What Actors Do E-Book

Mike Alfreds

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

Seitenzahl: 220

Beschreibung

In What Actors Do, revered theatre director Mike Alfreds explores the wellspring of the actor's craft, tracing a pathway to creative freedom through the thickets of competing methodologies and confusing paradoxes that you will face throughout your training and career. How do you give life to a character that both is and isn't yourself? How can you be childlike and open in your work without becoming childish? How, when you know what's coming next, can you still be spontaneous? Frank, uncompromising and full of sharply focused insights, this book will help you strip away the inhibitions and habitual thinking that can shackle our imaginations. It will show you how to generate truthful performances by trusting your inner creativity and remaining radically open, responsive and present in every moment. Mike Alfreds has been directing plays for more than seventy years. In the 1970s he founded Shared Experience, and has since worked for the National Theatre, Shakespeare's Globe, the Royal Shakespeare Company and also extensively abroad. He is hugely respected within the profession, and is the author of two previous books, Different Every Night and Then What Happens? 'If I was allowed to train again to be an actor, but I was only allowed one teacher, it would have to be Mike Alfreds. To me he is a genius when it comes to acting and storytelling' Mark Rylance

Leseprobe

WHAT ACTORS DO

Advice to the Players in Seven Paradoxes and a Manifesto

Mike Alfreds

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREAMBLE

DURING A STATE OF SIEGE

THE SITUATION

AMBLE : SEVEN PARADOXES

1. TO BE AND NOT TO BE: ACTOR & CHARACTER

2. THE IMPORTANCE OF NOT BEING EARNEST: CHILD & PARENT

3. ANOTHER MODEST PROPOSAL: ACTOR & AUDIENCE

4. THE MUSEUM OF FORMER LIFE: KNOWING & NOT KNOWING

5. MY CHARACTER WOULD NEVER DO THAT!: BEING & BECOMING

6. MIXED EMOTIONS: TRUE & FALSE FEELINGS

7. THE EXPEDITION INTO THE UNKNOWN: REACHING THE UNREACHABLE

POSTAMBLE

SUMMING-UP

Bringing Things Together

The Diderot–Archer Debate

The Craft of Acting

A Single Exercise: Clapping

The Purpose of Theatre

A MANIFESTO

AN ANNEXE

On Training

A Glossary

For

PETER THOMSON

With warmest gratitude for

an extraordinarily generous labour of love

O, reform it altogether!

Hamlet to the Players

Act 3, Scene 2

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is the third book I’ve written about acting in theatre. Like the others, Different Every Night and Then What Happens?, it stresses the primacy of the actor and the imperative for them to have creative freedom in performance. All that I’ve said in the other two books still holds true; I’m travelling in the same direction. But on this third expedition, I’m attempting to penetrate deeper into less accessible territory.

The Preamble deals with the broad ideas motivating this book and my views both of the existential nature of acting and of the current situation actors find themselves in.

The Amble, the core of the book, details the paradoxes that actors need to confront in practising their craft.

The Postamble contains a summing-up, a single exercise, a manifesto, thoughts on training and a glossary.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to Jane Arnfield, Laurence Boswell, Louise Bush, Martin Constantine, Michael Fry, Tony Graham, Max Harrison, Lauren Hurwood, Glynn MacDonald, Barbara Marchant, Olwen May, David Metz, Stephan Perdekamp, Patsy Rodenburg, Matthias Scott and Simon Trinder for their generous contributions to the book.

Particular thanks to Pam Ferris, Rob Hale and Andrew Hawkins for their very individual slants on the material.

Above all, to Sonja Linden for her painstakingly forensic and perceptive examination of every word I wrote!

And additional and very special thanks to Glynn for ‘E-motion’ and ‘Two Tutus’ – and so much else besides – with much love.

Finally, in appreciative recognition of Denis Diderot (1713–84), who got it wrong for the right reasons, and of William Archer (1856–1924), who got it right for the wrong reasons.

PREAMBLE

DURING A STATE OF SIEGE

I’ve been mulling over this book throughout much of a pandemic that’s imprisoned the entire world in a new reality – unreality, really. For me, however, a positive outcome of this period of incarceration has been that, while everything else about me may have started to wear out, at least my mental powers seem to have strengthened! I feel able to see through the specious and spurious statements of public figures, their lies and evasions, boasts and self-promotions, non-sequiturs and apparent inability to argue with any logic. My shit-detector has had an update and is working at full capacity. More to the point of this book, it has also led me to fresh insights into the nature of acting and what it demands of the actor.

