imagination. As you work, you may find one metaphor, game or element more useful than another. Or you may need a combination to find the diverse and surprising human being you are to play.

By grouping the work into the five elements, I have begun with a broad metaphor or image, which can be broken down into deeper and deeper details and textures. This will make your work specific. And you can choose which elements or games to use for the role, or for the separate circumstances of the life you are living within the imaginative world.

You may discover, on the way, which mental and physical movements you find easiest, and which element predominates in your own life. And the way you utilise all the four elements within you brings you to the fifth—the quintessence of you-in-the-role. Your playing of this role will be different to anyone else’s version, because you bring it to individual life. Your essence and the essence of the role have merged into one being.

You can increase your performance range by working with elements that are harder for you, yourself, to relate to. For example, if you face life by taking strong and fiery action, you may want to explore the elements of Air and Water. When stressed, try floating. (It’s a marvellous preparation, and stops you hanging on to ‘how to’ decisions.) If you find it easy to weep but not to explode with anger in your roles, turn to Fire. If you suffer from lack of confidence, ground yourself with Earth. If you feel it hard to fly or flow with the verse, use Air or Water to help.

The work will challenge habitual patterns of behaviour and offer new choices. And through these games, you will have fused yourself, temporarily, with the role. Each role will have a different, specific life to any other that you play because of the way you choose to explore it. In other words, you are capable of a million different roles, all of them truthful and all of them created from combinations of your energy, your imagination, your life. The elemental you.

And, through elemental acting, you can tap into powers and harness imaginations greater than most of us possess; you can think like Shakespeare; explore an unimaginable world. You can harness the ‘music of the spheres’ or the beat of a nightclub. You can exist in a dream—or a nightmare.

You can use an element game or a physical metaphor to explore your environment or time period. Or as a metaphor for the situation you are in. Love makes you hot as Fire; guilt gives you a cold stone in your belly; fear freezes you. A Gorgon can turn you to stone; you could meet, or be, Medusa. As an alien on unknown territory, you might need to discover all the elements in a new way—for the first time. If you are a murderer, maybe one element has taken you out of control. If you are a ghost, you may be a pure version of one element. Or a spirit (Air) may remind you how much, in contrast, you belong to Earth.

A blue-eyed phantom far before

Is laughing, leaping toward the sun;

Like lead I chase it evermore,

I pant and run

Christina Rossetti, ‘Fata Morgana’

Countless others before me have used the idea of elements to inspire them: Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Ibsen, Pina Bausch, Jacques Lecoq, Michael Chekhov—to name a very few. We have always been drawn to the sky above us, the earth beneath us, the fury of fire and the depths of water as symbols and metaphors. They are, indeed, elemental.

This work is not a ‘system’ but a ‘pick ’n’ mix’, or even a lucky dip—an exploration. The images can spark your imagination, allow you to absorb your role through osmosis, focus your impulses and vary your energy. It enables you to enter into possibilities through your body and muscle memory that you may not have found via your head’s analysis. (But it doesn’t stop you using both.)

As E. M. Forster wrote in Howards End, ‘Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted.’ Connect mind to body; connect body to breath; connect breath to thought. Connect to the moment. The final element, Quintessence, brings everything together. In the end you are formed from all the elements, and they all overlap.

Playing the Game

And I dream till the very break of dawn

Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle

To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.

Paul Laurence Dunbar, The Corn-Stalk Fiddle

You already know how to play—you did it as a child, and you do it as an actor. Sometimes we make things too complicated. When you’ve understood all the ingredients of your world—you just believe in it. It’s magic. It’s make-believe.

Many languages use the term ‘play’ for acting. In English we use it both as a noun—putting on a play, or being a player; and as a verb—to play a part. Child’s play. Here are three games for you to play now…

Flash Up an Image

❂Ask yourself: what are you going to do tomorrow? How are you travelling home? Where did you go on your last holiday? What will you do this weekend?

❂Shut your eyes for a moment to think. Are pictures flashing up? Odd tiny details—the tube train, your front door, your child’s hand, the deck chair? They occur so quickly, so subliminally, that we take these pictures for granted. Most actors are very visual. But you may hear things too; you may remember the touch of something; notice fear, nostalgia or excitement flickering in your belly.

Your game as an actor will be to have images and sensations, either from your real life, your imaginary life, or both, occurring spontaneously in this same way—as you-in-the-role inhabit your new, temporary, world.

