SHIT AND CHEEZ-WHIZ ON RYE TOAST; CONGENITAL EVERLASTING FUCKSTICK; RAT-FUCKING SONOFABITCH BASTARD

or, AN ACTOR PREPARES, LATE

Okay, so maybe the title is a little long.

Last night, 6 March 2008, was our (Folding Chair Classical Theatre's) second actual performance of Our Country's Good by Timberlake Wertenbaker. It also represented the single worst moment I've ever had onstage. I am playing Midshipman Harry Brewer, the convict John Arscott, and Captain Jemmy Campbell, RM. Arscott and Campbell are kind of fun characters, and utterly negligible in terms of stress compared to the role of Harry Brewer, which is a pisser. That dirtbag Harry has been more trouble to me than Arscott and Campbell and all my previous Folding Chair roles put together, with a few visits to the dentist thrown in.

Harry is haunted by guilt, and is slowly going insane. There is a pivotal scene for Harry early in the second act, called "Harry Brewer Sees The Dead." And in that scene, last night, I hit a sudden, total crisis of confidence. I actually dropped a few lines in the single speech I've worked hardest at memorizing, because suddenly everything I was doing seemed monstrously false to me. I became excessively conscious of the audience, and convinced that they didn't believe a word of it, and that they were just waiting for my ranting and posturing to be over so that the serious actors would come back and start entertaining them again.

In the scene, Harry is alone onstage, except that he's talking to the ghosts of people whose hangings he supervised, if he didn't actually execute them. It isn't easy to tell, but I suspect that Wertenbaker doesn't believe in the ghosts; as far as she's concerned, Harry is just going crazy. Keeping Ingmar Bergman's Fanny&Alexander dictum in mind -- "It doesn't matter whether the ghosts exist; what matters is that we're haunted by them" -- Marcus Geduld (my director) and I decided in rehearsal that the scene was much more interesting if we assumed the ghosts were real, and anyway it was the only way the scene was playable from Harry's point of view.

But last night, with rehearsals well behind us and a paying (if small) audience in front of me, I suddenly found out that the scene still wasn't playable from my point of view. (I have no idea how I got through it on opening night.) It's easy enough to say that it's because I don't believe in ghosts; but I think the real problem is that I don't believe in these ghosts, or at least, I don't know how to look as if I do. It is also easy enough to say that Timberlake Wertenbaker, may the water in her commode freeze solid, wrote a fucking unactable bastard of a scene and left it floating there in the middle of the play like a turd in a punchbowl. If you think all this scatological stuff is excessive, you should have heard me on the train last night and this morning. The utter misery and discouragement of that scene last night turned me into a sort of lesser Harry Brewer; I've been talking to myself a lot since I escaped the Theatre Lab and the scene of my utter degradation.

Mind you, all this may be inside my head, though I suspect it isn't. Nobody commented to me that my performance had all the emotional impact of a pigeon farting across the street; that's just my own assessment of it, from the moment when it suddenly seemed that one hell of a mountain had labored mightily to bear a mouse pathetic even by the usual mouse standard.

Now there are at least two ways of preventing that artistic autosodomy from ever happening again. One is to announce that I am quitting the show. But of course, that would be the end of me. So we won't discuss it.

Another is to work out a way of playing this unplayable cocksucking punchbowl butt-pastry of a scene that doesn't leave the audience nodding off and my ego sprayed in nasty little gummy bits all over the brick walls of the 3rd floor theatre at 78th Street. But if two months of rehearsal didn't already accomplish that, then what will accomplish it at this late date?

Believe it or not, I have not once consulted A Practical Handbook For The Actor since my first production with Folding Chair nearly four years ago. Waffles, Don John, and the Storyteller, I suppose, were not complicated enough roles to really require it. I wish I'd consulted it for this play from the very beginning. Purely and simply because I am going to go up to Garrison, N.Y. next week to help a friend with his eighth-grade production of Much Ado About Nothing (a task to which I currently feel fucktastically equal, emotionally as well as professionally), I had a copy checked out of the library already. I couldn't face it last night, but I reread it on the train this morning. (It isn't a long book.)

