Today I auditioned for a part in a play. My audition consisted of a brief monologue, one I spent about 10 of a planned 15 hours preparing this week, and about which I felt solid if not exceptionally confident.

Yesterday I fell ill, suffering through an all day rehearsal with chills and aching muscles, and today I woke with congestion and a wet cough, and a feeling of hypoxia.

The audition went, I felt, very poorly.

The experience, in hindsight, serves me if nothing else as an illustrative reminder of a basic truth:

You can’t act when you can’t breathe.

A few lines into a first attempt at my monologue I stopped and asked to start again. I was encouraged to do so.

My second attack was successful in that it ran its full course, but otherwise was a mess:

I lost lines I literally knew backwards, often needing to pause in order to recall my next line or beat. And when I did find my lines I had no connection to the movements I had developed in preparation – I would catch myself frozen, or out of expected form and I would attempt to adjust but the adjustment would be a new unconnected movement, causing me to watch my own body and ask “why is my hand doing that”?

By the end of the piece and my “thank you” I felt faint.  Why, because I’m sick?

Yes. But more specifically, because my heart rate was up and my lung volume reduced. I would run out of breath after short phrases rather than full thoughts, and the air I was getting I was using to force my way through.

The only way to compensate would have been to take longer, “unnatural” pauses, in more frequent, “unnatural” way.

Thing is it wouldn’t have been unnatural to take all those breaths and pauses.  That choice would have saved my performance.

My delivery would have been slow and out of keeping with my conception of the voice I wanted to express, butI would have been acknowledging, and living with, my new needs, my new reality, rather than forcing myself to pretend at the reality of my healthy body which I’d had in preparation.  The auditors would have seen that I was sick, seen how it was affecting me, and also seen me connect that sickness to a full expression of my words.

I would have delivered my monologue in an altogether different voice or character or physicality than the one I’d prepared, but that new delivery, whether the auditors dug it or not, would have been true and natural and focused outward instead of inward.

You can’t act without breath.

Approaching Ionesco’s Rhinoceros

Two approaches to rhinoceritis

Ionesco leaves the rhinoceritis transfigurations open ended, vague. While his rhinos were inspired  by fascists, the particular pachyderms of his play are left free to represent any mass movement: fascism communism or what may come.

This ambiguity may be born of generosity to future producers, a gift of open metaphor to the challenges of later days, or may be born of grasping fearful selfishness, afraid to marry his moment of inspiration when a more beautifully relevant moment may later come along-no matter for the producers! The author is dead etc etc.! But how to fill the void left by Ionesco’s lost purpose?

I’ve two opposing impulses in this.

One: Ionesco’s indecision, or at least inspecificity gifts each producer with an opportunity for decision – a gate meant to be closed. On paper, the “tendency to mass-movement” is vague, on stage it must be particular to the time: fascism, communism, apathy. The rhino should shape itself to the species of the day.

Two: room for ghosts: if the masses are uncertain and amorphous; if the mass movement of the time is not only apathy but Fear Born of Uncertainty,Unwillingness To Act,  then the rhino may (must) be undefined, a spirit, a ghost, unwilling to show itself.

This second read provides at least superficial if not deep and irresolvable conflict with the text: Ionesco’s rhinos are destructive, powerful, intimidating. Ghosts can be this too, but not typically by virtue of physical power and force. A ghost does not charge through walls.

Connection in rehearsal

I recently directed two actors in a rehearsal focusing on connection.  I instructed the actors, still working from scripts, to only speak when they found the other actor’s eyes.  If they needed to read, they should stop speaking, then read, then look up when ready to speak. If the other actor was reading, they should wait to speak until the other looked up. If eye contact became upsetting, they should look away, and stop speaking. If the other actor looked away, wait for them to look back, or chase their eyes: move into their field of vision.

There was more to this rehearsal but the above exercise was the most of it.  The reading, of an 8-page play, which had typically taken 20 minutes, took at least double that time, 40-50 minutes. The actors stopped, started, overlapped one another, repeated themselves, occasionally contorted themselves to remain in view and keep speaking. I was riveted by the action, and by the end I was exhausted on their behalf by the act of watching.

Afterward I asked them about their experiences. What struck me most in their responses was something expressed in similar terms by both: while there was a palpable sense of increased ‘connection’ and ‘understanding’, neither felt able to access the emotions they expected, even insisted, they ought to feel.

What to take from this? One lesson might be that emotion is unimportant for the actor. A more useful lesson might be that emotion is misunderstood. When we are observing ourselves, on stage or off, in the moment of emotion, we necessarily have removed ourselves from the experience in order to analyze and affect it. This is a vital skill in daily life: “I am enraged, I will walk away.” But it is something actors tend to be told to unlearn: self-observation distracts from the intensity of a realistic decisive moment on stage. Perhaps inasmuch as this dictate is true, we can glean a lesson in how to effect it – telling someone to “turn off” their external eye or self awareness is absurd, but crowding out, distracting from that superawareness with other tasks might be a fair end-run.

Another lesson might be that intention, effort, is a more useful catalyst for emotion than text. The text drives action, and the action, and its consequences and impediments in execution, drive emotion. What else is emotion than thought expressed through physical tension and release? Conversely I’ve read, I don’t presently recall where, that when an actor-as-character speaks on stage, that text-as-speech must be the ultimate, frustrated expression of impeded action. To want a book in reach results in reaching for that book. To want a book out of reach, held out of reach, results in a cry: “I need that!”

By this last understanding, this rehearsal might be viewed as theatrically incomplete – speech drove action but the need for speech was driven by a force external to the reality of the scene – instructions from the director, and an expectation laid on by the process of rehearsal, and presence of a script. But these external forces are always present. They fade from the audience’s view, and commonly in realistic modern theatre the actors desire to limit their own experience of these external forces, to replace the external artifice with internal artifice, desiring not to complete the scene but to complete the scene’s actions. But this (and here I risk falling too far into a spiralling rabit hole of analysis) artifice is artificial, and perhaps it isn’t so much the erasure of artifice which engages an audience, but the decision to do so. If an actor on stage before an audience has resolved to experience only the world of his character, and the actor glances by accident for a moment at the audience, or the lights above, that actor has broken from his intention. It is the break of intention and not the break of artifice which damns him. After all in mask, in Brechtian, in mimed performances artifice becomes itself an engaging element. In this rehearsal the artifice of the exercise, understood by actor and audience, became an element of theatrical art.