Be a Pavlov Dog

Here is a small imaginative task (which I use frequently, as it’s very potent) to show you the power of muscle memory, which will be there, whether you use it consciously or not:

❂Close your eyes for a moment and imagine a lemon on your table or kitchen work surface.

❂See it—yellow, with one end slightly more pointed than the other.

❂Touch it—feel the waxy, bumpy surface.

❂Now hold one end (either miming or simply imagining) and cut through it with a sharp knife that lies next to it.

❂Let it fall open. See the glistening, pearly seeds.

❂Replace the imaginary knife on the table.

❂Lift one half of your lemon towards your face and smell that clean citrus perfume.

❂Now plunge your imagined lemon into your mouth, and suck hard.

Did your lips pucker? Your tongue curl with the acidity? Did your mouth fill with more saliva?

This game is not magic—it’s no different to when Pavlov’s dogs salivated when they heard their dinner bell. They responded to their memory triggers with ‘psychic secretions’. But, if the memory of a lemon can produce an actual physiological reaction in your body—like more saliva or puckered lips—think what all your other memories can do! You are a memory cauldron.

Make-Believe

❂Remember back to when you were five, or seven, or nine years old. What games did you play? What dreams did you have? Could you fly through space? Did you have super-powers that would kill your teacher dead with a glance, or allow you to escape school at the speed of light? Did you kill dragons, dig up gold at the end of a rainbow, swim with dolphins? Did you dance at night under the stars, with wild animals watching? You had no use for gravity—nothing could hold you down.

❂But your emotions poured out if you were hurt. Your joy knew no limits. And you could swell and grow with righteous anger. As you remember, do you feel echoes in your body? You can still do all those things. And we do, in our hearts and minds, even if they’re covered by a social veneer.

❂Just for fun, take one of those games you used to play and re-imagine it. Or better still act it out again. See? It still works.

We can still fly, dig, burn and dive. We can still have super-powers and can find the treasure, win the kingdom, reach the moon. And part of our work is to play games again, and believe in our dreams. In our joyful job, we can even act them out… Aren’t we lucky!

More of this later—much more.

Myth, Magic and the Primal Drives

Myths are first and foremost psychic phenomena that reveal the nature of the soul.

Carl Jung, Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious

It’s easy to forget our roots. Our urban lives are dominated by technology. We mainly deal with the minutiae of travelling, shopping and getting through our lives. Of course, we still feel, and love, and care. But it’s only in rare moments that we appreciate the full wonder of the universe, or experience raw, intense emotion. But, as actors, we encounter a distilled reality; a life where all the adventures and passions are condensed into a couple of hours; a world that may be more extreme than anything we, ourselves, are likely—or might want—to encounter.

Classical theatre is expensive to stage; repertory theatres have almost disappeared; tours often cannot afford the large casts that many of the great dramatic works demand. Subsidy for the Arts has been in decline. Because of the logistics, modern theatre actors may seldom have the chance to play in overtly mythical dramas. Some modern acting training seems to have become reductive— less able to cope with truly elemental themes. Nonetheless, myth and magic run deep in the human psyche, and can be found at the heart of much of the work that we do—whether on stage, television or in films. (And in films and TV series, it has had an enormous rebirth in the last few decades.) And our work would be diminished if we denied it.

We’ve performed rites and spells since the dawn of mankind. The legends of the heroes and gods and the catharsis of music, dance and ritual were staple ingredients of classic Greek and Roman drama, Ancient Egypt’s pageants, African mask dances, medieval mystery plays, Japanese Noh and Kabuki theatre, and Chinese and Indian Sanskrit opera.

The elemental power of myth has been used instinctively or consciously by storytellers for millennia all over the world: the Welsh Mabinogion, the Finnish Kalevala, The Icelandic Elder Edda, the Aboriginal Dreamtime stories or the Zulu origin story, to name but a few. Storytellers went from settlement to settlement to entertain and inform. Ancient religions had shamans to act as conduits between spiritual and earthly reality. Soothsayers and mediums were held in high esteem to predict the future or converse with the dead. People celebrated with song and dance, or held rituals dressed in animal costumes and masks— transforming themselves into spirits of mirth or destruction. Morality plays brought messages from the priests to the masses.

