To Train or Not to Train
(Excerpt from a 1978 text written by an actor)
Many people believe that training in a drama school is a waste of time.
Acting, they claim, is something you either have or you don’t. How can you teach someone to do something that is either in their nature or not? After all, we are all, to some extent, performers.
In fact, “to perform” can easily mean “to hold someone’s attention.” We all manage to do that from time to time. Acting exists within everyone. It is an early and instinctive form of expression. We learn to live through imitation—yet “the art of acting” is by no means mere imitation (many actors, in fact, are terrible at imitating).
If acting were just a form of expression (nothing more) or merely an entertaining way to “grab” attention, then yes, there would be no reason to train for it.
Great storytellers are not trained, are they? (Though there are plenty of seminars out there titled “Find Your Confidence” or “Become Significant” and “Learn to Read Others”—actors, whether they like it or not, must learn all of these things.)
Maybe communication with an audience cannot be taught to someone who lacks the innate ability. And of course, this ability is an integral part of an actor’s craft on stage.
However, there are many aspects of theater and acting that a young actor must be introduced to, tested in, and trained for before even starting a career in the field.
Drama school must be—and at the very least, is—a bridge between amateurism and professionalism.
Good actors “play” only within the theatrical convention. They communicate with the audience through an imaginary world, a world of make-believe.
An actor can exist and perform in any style, any historical period, or even in the future.
We can play and interpret anything imaginable; we are not limited by the narrow confines of our “culture” or restrictive ways of living.
We may be asked to play men, women, ages older or younger than our own.
We may be asked to “speak” in verse or prose, fast or slow, dramatically or comically, while standing on our heads or lying on our stomachs.
We may be asked to sing, juggle, or perform the movements of a craftsman with the same precision as if we had trained alongside them for twenty-five years.
We do not always work or perform at “normal” rhythms. Drama is “Life without the boring parts” (as Redgrave put it—while in life, something might take three years, in theater, it may take a single line. A great example is the character Vera in A Month in the Country by Turgenev, where in the fourth act, overnight, Vera transforms from a girl into a woman. “Today,” she announces, “I am a woman”).
You may have to perform in an exaggerated manner, with accelerated action as if in an old film, or you may need to act mysteriously slow, in an atmospheric way (with adrenaline freezing your every move).
Is that “normal” behavior?
I don’t think so.
Can just anyone do it?
I don’t think so.
Go outside.
How many people walk correctly?
How many of them would you put on stage to represent “normal” human behavior?
Of course, there is no such thing as truly “normal” behavior, but if you bring inappropriate and unjustifiable quirks or mannerisms from your life onto the stage, they will prevent the audience from accepting you as anything other than yourself.
How many people do you know who can speak (both literally and figuratively) clearly to an audience of one hundred?
A thousand?
Ten thousand?
Very few.
Actors must be able to speak to thousands, and often to the deaf or blind—and I don’t just mean the actually deaf or blind.
Do you think it’s easy to stay calm and focused in a fictional world when the lights are blindingly bright?
When you can’t even see the audience who paid to watch you?
Can just anyone do it?
I don’t think so.
Is it normal to repeat a performance every night, at the same time, day after day, twice on Saturdays?
The answer is, of course, no.
You need to learn a few things before making this your lifelong profession.
If we don’t do our job well, we won’t get work—at least not in a society overflowing with actors, not in a society of philistines like ours.
On Magic and Illusions
“There is a myth among amateurs, optimists, and above all, the clueless, that beyond a certain level of success, famous artists retreat to some kind of Elysian Fields where they are untouchable by criticism, and their work materializes effortlessly. HA!”
—Mark Matousek
In a dark theater, a man in a tuxedo waves his hands in the air and—PRESTO!—doves appear.
We call it magic.
In a sunlit studio, a painter waves their hands and an entire world materializes.
We call it art.
Sometimes, the difference isn’t clear. Imagine you’ve just attended an exhibition and witnessed an astonishing body of work—full of power, coherence, range, and purpose.
Near the entrance, there is a statement from the artist:
“This work materialized exactly as the artist conceived it. The process was inevitable and effortless.”
You freeze. “Wait a minute,” you think—your own work never feels inevitable or effortless. And for that reason, you start wondering:
Maybe making art requires “something”—something special, something extraordinary, perhaps a magical ingredient that you simply don’t have!
The belief that “real art” contains some elusive magical element creates pressure.
Now, your work must prove that it contains that magic, too.
Wrong. Very wrong.
Expecting your work to prove something is a path to disaster.
After all, if artists share any common belief about magic, it is the fatalistic suspicion that when their work is well-received, they have no idea how they pulled it off—it was just a stroke of unexpected success. But when their work fails, of course, it’s an omen.
If you believe in the fairy tale of magic, then every time you hear someone praise another artist’s skills, you will feel less capable.
The magic of others is theirs.
You are not lacking magic.
You do not need magic.
It has nothing to do with you. Do you hear me? THE END.
“The reason I didn’t make it, sir, is…”
(Excerpt from the text by R. Bernard)
The problem with “reasons” for not doing something—or worse, for not even planning to do something—is that they are essentially excuses dressed up as justifications.
Our society loves reasons, adores explanations.
Maybe because the illusion that everything happens for a reason is comforting.
Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work that way.
There’s a joke about a man sitting in the middle of Times Square in Manhattan, snapping his fingers.
A woman approaches and asks, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you snapping your fingers?”
He replies, “This is how I keep tigers away, ma’am.”
She says, “Sir, aside from the zoo, there are no tigers for thousands of miles.”
“See? It works!” he answers.
Reasons are bullshit!
Yes, it sounds harsh.
But reasons exist because if people didn’t explain their behavior, they would often appear irrational.
Here’s the paradox: we need reasons to seem rational, but using reasons also prevents us from taking full responsibility for our actions.
If we stop using reasons to justify our behavior, we increase our chances of actually changing it.
Reasons are often excuses to hide the fact that we are not ready or willing to prioritize something in our lives.
So, let’s be honest: Reasons are bullshit!
4o
O
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