And it has now hit me full force, what should have occurred to me ages ago: The question of Belief is actually inconsequential. Trying to get myself to believe in the ghosts is going to be fruitless. Trying to visualize the ghosts, conjure them in my head and so on... it's like the book's dictum against playing emotions, because emotions can desert you. I mean, even if I could make myself believe in the ghosts, would the belief of the audience necessarily follow?

So, let me see. Here's the tetchy little monologue which is causing me so much trouble and making me regress into an embittered, sulky twelve-year-old state of mind. Harry is alone. He is drinking. He is "speaking in the different voices of his tormenting ghosts and answering in his own":

"Duckling? Duckling! 'She's on the beach, Harry, waiting for her young Handy Baker.' Go away, Handy, go away. 'The dead never go away, Harry. You thought you'd be the only one to dance the buttock ball with your trull, but no one owns a whore's cunt, Harry, you rent.' I didn't hang you. 'You wanted me dead.' I didn't. 'You wanted me hanged.' All right, I wanted you hanged. Go away! (pause) 'Death is horrible, Mr Brewer. It's dark, there's nothing.' Thomas Barrett, you were hanged because you stole from the stores. 'I was seventeen, Mr Brewer.' You'd lived a very wicked life. 'I didn't.' That's what you said that morning. 'I have led a very wicked life.' 'I had to say something, Mr Brewer, and make sense of dying. I'd heard the Reverend say we were all wicked, but it was horrible, my body hanging, my tongue sticking out.' You shouldn't have stolen that food. 'I wanted to live, go back to England. I'd only be twenty-four. I hadn't done it much, not like you.' Duckling! 'I wish I wasn't dead, Mr Brewer. I had plans. I was going to have my farm, drink with friends, feel the strong legs of a girl around me.' You shouldn't have stolen. 'Didn't you ever steal?' No! Yes. But that was different. Duckling! 'Why should you be alive after what you've done?' Duckling! Duckling!"

Then Duckling comes running on, and there's an exchange between the two of them that finishes the scene. That bit I'm more or less okay with, or would be, if I could have any confidence in the monologue that precedes it.

Now, one person can't do that mess. It's not even that it sounds crazy. (That would be a good thing.) It's that it doesn't make any sense. An actual crazy person might do it all in his own voice, and in a rushed monotone, and think he was talking to other people instead of to himself, and he would be a genuine real-life crazy person being crazy, but an audience would not believe him, see, because he hadn't troubled about verisimilitude.

Ha.

So the only way one person can do it is if he's pretending to be three people, or rather one person and two ghosts. So in rehearsals, we broke it up like this:

Harry (where have you flown, my wild woodland dove?; chugging whiskey): Duckling? Duckling!

Ghost Handy (gritty heavy metal monster): She's on the beach, Harry, waiting for her young Handy Baker.

Harry (very worried): Go away, Handy, go away.

Ghost Handy (gritty and vindictive heavy metal monster): The dead never go away, Harry. You thought you'd be the only one to dance the buttock ball with your trull, but no one owns a whore's cunt, Harry, you rent.

Harry (defensive): I didn't hang you.

Ghost Handy (more of the same): You wanted me dead.

Harry (defensive): I didn't.

Ghost Handy (yet more): You wanted me hanged.

Harry (roaring and waving his arms): All right, I wanted you hanged. Go away!

(Pause.)

Ghost Tommy (falsetto innocence a la mode): Death is horrible, Mr Brewer. It's dark, there's nothing.

Harry (upset; accusatory): Thomas Barrett, you were hanged because you stole from the stores.

Ghost Tommy (wronged; wounded): I was seventeen, Mr Brewer.

Harry (counterattack): You'd lived a very wicked life.

Ghost Tommy (defensive): I didn't.

Harry (briefed for the prosecution): That's what you said that morning. "I have led a very wicked life."

Ghost Tommy (explanatory; whining a bit): I had to say something, Mr Brewer, and make sense of dying. I'd heard the Reverend say we were all wicked, but it was horrible, my body hanging, my tongue sticking out.

Harry (blustering): You shouldn't have stolen that food.

Ghost Tommy (more whining): I wanted to live. I wanted to go back to England. I'd only be twenty-four. I hadn't done it much, not like you.

Harry (panicking): Duckling!