Dramatists such as Aeschylus (who apparently died when an eagle dropped a tortoise on his bald head, mistaking it for a rock), Sophocles, Euripides, Marlowe, Corneille, Racine, Goethe, Wagner, T. S. Eliot, Anouilh, Maureen Duffy, Angela Carter, Hrafnhildur Hagalín, Sarah Kane and Terence—a Roman African playwright, born around 195 BCE. He died too young and (actors’ note) wrote, ‘I am human and think nothing human is alien to me’—draw hugely from these legendary forms, themes and stories. Shakespeare’s work has a wellspring of myth at its heart.

There are dozens of films and plays based on Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. And, in spite of production costs, myth remains alive and well on stage and screen today: from Henrik Ibsen to Bollywood movies; from Peter Shaffer to Star Trek; from Timberlake Wertenbaker to Westerns. It’s at the heart of musicals like The Lion King, Into the Woods and My Fair Lady—itself a re-working of Shaw’s Pygmalion—which, in turn, was based on Ovid’s mythical sculptor who fell in love with his creation.

It is the soul of opera. It is the root of dance. It is buried in the works of dramatists such as Wedekind, Brecht, Lorca, Beckett, Pinter, Arthur Miller, Tony Harrison, Sean O’Casey, Sam Shepard, Wole Soyinka, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Athol Fugard, Conor McPherson, Sarah Daniels, Sophia Mempuh Kwachuh, Marina Carr, Rona Munro, Zinnie Harris, Jez Butterworth and a thousand and one others. A continuum of our deepest archetypes.

Filmed myths are everlastingly popular: Troy, Beowulf, Excalibur and all the many versions of the legends of King Arthur, Hercules or Robin Hood that either stick to their legendary roots or re‑work them. In Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, for example, the legend of the Holy Grail is juxtaposed with an action movie. Epic poems such as The Mahabharata, The Epic of Gilgamesh or Homer’s Iliad have been staged or filmed many times.

Marvellous heroes abound when Avengers assemble, Thor thunders and Hulk is, well, incredible. Lara Croft raids tombs for treasure, Black Panther and Wonder Woman take control to end wars, while game shows reach a new lethal level as participants fight to the death in The Hunger Games or Squid Games. In Star Wars, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Alien, Solaris and Gravity, the mythical wanderer searches the furthest reaches of the universe, willingly or unwillingly, to find his or her self.

The magic powers available in the Harry Potter films touch our deepest dreams and desires; the bloodsucking vampires of Let the Right One In and The Twilight Saga invade our darkest nightmares. The Wicker Man remains a cult classic. Disney taught us how to train our dragons; HBO’s Game of Thrones has won 38 Primetime Emmy Awards—so far.

Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis translated into magical movies; The Coen brothers based O Brother, Where Art Thou? on Homer’s Odyssey, and the ‘Wild West’ has become a myth in itself. John Wayne in The Searchersand Clint Eastwood in The Unforgiven and The Outlaw Josie Wales are implacable in their search for revenge.

Nickelodeon’s immensely popular animated series, Avatar: The Last Airbender has the four elements as different nations: Earth Kingdom, the Water Tribes and the Fire Nation. Only Aang, a survivor of the Air Nomads, can bring the warring elements together. Myth taps into our primal urges and desires. And our fears. It’s powerful stuff. It’s elemental.

Mythic films also provide great roles for legendary acting. Toshiro Mifune gains his Throne of Blood; Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton battle it out in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf ? Peter O’Toole fights his demons in Lawrence of Arabia; Daniel Day-Lewis seeks riches deep within the earth in There Will Be Blood. Marlon Brando feels ‘the horror, the horror’ of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in Apocalypse Now. Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart survive all elemental forces in The African Queen.

This need to survive, kill or wield power drive Charlize Theron in Mad Max: Fury Road, Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, Peter Dinklage in Game of Thrones, Michelle Yeoh in Crouching Tiger: Hidden Dragon and Jet Li in Hero. Dev Patel battles for life with The Green Knight; Sally Hawkins and Doug Jones in The Shape of Water risk everything to be with their own kind. Frances McDormand seeks justice and retribution in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri; and Daniel Kaluuya simply has to Get Out…

And then there are Shakespeare’s elemental characters to provide perfect award-winning roles for generations to come. Hundreds of versions of Shakespeare’s plays are performed all over the world each year. Forever new; forever rediscovered. I could go on and on and on. (And have!)

