By Jill Szoo Wilson
“Art is an expression of joy and awe. It is not an attempt to share one’s virtues and accomplishments with the audience, but an act of selfless spirit.”
— David Mamet, True and False: Heresy and Common Sense for the Actor
Most people who don’t go to the theatre or know any stage actors personally don’t understand the art at all. This is not an indictment of them. Indeed, how could they know what they haven’t been exposed to? For example, I don’t know the nuances of what a farmer contends with each day, nor do I understand his challenges, community, or questions.
But I do know theatre and acting and actors.
One of the things people miss about stage actors is how quickly they learn that nothing is about them. Before I go any further, I am referring to “stage actors” because I get the impression that film actors are different, in general. I am no respecter of Hollywood, and I loathe awards shows. So, for the purposes of this piece, just know I am writing about those who train in the theatre.
Mamet’s quote above is a good example of the selfless nature of the theatre artist. When an actor accepts a role, rehearses with the ensemble, and then steps onto the stage, all the audience knows of her is her face, her body, and her voice. They get a general sense of her presence and spirit, but they have no idea who she is because, in that space, she is simply a vessel for the playwright. She is a three-dimensional representation of a character. In theatre, we always ask ourselves, “Is this choice serving the script?” and “Am I serving the character?” There is no opportunity for the actor to tell her own story to the audience or, as Mamet writes, share her own accomplishments. Instead, she embodies the story being told.
Patsy Rodenburg, the creator of the Second Circle philosophy, says actors are the truth-tellers of a society. That’s a weighty claim. Let’s break it down.
Mamet says, “When you leave the theater wanting to discuss the play, that’s a good play. When you leave the theater wanting to discuss your life and the world, that’s art.”
Like Rodenburg, Mamet asserts that the theatre is a place where we go to uncover hidden things or to shine a spotlight on things that are so obvious we nearly miss them because we are taking them for granted. Discussions about family, power, the monotony and brilliance of life, love, loss, ceremony, and betrayal—the entirety of the human experience—is captured in plays. I can’t think of one theme that hasn’t been covered within the centuries-old collective of playwrights throughout the world.
When we see actors telling us the truth about ourselves, we, in turn, begin to look inward. That’s where every question begins: inside. We don’t really ask questions unless they deeply affect us. Questions are pulled out of us when we connect with a story. Stories don’t push questions into us, and we can’t push them into others. Something has to happen outside of us that touches the question on the inside of us. If you don’t believe me, begin to notice the impetus for the questions you ask in your own life. Is it external or internal? I digress…
It’s the actor’s responsibility to live truthfully in imaginary circumstances. We bring our whole selves to the moment in service of the role. What I mean, in summary, is that we bring everything unsaid, unseen, and undisclosed within ourselves and then ask, “How would I react in this situation?” The audience sees the truth of our responses but never our personal truth. In that way, we are telling the character’s truth. The more we tell the truth, the more connected the performance, and the more universal the truth being told.
“Find in yourself those human things which are universal.”
— Sanford Meisner
If you’ve ever known an actor personally, you’ve likely been surprised by our willingness to tell the truth in real life, too. I don’t mean that we always answer your questions truthfully or go on about what we’re thinking in all honesty. I mean that when you’re face to face with an actor who trusts you, she will feel compelled to bring her full self to the moment in an effort to see you and to be seen. This is true of any type of relationship she values.
For example, one of the things that exhausts me about teaching is that I bring my entire self to my students. I leave it all on the stage (or the classroom floor), as we say. And they, in turn, begin to bring their entire selves. As artists, we have to bring our entire selves because our entire self is the very tool with which we create our art.
Stella Adler, brilliant director, teacher, and actor, writes, “The actor has to develop his body. The actor has to work on his voice. But the most important thing the actor has to work on is his mind.”
It takes tremendous discipline to be an actor. We must learn to focus on the other person in the scene (all acting is reacting). We must grow accustomed to asking the questions that stir within us (even when they scare or intimidate us) and share those questions with others. We must be curious, present, vulnerable, intelligent, and discerning.
One thing I try to communicate and model for my students is that we don’t come to the theatre to pretend. We come to imagine. The example I use every semester is this:
If you and a friend are having a sleepover, and once the lights are turned off, you pretend a ghost is in the hall, you will most likely begin to physically show signs of fear. You might throw the covers over your head, pull your clenched hands to your face, and shriek, “Eeee!”
Conversely, if you imagine there is a ghost in the hall—if you really take the time to draw its features before your mind’s eye, to hear what it sounds like, to feel its presence, to watch for it, and to expect it to slip through the crack in the door at any moment—your body will respond very differently. In the first example, you are “showing” the fear to your friend. In this example, the fear becomes more real. Instead of throwing the covers over your head, you will most likely become still. Instead of shrieking, you’ll fall silent. You’ll tell the truth because you’ve allowed yourself to imagine “what if this were real?” and to act truthfully in an imaginary circumstance.
“The foundation of acting is the reality of doing.”
— Sanford Meisner
I’ll leave you with this…
The more personal something is, the more universal it is.
Good actors understand this instinctively, even the youngest ones. In fact, especially the youngest ones. It’s the adults who begin to forget how common their personal experiences are because they’re so busy posturing and posing and protecting. They try to cover their personal experiences because they—or someone—has deemed them unacceptable. They become rigid in their roles in real life, and thus they forget that they, too, are experiencing the joys, pains, longings, loneliness, routines, and stirring questions that most of the world is also experiencing alongside them. Adults tend to hide, which makes it more difficult for them to truly connect with others. Even so.
Whether in acting or in our daily lives, when we dare to tell the truth, especially when it’s difficult and we don’t even know how to fully put it into words, we open ourselves to authentic moments of connection—dynamic relationships in which both people are seen—and we hear one another without trying to control or manipulate the other or our own reactions.
So, tell the truth. You’ll immediately raise suspicions, lose friends, and make people uncomfortable… but you’ll also relieve someone’s loneliness, build authentic relationships, and give others a place to be themselves.
Here are some great questions to help you get started from Mamet himself. In the quote, he’s obviously talking to playwrights, but the questions work in any context you can imagine:
“Every scene should be able to answer three questions: Who wants what from whom? What happens if they don’t get it? Why now?”
— David Mamet
Let me know how it goes!
Jill Szoo Wilson 