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Class: The Power in Stillness

Transitioning from a lifetime of theatrical training to acting for a tiny, up-close screen can be confusing, even intimidating. Especially now, with the sudden ubiquity of the taped audition, even booking Broadway or a national tour requires some on-screen storytelling know-how.


This may be old-hat for those who have made their living primarily on the screen, but for actors who have tread the boards their whole career, it is certainly a transition, often (certainly for me) a jarring one. Suddenly a performance that demands and lives best on 40 feet of stage must be intimated through a head-and-maybe-shoulders glass box, sometimes viewed on a phone or tablet. Playing the balcony must become quiet, focused intensity.


This has its own set of roadblocks: often, actors who have trained their whole lives to "make big choices" are encouraged to tone it down, dial it back. The result is usually something that may clearly belong on a screen but fails to take full advantage of the dramatic dynamism of the scene.


A teacher I greatly admire who specializes in training theater actors for the camera said this on my first day of class: "If anyone tells you to make smaller choices, punch 'em in the fuckin' throat." While I do not personally advise that you do this for your first round of auditions, the principle is clear: We do not need to diminish our art to fit their screen. The choices can remain, the size and shape of our dramatic interpretations and objectives do not need to change. We as actors must instead fill our toolbag with new techniques and practices to afford the same dramatic impact that we've become used to providing in Pearl or Ripley Grier or Shetler Studios (RIP).


I'll attach a clip of Damian Lewis performing Marc Antony's speech in Julius Caesar. Watch it, and remember that these words are meant in both the context of the play and in the application of our craft to be spoken before and to THOUSANDS. Shakespeare never heard of Vimeo. Despite this, Mr. Lewis is able to convey a wealth of dynamic intensities and tactics through a very tight screen. He does not tread, he does not turn, he does not yell.


Conversely, a 29 year old Marlon Brando gives a famously beautiful rendition of this same speech in Mankiewicz's film. While he is indeed on celluloid, his performance is an acutely theatrical one: he is given the traditional dais to pace, he shouts his passion to the teeming thousands, he turns his body away to hide his shame and emotion (Please also see Ray Fearon's RSC take). These wonderful storytelling tools must leave our bags when we record auditions at home.


I would contest that neither of these performances, despite their clear differences, are anything short of stunning. Mr. Sondheim says that "content dictates form" and he is (always) right, but we as auditioning actors are not in control of the form. Our task then becomes a mixture of economical and thoughtful reinterpretation of our tactical (though not our strategic or objective) storytelling.


How can we do this? The simple answer is: stillness. Stillness is not to be confused with a small or lame choice; the power of theatrical stillness is not new, but it can be easily lost in an audition. When we establish stillness, steadiness and calm in our taped auditions, we set up a canvas against which even a subtle, film-sized choice can pop much more effectively. This may be a simple answer, but it is not an easy task, as our instincts and training are often spurring us toward active, physically grand storytelling. Stillness does something else (in my experience): make the audience lean forward and actively listen, even make their own inferences about the character and narrative. Stillness is mysterious and scary and interesting. Stillness demands that the listener do the work, and that's what compelling storytellers do.


So how do we overcome a lifetime of making physically big choices? Same way we do everything as craftspeople: we look to our fundamentals and we practice. We ground ourselves. We breathe with purpose. We present what we think the scene should be without compromising the dramatic heft and devastation of the content.



Ken

Brando:


Lewis:


Fearon:


 
 
 

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