In fact, it’s hard not to see some element of ritual, myth and magic in almost every piece of drama—however disguised it is. Those primary drives for food, love, mating, progeny, allies, power, territory and safety are the motor of every human being. Even domestic dramas play out those rituals within a naturalistic setting. We bury our basic needs beneath a social veneer. In some instances, such as court life, where there are cultural taboos, or in dramatic styles like Restoration Comedy, these deep instincts are covered by layers of social niceties. But our primal needs are still pushing and pulling beneath the formal surface.

Harnessing the Power of Ancient Myth

We need myths; we live by myths; we die for myths.

Marlon Brando

If you characterise each separate primal drive, you reveal archetypes: the tyrant, the miser, the mother, the innocent and so on. Jung wrote that the archetype is a tendency to form representations of a motif, but that these representations can vary greatly in their detail. Archetypes are a vital part of mythical drama: the wanderer, the avenger, the healer, the mother, the lover…

Comedies use the subversion of these archetypes and basic forces to create humour. We laugh at the big ambitions of the little man, feel Schadenfreude when the fates inevitably intervene to cause misfortune, and delight in our heroine or hero ultimately conquering all adversity. Superheroes and mythical gods are often archetypal. Tom Hiddleston says that his role of Loki from Marvel Comics is an archetype of ‘the trickster’ and represents chaos. But his Loki, who delights in his trickery, is both universal and specific.

The reason that I don’t often mention archetypes in my acting teaching is that Jung’s note about the details can easily be forgotten, and the term can lead to generalisations. Life is in the details, the specifics. There may be a finite number of basic drives, but each human being manifests these primal and social desires in a unique form. More than one need drives us, and each human being is compelled by their own individual combination. Each role is capable of an infinity of subtle variations.

Maybe your project is realist, a comedy of manners or rich in social observation. It’s not overtly mythical. That doesn’t mean that you—the actor in the role—cannot find the primal drives in your role. We, like our animal colleagues, are fundamentally driven by elemental needs: food and water, sex, finding a mate (to create progeny), gaining safe territory and marking it out, attaining power to protect and assure our personal, and our group’s, safety. First and foremost, we want to survive. Though we will face self-sacrifice to protect what we hold dearer than ourselves.

Beyond this, we may desire to gratify our appetites and senses: taste, touch, sight, smell and hearing. We seek warmth, comfort, joy. Unlike animals (though research on primates throws some doubt on this), we may want to wreak revenge, punish, destroy. Conversely, we (and maybe animals too) can love, protect, nurture, seek reconciliation and provide consolation. And we acquire and create: things, people, knowledge.

We could say that overt myth exposes these primal drives, whereas in domestic or political dramas they are often hidden behind social masks. In Breaking Bad, Walter White knows he will die, and his desire to protect his family leads him to cross his boundary of social conscience and use his chemistry skills to make and sell methamphetamine. In doing so, he also unleashes a zest for power and a talent for survival. During the course of the series he moves between his gentle social mask and fulfilling his raw, hidden needs.

Maybe our inner drives are deeply buried under a morass of social politics and conventions. The role lives in a semi, works in an office, has the neighbours in for drinks. But glowing down in the depths are the embers of ambition, power and passion. Hyacinth Bucket (or ‘Bouquet’ as she preferred to pronounce it) in the BBC sitcom Keeping Up Appearances was almost as ruthless as any Lady Macbeth in climbing up the social ladder; David Brent in The Office is as deluded about the power he wields as any failed dictator; Norman in Ayckbourn’s The Norman Conquests is as single-minded about his pursuit of a mate as any tiger.

Of course, the power drives may be overt, and obviously drive the action. In the series Succession, for example, the roles fight for power with political manoeuvres as fiercely as any warriors in mythical battle do with swords.

Any work of art where people struggle with life and death or battle for power or procreation deals with the same archetypal human conditions that have been part of drama since mankind first sang, danced or donned masks. Victor Hugo described his historical novel Les Misérables as:

A progress from evil to good, from injustice to justice, from falsehood to truth, from night to day, from appetite to conscience, from corruption to life; from bestiality to duty, from hell to heaven, from nothingness to God. The starting point: matter, destination: the soul. The hydra at the beginning, the angel at the end.

And ultimately it is you, the actor, who gives birth to these eternal themes by creating a specific role, living at this particular moment in time, unique in every tiny detail. And you, in life and in the role, are driven by these elemental forces that you can put to powerful use.