I can understand why, in a world of sinking certainties, people cling to the false security of something to believe in, such as a Flag, Religion or Tribal Identity, a sort of emotional lifebuoy to support them on these troubled waters. So the rise of Nationalism, Fundamentalism, Identity Politics and the reduction of every issue to a binary right or wrong is understandable [‘binarity’ apparently only has a meaning in the science of linguistics: ‘A principle of analysis requiring that a linguistic system, as a phonological, case, or semantic system, be represented as a set of binary oppositions.’ I’ll take your word for it! Though one of my dictionaries gives it as a straightforward representation of something as a pair of binary oppositions without reference to linguistics]. It keeps things manageable when we seem to have no capacity to stand at a distance to cope with the complexity of messy life.

But life is messy, and human beings are complex. And life is complex, and human beings are messy. Reducing one another to algorithmic packages is – well – reductive. Boxing anyone who disagrees with us into a simplistic category puts us on a hiding to nothing. The space between opposing views appears unbridgeable. There seems no possibility of debate, even argument, leaving only threats, abuse, accusations and the self-righteous upgrading of victimhood. But the unarguable reality is that we are all, every one of us, individual, utterly unique. (As Bishop Desmond Tutu, on the same subject, is quoted as saying: ‘Can you imagine a world with two Tutus?’) We’re contradictory; we behave unexpectedly, incongruously; our personalities are multi-stranded, multifaceted; and, though we may to a degree fit into some categories, that’s far from being all we are.

So what has this diatribe to do with the title of this book? Well, it goes something like this. For over seventy years, I’ve been utterly absorbed in my vocation. I was lucky that early in life I developed a strong sense of what world I wanted to inhabit and, from around the age of twelve, I went regularly to the theatre. There, beneath the glamour and glitz, the camp and high emotion of it all, I sensed something about acting that I couldn’t have put into words at that time. But the seeds of a belief in its worth were planted young, and, despite short periods of frustration, it has stood the test of time. Throughout my career I’ve been steadily coming across more and more evidence to support my conviction that acting has a meaning above and beyond its apparent purposes of entertaining and holding up contemporary mirrors to nature. And, together with that, an understanding of why, for so long, I’ve devoted myself to what many might deem a trivial pursuit, when so much else of life-preserving urgency demands our attention.

Over this period of less than splendid isolation, my belief in the value of acting has come to a deeper level of understanding. I was going to say climax, but, of course, learning never ends. The physicist David Deutsch makes gleamingly clear that we are always at The Beginning of Infinity (the title of one of his books): however good something may be, it can always be better. Nothing is fixed, nothing is absolute. There is no end to knowledge. We should always be moving forward. The declaration, ‘I want to get it right!’ – with a ‘for you’ sometimes appended by actors anxious to please their director – is a phrase they should rinse from their mouths. The advice ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it’ should be reserved for emergencies and never applied as a basic principle. And the way in which my belief in the power of acting connects with how I began this preamble is simply this: the phenomenon of acting is the greatest manifestation of human empathy.

All the valid techniques that the serious actor masters are a microcosm of how we function beyond the theatre, a distillation of the processes by which we human beings lead our lives. These techniques are what such actors apply to the job of understanding and embodying other human beings in their innumerable varieties of gender, class and ethnicity, from other ages, places and cultures, in all their uniqueness and complexity. Which seems a healthy antidote to the categorisation and simplistic pigeonholing I’ve just mentioned. Good acting encourages us to see and acknowledge the individuality of every other person that exists, has ever existed or will exist – at least into the foreseeable future – even those we despise or disapprove of. Acting – theatre – is the most human of the arts. Its raw material is a triad of human beings: actors, characters and audiences. We have, innate within us, something of everyone that has ever been born.

I’ve come to realise that working with actors in rehearsal spaces for the greater part of my life has been the equivalent of conducting and observing experiments in a hothouse laboratory. Over that time, I’ve been exposed to human behaviour in the heightened conditions under which actors create performances. Day after day, unawares, I’ve been experiencing three synchronistic sets of relationships being played out: the relationship between the characters in a text or improvisation; the relationship of the actors to those characters; and, most revelatory, the relationship between the actors and all the other people working together in those spaces, myself very much included.

