When I was in high school, I was stupid enough to pay some quack of a teacher an extraordinary amount of money to "help me become a better actor." I was 16, woefully naive, and believed this man had the ability to inject me with the ability to be "a star."
Acting classes ran almost every evening at his studio in southwest Calgary. On any given night the room was filled with at least a dozen other hopeful actors from every conceivable demographic. There was Natasha, a recent immigrant from Haiti who seemed to spend all her time listening to Janet Jackson. There was Paulette, a thirty-something housewife who tried to get everyone to pay her $10 for a Tarot card reading. There was Abe, a tall and gangling dude who looked like a redheaded Abraham Lincoln (Abe also happened to be 90 per cent blind.) There was Dana, a morbidly obese warehouse worker who never spoke above a mumble. There was Katja and Danny, a teenaged sister and brother duo. There was Bobby, an unfunny comedian who believed our esteemed teacher could make him a comedy superstar.
Every night, our teacher would ask us how much money we'd brought him. He had us all convinced that we'd be earning comfortable livings as actors once we finally paid up. He was a charlatan and a criminal.
The teacher gave us all a dozen monologues (I believe monologues are both useless and boring but that's another post altogether) which we were to memorize and then perform in front of our peers. Our peers would then offer constructive criticism - a process I still consider to be strikingly unhelpful.
One of my monologues was spoken by a gay man who was dealing with his lover's illness. (The man was in his 40s, which makes it pretty stupid to ask a 16-year-old to perform it, but I'll let it go at that.) Anyway, I did my best with the bloody monologue and when it was done, the teacher asked my fellow students if they had any comments. Paulette stood and said: "I'm sorry, but I just don't believe that you're gay."
I actually took it as a compliment.
Still, there was murmured agreement throughout the room. My instructor, who sipped coffee and ate Kentucky Fried Chicken throughout my performance, agreed too.
"It isn't enough to just pretend to be gay," he implored me. "You actually have to be gay."
Good thing I wasn't portraying Malcolm X. My instructor would have told me I have to be black.
I felt like a failure. Later, I got very angry but I didn't realize what I was angry about. I think most people probably have a bullshit detector buried deep in their souls. Sometimes it goes off even though we're not consciously aware of any bullshit being spread. Just being around it can set it off.
Later, while reading David Mamet's Writing in Restaurants, I realized the extent of the bullshit. My instructor, and my classmates at large, were insisting that I had to make myself gay in order for the monologue to be compelling. In fact, all I had to do was commit myself to the words. I had to accept that the words being spoken were heartfelt, that the speaker was not a caricature but an actual human being. Other than that, I simply had to speak loudly and clearly. The audience didn't have to believe "I" was gay. The audience would simply accept that the character is gay because the playwright, the director and the actor give them no reason to think otherwise.
Denzel Washington is not a Muslim but there's no reason to think his Malcom X isn't one in Spike Lee's biopic of the same name.
Alec Baldwin probably isn't a Christian but we believe he is when he channels Jimmy Swaggart in Great Balls of Fire.
And Tom Hanks isn't gay but we believe his Andrew Beckett is in Philadelphia.
Mamet is right. A play should be about a character, not a condition.
In that essay, Mamet talks about the challenge of playing a king. He says the actor's task shouldn't be about trying to adopt a "regal bearing" (which, he rightly points out, isn't necessarily shared by all members of royalty and, in fact, is possessed by those who have no royal blood at all.) Instead, he should simply speak the words, find his motivation, and trust that the audience will accept him as a king because they have been given no reason to not accept him as one.
Kings, like everyone else, have needs and desires that they seek to meet. An actor who goes onstage with the goal of acting kingly will probably fail (and probably bore the audience too.) Instead, the actor should analyze the text to see what the king wants. A service, perhaps. Maybe something as simple as a drink of water.
I wish I could go back in time. I'd kick that old acting teacher square in the balls, take all the money I paid him, and used it to buy a good used car instead. My life probably would have been a whole lot more fun.
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