Dr Dee (who may have been the inspiration for Shakespeare’s Prospero) regarded magic as ‘the strange participation’ in which the body and spirit, the natural and the artificial, the real and the unreal are all involved. That sounds remarkably like the magic in which actors are engaged.

Be dangerous; find the jeopardy; up the stakes; put in the ‘ammunition’; take a leap in the dark. Allow yourself (and your role) to change and grow. Surprise us. Surprise yourself.

The Quest

—we are living in the right time for a metamorphosis of the gods.

Carl Jung, The Undiscovered Self

The mythical quest has always been there in drama, and still is: from Homer’s Odyssey to Walkabout; from Ibsen’s Peer Gynt to Paris, Texas; from Alice in Wonderland to The Matrix. It requires actors to move further away from their everyday lives, whether that is in the portrayal of the physical extremities of an actual journey, or the intense emotional journey that they must undertake.

The idea of the age-old quest, deep within a modern guise, can make the script simpler, yet more primal and vital. Discovering the protagonist’s quest is another way for an actor to identify the burning need that sets them (as the role) on this elemental path, and changes them forever. It ups the stakes.

The mythologist Joseph Campbell, comparing world myths, studied many philosophers and writers: Carl Jung, James Joyce, Thomas Mann, Abraham Maslow, Sigmund Freud and so on. He put forward the theory (somewhat controversially) in his 1949 work A Hero with a Thousand Faces that all the world’s ancient stories were one story—the ‘monomyth’:

A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.

This idea of comparative myths and religions was not new— the philologist Max Müller had written an essay, Comparative Mythology in 1856, Sir Edward Burnett Tyler wrote Primitive Culture in 1871, and, most influential of all, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, was written by Sir James George Frazer between 1911 and 1915. But Joseph Campbell’s book became the one to influence modern screenwriters the most.

The schema devised by Campbell contained common mythic elements: the two worlds of home and the unknown; the mentor or guide; and the oracle or inspirer (who may be the mentor or another). It may also include a prophecy, dream, inspiration or revelation, a flawed hero, a shape-shifter—in a modern context this may be someone who turns out to be other than the hero thought—a spy, an ally, a fraud. (Actually, we are all shape-shifters in our different roles in life, and in our professional capacity!) It may include wearing the enemy’s ‘skin’ or seeming like the enemy in order to gain access to a place or a thing, having an animal familiar, or chasing an animal (or other) into a place of enchantment.

Understanding how these often-used ideas work within drama can be very helpful to the actor. It’s another way to break down a massive script into serviceable sections. To explore the ‘beats’. To see how the hero or heroine is diverted from the path and has to struggle back to it. To separate out the twists and turns of the quest or the awakening. Most of all, to determine what elemental force takes your role on this quest in the first place.

At the age of eighty, Campbell led a discussion on the inner reaches of outer space at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. George Lucas was in the audience because he’d read Campbell’s book years before. Lucas was writing Star Wars at the time, and he discussed his ideas at length with Campbell, who helped him design and refine the blueprint for his hero’s quest. Lucas came to call him his Yoda—his oracle.

This is a rough guide to the three main ingredients of the hero’s journey. Campbell actually charted seventeen stages to this journey within these main headings:

❂Departure: this begins with the first call to the quest. It is often resisted. (In Star Wars it begins with a message from Princess Leia.)

❂Initiation: This is often under the guidance of a mentor (in Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi) who teaches or inspires. The hero can get tempted away from the path but will find the way again.

❂Return: the return is often resisted too. Or obstacles appear to make it perilous. But when achieved, it brings peace or victory; knowledge or redemption. (In Star Wars, Luke grows up, becomes a Jedi Knight and keeps journeying…)

Campbell’s book was revised in 1968 and reprinted many times. It has become a best-seller. And Hollywood loves Campbell’s work because it seems a simple way to devise a structure. Christopher Vogler used The Hero of a Thousand Faces to produce a seven-page memo for the Disney screenwriters, which became widely used. He then wrote his own book, Mythic Structure for Storytellers and Screenwriters based on Campbell’s work. And many contemporary screenwriting courses focus on the archetypal quest and how to use it as a basis for overtly mythical subjects, as well as burying it beneath a contemporary story. The English teacher Matthew Winkler has made an excellent, very short, animated overview of Campbell’s work entitled What Makes a Hero? for the online TED-Ed series.