Often I’ve made an observation about a character or situation, and, after having said what I’d said, I’ve felt surprised that I knew whatever it was that’d just come out of my mouth. Where had it come from, apart from my mouth? Duh! It’s the subconscious, stupid! I can now see that over the decades I’ve been absorbing limitless perceptions and insights, all lying doggo, waiting for the appropriate moment to surface to the light. Working in this art form – which is first, centre and last about human beings – has given me a knowledge of people that otherwise I might never have come to possess and for which I’m inexpressibly grateful. Now, even more gratifyingly, much of what I’ve gleaned is being reinforced and made even clearer by neuroscientists.

So the underlying purpose of this book is to present acting as a rich manifestation of what it is to be a human being and to endorse actors as fitting representatives of humanity. The actor’s job is to let us see all people as individuals entitled to our understanding, rather than dismissed as a generic member of a tribe.

For the best part of eighteen months, the seeds of these insights must have been incubating at the far back of my mind. Maybe this was because periods of isolation allow the mind more space and time for reflection; possibly they were triggered by the necessity to create new workshops for new circumstances – adjusting from physical to cyber spaces.

Two occurrences brought these slowly emerging buds into bloom. The first, and less abrupt, was an impulse to read, in full, two books I’d dipped into long ago, neither of them particularly easy reading: Denis Diderot’s dialogue, The Paradox of Acting, written in the 1770s, and William Archer’s response to it, Masks or Faces?, written some hundred years later. The debate was, at its simplest, whether the actor in performance should experience the feelings of the character or remain totally detached, Archer arguing for the former, Diderot for the latter. The second occurrence, watching a video of the Nederland Dans Theater, jolted these preoccupations into full flower, and with them came the distressing realisation that the majority of actors lack sufficient craft to fulfil their chosen path in life – a kinder way of saying that most actors aren’t up to the job! Working with actors throughout my adult life has been one of my greatest joys, almost my raison d’être, so this came as a pretty devastating shock to the system.

The two concerns released by these chance encounters are germane to my initial intention, so a further purpose of this book is to offer a possible resolution to the Diderot–Archer debate and possible reasons why actors lack sufficient skills, together with suggestions for their attainment.

This book could be subtitled ‘What (Some) Actors (Don’t) Do’.

THE SITUATION

A Growing Realisation

As I watched the Nederland Dans Theater video, I found myself overwhelmed by the dancers. I love to watch bodies in motion, especially when they move so beautifully. But I wasn’t prepared for the rapturous impact these dancers had on me: so alive, so present, so in the moment (despite being on screen), so free, so at ease and yet so disciplined, so skilful, so witty, so full of feeling, so expressive, both as soloists and ensemblists, apparently in total command of any technique required of them. They literally moved me. To tears of sheer pleasure. It’s more than likely I was roused to such hyperbolic elation by my preoccupations with acting at the time, because the immediate and upsetting thought accompanying these ecstasies was: When do I ever see actors like this? To which the instant reply was: Almost never! Hardly ever! If at all!

I began to understand that what had been growing in my unconscious – and must have been germinating long, long before Covid – was a realisation I’d scrupulously avoided acknowledging. After all, as I’ve said, one of my greatest pleasures in life is and has been working with actors. They are the essence of theatre. But the realisation was that my experience of most actors had become a steadily growing disappointment. For well over sixty years, I’ve been giving who-knows-how-many workshops for who-knows-how-many actors with an increasing sense that most of those participating were simply not equipped for the career they’d chosen. I mean that they seemed to lack any techniques to support them through the challenging job of acting. (Talent is one’s potential; skills, technique, craft are what bring it to life.) They rarely played actions or objectives (even if they thought they were doing so); they rarely made genuine contact with their partners; they didn’t or couldn’t apply any processes advocated by, say, Meisner, Chekhov, Laban, Feldenkreis, Rodenburg or any of those many teachers who provide actors with a whole battery of creative problem-solving things to do. So they fell back on talking about how they felt. They came from all sorts of backgrounds, training and experience. Clearly they were serious, wanting to learn, otherwise why would they spend time and money on a week or so with me? This state of affairs, as I saw it, clearly wasn’t due to their indifference, laziness or complacency.

I felt much the same about most of the performers I saw on stage. These were competent and accomplished, and I could acknowledge and admire many of the techniques they did possess, but rarely did they grab me sufficiently to make me care. Despite their accomplishments, I didn’t believe them. They seemed to lack total… well, total presence. There was a lot of presentation, and I could see the experience, feel the energy, but they weren’t fully there! Some part of them had been left behind – at home, in the dressing room – or, quite possibly, had never been allowed out, even at home.