Ghost Tommy (whining; waxing rhapsodic): I wish I wasn't dead, Mr Brewer. I had plans. I was going to have my farm, drink with friends, feel the strong legs of a girl around me.

Harry (more bluster): You shouldn't have stolen.

Ghost Tommy (just a hint of I-know-more-than-you-think-I-do): Didn't you ever steal?

Harry (very upset and angry; leaping forward): No! (calmer) Yes. But that was different. Duckling!

Ghost Handy (Back In Black): Why should you be alive after what you've done?

Harry (losing his shit for good): Duckling! Duckling!

So what we had was a scene with three people in it, all being played by one actor. Me. And I had to make the three characters clearly distinguishable via changes of voice, shifting back and forth between them rapidly, and do it in such a way that it seemed to the audience that there really were two other people up there with Harry somewhere.

And on the seventh day, I'll rest. This sort of thing might be meat and drink to Robin Williams, but Robin Williams I'm not.

Marcus thought (and so did I) that it was enough to differentiate between the three voices: deep and gravelly for Ghost Handy; falsetto and vulnerable for Ghost Tommy. I may be all right at keeping the three voices apart, if I concentrate, and practice, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm playing emotions rather than actions throughout the scene. If the emotions dry up (as they did last night), then I'm suddenly standing out there, under hot lights, with my dork in my hand.

So what I'm thinking I have to do here is work out literal actions, essential actions, and as-ifs -- following the Practical Handbook method -- for three characters, and play them all in the same scene, sometimes playing two of them simultaneously. And I have to figure all this out by tonight.

So you get to watch me work. Maybe you aren't interested in reading about all this, but I'm very interested in writing about it, and this is my blog, so go read a Dragonball Z fan fiction or something.

Hm, let's see now. Harry first, the retard. What is he literally doing?

He's talking to himself.

Shit.

Break it down bit by bit:

He is confronted by the ghost of Handy Baker.
He attempts to banish Handy's ghost.
He defends himself against Handy's accusations.
He succeeds, temporarily, in banishing Handy.
He is confronted by the ghost of Thomas Barrett.
He counterattacks much more readily with Tommy, perhaps because Tommy was a convict and not a fellow-officer. Tommy was younger, weaker, a definite inferior. But Tommy was also more innocent than Handy, and Tommy had never done Harry any harm.
So he manages to lose the argument with Tommy, a mere peach-fuzz boy ghost.
He freaks out when Handy returns.

Overall: 1. He is Drinking And Very Unwillingly Talking To Dead People. (The drinking part is a fairly important external, and I haven't given enough attention to it.)

The essential action? 2. Defending Himself Against Accusations, And Counterattacking With Accusations Of His Own.

I think I knew that much instinctively, without writing it all out; it was the back-and-forth from Harry to Ghost to Harry that was giving me the real problems. Nevertheless, let's keep doing this by the book, since instinct has failed us and cojones have shriveled.

As-if? It's as if I were on trial for murder, and a defending attorney, and a prosecuting attorney, all at once.

Hm. I've never done that.

It's as if I were being accused by former shipmates of causing the death of some of them through negligence, and I'm insisting that their own negligence contributed to their deaths more than mine did.

Ugh. I've never done that either, but I can imagine what it's like all too easily; I imagined it enough times before I finally got the hell out of the service.

Ah, but! The Practical Handbook mensches recommend against choosing an as-if that makes you go Ugh. It should be fun to play, or, for preference, hot.

Hmmm. Is there a hot way of doing a scene like this that's true to the intention? Since Harry and the two ghosts he's plagued by are all male, there probably isn't a hot way of doing the scene that wouldn't be completely gay, and while that might be fun as advanced acting fieldwork, I think recent events demonstrate that I'm still in the Gerber's-and-Jell-O stage, so maybe we should settle for a way of doing it that would be fun. If such an insect can be found.

Hm. Might it actually be fun to imagine myself in that situation? Just off the top of my head, no. Marcus thinks that kind of thing is fun; I don't. I think Ferris Wheels and anime are fun. Chacun a son gout.

So why am I an actor? Good question. Probably I'm just a showoff.