In his book The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories, Christopher Booker, influenced by both Campbell and Jung, identified seven basic plots to be used as events in a story: Overcoming the Monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Comedy, Tragedy and Rebirth. His work has also been taken up by numerous teachers.

For ‘hero’ we need to include ‘heroine’, and their stories follow the same quest pattern. Some recent books have been written to underline that, indeed, a heroine can also undertake a starring journey. Kim Hudson has developed a thirteen-step archetypal screenwriting structure known as ‘The Virgin’s Promise’ to mould films about enlightenment and awakening. But a woman’s awakening can also be into a warrior with a quest! And the actor’s job is to make those quests personal, specific and detailed.

As actors we are essentially concerned only with the present moment for our role—the moment of now on each part of the journey. We know only our past and what we hope for the future, but never what will actually happen, so the overall structure need not concern us too much. But our goals in the role, why we keep to the path or stray from it, why we’re undertaking it, what stands in our way, and whether we accomplish our quest certainly does. And we cannot play generalised ideas or themes. It is our job (and the writer’s and director’s) to make each story individual, unique, and to believe in every aspect of it.

❂The archetype has to become a specific, highly defined, individual human being for us to play.

❂You might want to act out the stages of your quest through large gestures, dance your way through it or draw it out. Anything to make it specific.

❂Pinpoint those unique moments of awakening. Find the precise spur for the journey—and realise the catalyst that led to that precise moment of each inner or outer action.

This detailed work is as vital to the actor as it was for the writer— whatever way that story was conceived. And every role will be on a quest, in their own story. William H. Macy says, ‘It’s my job to play the hero in every single role.’

Systems and blueprints are not the whole of storytelling by any means, and some wonderful stories, plays and films simply cannot be straitjacketed into the quest or awakening formula—or any other. But somewhere, most drama will have some link to the ancient stories we have always told. The power of myth is such a deep-seated part of our humanity. There are always many more stories to tell. And even if there aren’t—it’s the way you tell them…

Elemental Metaphors

‘Saxon hoard, it’s basically the holy grail of treasure hunting.’

‘Well, no. The Holy Grail is the holy grail of treasure hunting.’

Mackenzie Crook, Detectorists

We use metaphors and similes in our thoughts and words. We connect an image or a sound or a texture to a feeling or an experience: her voice was ‘silken’, his walk was ‘simian’, her look ‘turned me to stone’, his touch ‘burned’.

As actors, writers or directors, we can capitalise on the power of the metaphor. Similes such as ‘the sun rose like a red balloon’, ‘she lay on her side gasping like a beached whale’ or ‘as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean’ provide striking images to fuel our imaginations. A metaphor can be even more powerful as it allies one thing to another or turns one thing into something else so that it’s hard to separate them. ‘This car is as strong as a rhino’ provides a vivid comparison, but ‘this rhino of a car’ fuses the two thoughts. (And Mitsubishi Motors successfully used a drawing of this metaphor to sell its cars!)

‘Forbidden fruit’ has been used as a metaphor for desiring something or someone we shouldn’t have for as long as memory. Persephone got caught in the underworld by eating six pomegranate seeds. Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden pluck the fruit that is forbidden them; the Norse goddess Idun guarded the golden apples of immortality, as did the Greek nymphs, the Hesperides, in Hera’s orchard; Laura is seduced by the goblin fruits and saved only by her sister’s courage in refusing them in Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market. We talk of a ‘peach’ of a girl or of ‘losing our cherry’. Many dramas are about claiming forbidden fruit!

These metaphors evoke welcome or unwelcome connections to our emotions, and can become inextricably linked to products, situations and events, and become metaphorical ideas. According to advertisers, chocolates inevitably provide romance; if I combine a picture of a swarm of locusts with the idea of human crowds—soon, the two can become dangerously intertwined.

The image created by a metaphor, and the feelings it arouses, can be hard to erase. At five years old, I wrote a simple ditty with the lines, ‘I cannot sleep at night, so I watch the silver moon— sailing, sailing, sailing in the dark blue sky.’ It was hardly an original thought, but the tune of this little rhyme comes back to me whenever I see a full moon. High in the sky it is forever silver. And it always ‘sails’.