Now, if I haven’t alienated the entire acting profession, I’ll enter two caveats. The first is that there are many – many – wonderfully talented actors. I’ve had the pleasure and precious good fortune to work with a few of them. These actors have taught me a lot about acting and about myself – and have, in fact, fuelled my belief in the theatre and my continuing desire to work in it. Actors and acting are what attracted me to theatre. They are the reason for my vocation: to experience human beings creatively alive and in action. And the aim of all my work has been searching for the ways to provide the conditions in which they could exercise the utmost autonomy and creative freedom.

To make my point, I’m citing examples at their extremes, which will inevitably be critical of some actors and their acting. But it goes without saying that every actor is utterly unique and has different ways and degrees of accessing truth, dealing with feelings, characterisation and so forth… Also, actors have different aspirations for their careers. If you want to be a movie star, or work in a community, or right wrongs, that is your absolute right. And may you have a rich and fulfilling life doing so!

The second caveat is that this deficiency of craft doesn’t lie entirely within the actors’ remit, but in the conditions under which they’re forced to offer their wares. Peggy Ashcroft described the theatre as a disorderly profession. And it’s true: an actor’s progression is one long obstacle course with continuous hurdles to jump over and hoops to jump through as they steer their way through a chance-ridden, hazardous career.

A Maze and a Minefield

Actor Training is well-intentioned, but rarely rigorous or intensive enough. Students rush from class to class, getting a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and not quite enough of anything. Sometimes important skills are dealt with in the first year, when students are usually too overwhelmed by new concepts to absorb them fully, and may never be followed up in subsequent years. Some aspects of an actor’s job may be totally omitted. I suppose the practical thinking is that experience in the professional world will complete the training. Learning on the job has many advantages. But it has its drawbacks, too; it can inculcate bad practice. The experiences of graduating students as they emerge into the ‘real world’ will probably be so hit-and-miss that much of whatever they have learnt may never be reinforced.

Actors have to master skills for which the application of their conscious brain and common sense is insufficient. The skills they require involve retraining the entire organism – physicality, feeling and thought – and these can only be developed experientially. Having to break patterns and learn an almost total reorganisation of the self is a slow process requiring many hours over many weeks, months and years of constant reinforcement and practice. What is it, ten thousand hours to master a skill? Three hours a day for close to ten years! So, students come out of drama school half-baked, like the dough for croissants distributed to coffee shops for their final baking. Unfortunately, some never get that final baking. I believe that what they learn should be that much more securely anchored within them before they emerge from the structured sanctuary of training into the Wild West of career-building. Of course, they should apply whatever they’ve learnt and continue to widen those skills throughout their lives. But there’s no certainty that their career trajectory will provide them with much opportunity to do so. Quite the reverse! They may find themselves in situations that weaken or distort what they do know. For example, a ‘senior’ female actor, in my hearing, dismissively told a young actor that she wasn’t paid to do warm-ups!

For many years, there was the conviction in some quarters that actors were born, not made. They either had it or they hadn’t, so training was unnecessary or pointless. That cliché, ‘How do you remember all those lines?!’, clearly indicated that people couldn’t imagine what else there was to ask an actor, because everything else flowed out of them naturally.

True! You cannot teach people talent, but you can enable them to make the most of the talent they do possess. Before they can call themselves artists, actors have, first and foremost, to become craftspeople. An actor’s skills and techniques are challenging: complex, subtle, multilayered, encompassing every aspect of their being. Only by mastering these, can actors release their natural talent and work in a state of true presence. By presence, I mean total commitment, physicality, feeling and thought all working in harmony – the Enlightenment ideal of a balanced head and heart. ‘High-definition’ was Kenneth Tynan’s epithet for the quality possessed by those actors he found exceptional.

We are holistic – mind, feeling, physicality working as one. But somewhere along the way there’s been a loss of connection, or should we call it connectivity; the wiring has short-circuited, the streaming subscription has expired. So there is too much head without the involvement of the rest of the body (chilly) and/or too much generalised feeling without the mind (overheated). For obvious reasons, acting classes are separated into those dealing with movement, those dealing with voice, those dealing with text, those dealing with emotion, those dealing with improvisation, those dealing with… But they’re rarely integrated, so most students embark on their careers without any sense of a whole.