So if we can't find anything that's hot, if we can't even find anything that's fun, maybe we should settle for halfway playable. It would sure be an improvement over the present situation. So then: Defending Himself Against Accusations, And Counterattacking With Accusations Of His Own.

Tools: reason, accuse, command, bluster -- drunkenly, and wig out when none of those work.

Not very encouraging. Perhaps we should just say "scream" instead of "wig out" because I know now from experience that you can't play wigging out; you can only look at some actions people perform when they are wigging out, and play those.

Anyway. "Fuck all that, we've gotta get on with these." What is Handy Baker doing in this scene?

He surprises Harry in his tent.
He plants doubt in Harry's mind about Duckling's faithfulness.
He accuses Harry of desiring his death.
He suggests that Harry is the one who deserves death.

1. He is hounding Harry.
2. He is playing on Harry's uncertainty, guilt, fear.

Tools: insinuation, accusation, goading.

It's as if I were talking to a drunk friend at a party, and convincing him to take off all his clothes and take a dump in the punchbowl.

Now if I could be Handy for the whole scene, this would be buckets of fun, and even, in a way, hot. That is way sexy, a ghost tormenting a human being. At least, that's my first reaction. On the other hand, I get to do a lot of oppressing in this play, one live human being to another, as Harry and as Captain Campbell, and even a little bit as Arscott. And that's not so much fun. What makes it okay is that most of the time I have company. Hm. Brad, as the harsh disciplinarian Major Robbie Ross, has to be the driving force behind most of the oppression in this show. Is that fun for him? Difficult? I should ask him.

Anyway. I can play all that. The trouble is, I have to do it all with my voice. Marcus was fairly clear that the body should be Harry's body the whole time; it's just Harry's voice the ghosts are taking over.

That's been one of the major problems with this, I see now. My movements are too often constrained, pigeonlike, barely perciptible movements of the kind Marcus hates, because I'm concentrating on putting ghosts into my voice. But if I put more energy into Harry's body, that will suck energy away from the ghosts.

So a major thing I have to do, tonight before rehearsal, is work on doing both at once. And I have to work on it more this weekend, between shows. I don't think I can do such a thing really well, but I obviously have to get as good at it as I can, as soon as I can.

But wait, we haven't even done poor Tom yet.

He tells Harry how horrible death is.
He defends himself, with simple eloquence, against Harry's bluster and counterpunch.
He describes what he would have done if he were still alive.
He suggests that he knows Harry's own record is less than spotless.

1. He is, at one and the same time, hounding Harry, and defending himself against him.
2. He is pleading for his life back.

That second one is a bit fanciful, but it seems to me the liveliest way of playing him. "You stole something from me; now give it back."

It's as if someone I thought was a friend used his connection with my boss to get me fired, and I was going to starve to death if I couldn't talk him into giving me my job back.

Hmmm, not quite. Work on that.

Tools: Pleading, cajoling, insinuation. Whining? Is it only human for the boy to whine, or does he lose sympathy that way? Work on that.

Writing all this out only helps so much, of course. You learn to act by acting, not by writing. But my rough plan is here, and I must try to put it into action in a matter of hours. I hope you have enjoyed this look at the creative process as inspired by blind panic.

Lessons learned? EVEN A TRUSTWORTHY DIRECTOR CANNOT AND SHOULD NOT BE TRUSTED WITH EVERYTHING. I haven't been shouldering enough of the burden. I assumed that as long as I took direction as well as I could, did everything Marcus asked, and he ran out of things to correct -- or at least, stopped correcting me -- I was doing okay. I should have known way better than that. I didn't take enough responsibility for my own performance, and last night's debacle is the result.

And here's one I thought I'd already learned years ago, but apparently not: IN THE ARTS, "GOOD ENOUGH" IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH. Marcus gave me only so much direction -- possibly because he had eight other actors and a mass of details and organization to concentrate on besides, rather than because he was really satisfied. I knew that it was possible for me to go deeper than I had been going, but because I was tired, and what I'd done seemed to be good enough for the moment, I stopped there to rest. Last night was the price for this unjustified confidence. For the future: if you know you can do better, then do it. There is that dictum "Never do your damnedest; your next-to-damnedest is far better," but that obviously doesn't apply to an actor who hasn't troubled to find either one.