The other day, while sifting through my Pile of Chaos (potential readings for my fall classes), I uncovered my beloved copy of Thornton Wilder’s essay, “Some Thoughts on Playwriting”. Written in a sure but quiet tone, it illuminates some of the differences between theatrical literature and fiction, describing (in a wonderful phrase) the “eternal present” in which performance exists. Theatrical narrative does not unfold as fiction does, page by page, at the pace of the reader; it’s governed by the passage of live time, bound fluttering in the birdcage the immediate moment.
Such an elegant insight; there are so many in that short essay. But I’d completely forgotten his list of the three characteristics good actors tend to possess:
“1. An observant and analyzing eye for all modes of behavior about us…and for the signs of thought and emotion in one’s self and in others.
2. The strength of imagination and memory whereby the actor may, at the indication in the author’s text, explore his store of observations and represent the details of appearance and the intensity of the emotions…and through imagination extend them to intenser degrees and to differing characterizations.
3. A physical co-ordination whereby the force of these inner realizations may be communicated to voice, face, and body.”
He goes on to say that possession of all three of these qualities is extremely rare.
I’ve been thinking about the actor’s strange art as I watch NYTW’s production of Michael Weller’s BEAST gather momentum (see previous post). All month, six days a week, I’ve been observing an extraordinarily deft team of actors as they dig into this new script, finding the contours of their fledgeling characters. Creating compelling characters is one of Weller’s gifts, but he also has a knack for leaving open spaces within them, allowing actors room to interpret and define their specificities–to brand them with an individual stamp. This is vital, for as we know, dramatic characters aren’t fully alive on paper. They’re unborn until they’re embodied; and in the context of new plays, originating actors are the first bodies to give them shape. If the play is still in development and the writer is receptive, the actors sometimes function as living editors; an indirect conversation ignites between performer, play and playwright that takes place in the rehearsal room– in the form of the actors’ instinctive choices– as well as on the page, as the writer absorbs these impulses and kneads them into the script.
This is where, in excellent actors, those qualities of Wilder’s quicken into life. Through observation and analysis, most actors accrue a stockpile of behavioral observations that they keep at the ready to apply to a text. Through training and experience, many acquire a sharp acuity in the craft of physical representation. But the mark of a truly brilliant actor seems to be found in Wilder’s second point: imaginative ability. William Plomer writes, “Talent is the ability to connect the seemingly unconnected.” This is what great actors do: from their vast mental files of potential human responses, they seem to pull out and lay on those that tilt text in unexpected ways. The better their powers of observation and memory, the greater the range of choices they will have at hand in each moment. The more adept they are at technique and physical training, the more realistic their representations of action will be. But the sharper their imaginations are, the more they can crawl underneath the surface of a script and break it open for a writer, unearthing the linkages in a work that the writer himself may not be aware of, sparking subconscious connections that were invisible before the actor revealed them.
Like good acting, all good writing seems to require a heightened ability to observe and analyze behavior, and a sweeping imagination. But playwriting in particular rewards porousness, a willingness to capitulate to the best idea in the room: a generosity required only in the collaborative arts. It’s not a lone craft. It’s made of superimposed interpretations: from the writer’s to the director’s to the actor’s to, finally, the audience’s. And the maddening thing is, you have to wait until that final layer falls on opening night to really know what you’ve made.