This enduring connection between the literal object and the metaphor is a dangerous tool in the weaponry (metaphors again) of the politician or salesman. They follow ‘blueprints’, run ‘tight ships’ or tell us to ‘tighten our belts’. We hear persecuted refugees seeking shelter referred to as ‘a tidal wave’, ‘a swarm of people’, ‘wolves at our door’ or are warned that we are ‘opening the floodgates’ or ‘putting our heads in a noose’. The academic Mary Beard observed how extravagant the military metaphors became as part of the effort to combat the Covid-19 pandemic. Indigestion becomes molten lava, headaches are lightning flashes and sore throats become choking bands, from which only a certain product can relieve us.

Metaphors are closely linked to symbols. Symbols are powerful images. Symbols can be badges, pictorial or sculptural identifiers or uniforms. But, as semiotic studies show, they do more than identify—they express ideas and associations. If ‘offering an olive branch’ metaphorically ends an argument, it derives from the symbolic depiction of peace: the gentle dove carrying an olive twig. A badge or the logo on a T-shirt will proclaim our beliefs or attitudes.

These signs, similes and metaphors can be used to control our thoughts and responses. They can be put to moral or immoral uses. Or to humorous ones, like the one at the start of this section. Or we mix our images and metaphors with surreal results:

‘I shall put down my foot with a firm hand.’ ‘An old toad in sheep’s clothing.’ ‘A dark horse who waits for no man.’ ‘He’s got too many irons in the pie.’ Or as one sports commentator remarked, ‘He’s certainly going to have his hands cut out today.’

The French philosopher and linguist Roland Barthes talked about ‘signifiers’, ‘signification’ and ‘signs’. A bunch of roses is signified by the lover to embody passion. The roses and the passion are separate, but put the two together and the former now becomes the signification of that passion—‘My love is like a red, red rose…’ If an actor goes down on one knee and offers a rose to another, we understand what is being offered.

The dancer and choreographer Pina Bausch encouraged her company to describe, through gesture and movement, relationships, the seasons, and the human condition. She claimed that her dances grew ‘from the inside out’. She said, ‘I’m not interested in how people move, but what moves them.’ The two are indivisible. Your body follows your mind; your mind follows your body. Jacques Lecoq used animals, materials and elements to move the human body and mind, calling it ‘analysing the dynamics of nature’.

In the 1950s, Joan Littlewood at Theatre Royal Stratford East discovered how perfectly the choreographer Rudolf Laban’s ‘eight efforts of movement’ influenced the voice, movement and imagination of her actors, transforming into metaphors for a state of mind, revealing the inner life of the role. Michael Chekhov also worked with a range of movement dynamics to explore the core of a role—a physical metaphor for the feelings or needs driving the action. He called it a ‘psychological gesture’.

Yat Malmgren, a Swedish dancer, acting teacher and a founder member of Drama Centre London, collaborated with Rudolf Laban in the theory of Movement Psychology, and was influenced by Michael Chekhov, Jung and, of course, Stanislavski. Ultimately, via his very successful students, this work seeped into Hollywood as potent emotional scene preparation.

❂Used imaginatively, the power of metaphor can be used by actors, writers and directors to provide specific images that wake up our senses. We can take it even further. By physically acting out the metaphor in a full-bodied, all encompassing, non-naturalistic way, we uncover deep truths about our roles. (See more in the section ‘Physicalising Metaphors’ on page 128.)

❂Using a physical metaphor can put you into the life you have lived, your guilty secrets or unspeakable actions; it can allow you to jump in and out of the game; it is both a deep and fast preparation.

Throughout this book are many new ideas to fuse mind and body using my own version of the classical five elements as metaphorical catalysts for your imagination. But you can bring your role to life in any metaphorical way, depending on the role and your particular skills and inclinations: you could build your role brick by brick; you could cook your role from many ingredients; you could dream, juggle, dance, sing or grow your role to fruition. You can wear the character’s clothes, stand in their shoes or find your way into their skin. Albert Finney said, ‘I take all the different paints out of the cupboard. I mix the colours together. If they’re not right, I shove them all back and take out a new lot.’

The mind of Lear, staggering between the weight of attachment and the hurried movements of passion, is like a tall ship driven by the winds, buffeted by the furious waves, but that still rides above the storm, having its anchor fixed in the bottom of the sea; or it is like the sharp rock circled by the eddying whirlpool that foams and beats against it, or like the solid promontory pushed from its basis by the force of an earthquake.

Nicholas Hytner, in his book Balancing Acts