Since drama schools have linked up with – in fact, been taken over by – universities, acting students are treated exactly like students studying any other, mainly intellectual, discipline, and are required to be graded accordingly. But you cannot grade a student actor who is in the process of learning not just a subject, but also about themselves. (Actors are both the objects and the subjects of their calling.) It’s a slow process, and every individual’s progresses is different – some may not release their true potential until well into their second or third year, while those who showed the greatest promise at the outset may fall by the wayside. You can grade application and industry and conduct. But not talent. I once tried to grade a class equally – they had all worked hard, applied themselves, been positive, did everything that was asked of them – and I couldn’t see how one would deserve more marks than another. But I was told this was unacceptable. There had to be a spread of grades. So I was forced to go through the totally artificial process of saying, ‘Well, maybe this one deserves one point less than that one and that one maybe one point more than this one.’

Acting is also immensely practical; it’s something you do. There’s only so much an actor can achieve in a library or on a device. One member of a university faculty couldn’t understand why actors needed so many more hours a week for practical work than other students got for lectures. It strikes me that most universities have little interest in what acting actually entails and even less in finding out. Their main concern is to enrol as many students as possible, without acknowledging that only a limited number of actors can be given serious and sufficient attention in a one- or two-hour class. Money is the chief criterion, not appropriate education.

Once out of school, the job of getting a job is another hit-and-miss affair for actors. If their face doesn’t fit whatever happens to be the current glass of fashion and mould of form, their chances are doomed before they even set foot in a casting session. Often, it’s in-and-out in five minutes. Often, actors leave an audition feeling encouraged, never to hear another word. Now, even more often, they don’t set foot anywhere. Actors are selected from their audition tapes, from their showreels or from the quantity of their social media likes and are rarely met in the flesh. But how can you possibly cast an actor without meeting them personally? This suggests that actors are only of interest as types, not as individuals, and are ominously close to being turned into industrial commodities, reduced from creative individuals to walking algorithms. (I watched several audition tapes of actors on a site specifically designed for graduating students. They had all elected to go for a sort of low-level earnestness in which they displayed no imagination, wit, energy, daring, least of all any truth or individuality. They seemed to be offering copies of copies of generic television sub-naturalism.)

How do you cast an actor? By their looks? On a hunch? By reputation, personality, recommendation? By having seen their work? There is no Quality Control as there is for dancers or, say, violinists, who, before they are employable, have to be seen to achieve at least a modicum of proficiency in clearly defined techniques. But what can an actor show you? All they do is walk and talk and express their feelings like everybody else. Actors’ deeper skills and techniques are largely hidden or at least cannot just be displayed to order. Sadly, actors themselves often know little about acting or how to talk about what they do, so why should anyone else know any more than they do?

Actors rarely have much control of their careers. They spend most of their lives waiting for offers. A few create their own work, which is admirable. And there are those with steely ambition who set out in pursuit of glory, putting themselves about with great confidence, not always justified by their talent, but often with great success. But on the whole, the actor’s only certain power lies in turning work down, which is ultimately a negative strength. And, anyway, they can rarely afford to do so.

Actors’ work patterns, unless they’re lucky, will be irregular and infrequent; great gaps with sudden flurries of activity. They can have periods when the offers come pouring in and then – suddenly – nada! Those periods of ‘resting’ can induce paranoia – What have I done? What’s wrong with me? – when it has absolutely nothing to do with them; it is purely the arbitrary nature of the business – sorry, the industry! And in those gaps, they can do little to keep their skills alive, having to take odd jobs to keep themselves economically buoyant. When they do work, most rehearsal times are too short and the work consequently rushed. And some directors know little and care less about actors’ processes. For them, actors are just another element in their production, alongside design and technology and their concept. So under such limiting and anti-creative conditions it’s small wonder if those skills that actors do possess quickly decay without the time and space in which to develop. To stay afloat, merely to survive, actors find themselves taking uncreative short cuts, which means resorting to what has worked for them in the past. This is reductive, increasingly so over time, as they lose flexibility and the ability to change. They can then spend their careers giving more or less the same performance. Often, I’ve felt there’s really no longer much point in buying a ticket to watch actors I once enjoyed. I know in advance exactly what they’ll do: the same physical patterns, the same emotional patterns, the same vocal patterns, the same old same old… If they have sufficient personal appeal, they may successfully spend a lifetime of satisfying an audience’s expectation of more of the same. It’s one thing to perform as a celebrity, a personality, a comedian, a pop star… It’s something completely other to be an actor. Sadly, these two very different forms of expression get lumped together, when their requirements are almost diametrically opposed. But one functions largely on ego and identity, the other on exploration.