Letters to a Young Actor (1 of 2 free samples)
COPYRIGHT
Letters to a Young Actor by Robert Brustein. Copyright 2005 by Robert Brustein
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Dedicated to the Company of Actors
1 Prologue
Dear Young . . .
But what shall I call you? If we are going to spend time together as writer and reader, you must have a name. Are you male or female, gay or straight? What generic title can appropriately identify the variety of genders and types you represent? Faced with a similar dilemma, Shakespeare made Rosalind take the name of Zeus's cup bearer, Ganymede, after she had put on tights and traveled to the Forest of Arden in As You Like It. And Viola, in Shakespeare's other major pants role, decided to call herself Caesario after a similar metamorphosis from feminine to masculine in Twelfth Night. Shakespeare's plays are full of sexual ambiguity (so is his poetry--in the Sonnets, he calls his patron the "master-mistress of my passion"). Perhaps it will be simplest just to call you by the name Chekhov used in his letters to Olga Knipper, the woman who later became his wife: "Dear Actor.
" Well, then, dear young Actor, permit me to play a part, too--your guide in this book--and walk you through your career on the stage; we'll begin at the very beginning, when you first thought about becoming an actor, move through college and advanced training to your first steps as a performer, then, finally, arrive at your evolution as a fully fledged member of the acting profession.
I have made this trip with hundreds of young people since I first started training actors at the Yale School of Drama in 1966. I look forward to renewing that journey with you.
I. STARTING OUT
2
Inching into the Profession
Where shall we start, dear Actor? Perhaps with the question everybody asks at one time or another: Why act? Why, indeed. Those who achieve wealth and fame in the theatre are in a distinct minority. Most actors are obliged to make enormous sacrifices to work in the profession. Is it worth the sacrifice? What are the advantages? Why become an actor at all?
We will answer some of these questions as we go along, but let's begin where every actor begins, that is, the moment you were bitten by the theatre bug and encountered the pleasures and terrors of being on a stage. A lot of us had this experience in elementary school, when we were asked to stand up and recite a poem, or in summer camp, when coerced into a play. How can you forget the first time you dressed up and pretended to be someone else? How can you forget, having finally memorized your assigned scene or speech or song, facing your first audience and seeing their faces gleam with expectation while you trembled with fear and blurted out your lines? And how can you ever forget that first delicious burst of applause?
Let's take a moment to consider that applause. Many actors recall the sound of people clapping as the event that determined the course of their lives. The notion that something you did before an audience, even as a child, could elicit such an audible expression of gratitude is bound to invade your consciousness and make you feel important in an entirely new way. Your parents may tell you every day of your life that you're wonderful. But for many years to come you will try to recapture that doting view before audiences of strangers. Applause is an experience that has become part of your destiny.
Yes, there is vanity involved in following the theatrical profession. A lot of it. But what is wrong with seeking approval and endorsement through your own professional achievements? Is that any less commendable than acquiring power, wealth, and influence in the corporate world? Admittedly, your major objective may be your own personal satisfactions, but the arts are among the few places where you can achieve satisfaction by giving others pleasure as well.
Everyone has a different memory of his or her first moment on stage. My first acting experience was the result of being unable, at the age of five, to pronounce the letter l. My parents, worried about a child who "ricked a rorrypop" and "ried down to go to sleep," made me take lessons designed to overcome my lazy l. These were offered at an institution known as "Elocution School" (I called it "Erocution School"). What my innocent parents didn't know was that Elocution School was actually a drama school for kids, the stage being in such disrepute in those days that drama teachers had to disguise children's theatre as a form of speech therapy.
After a lot of drilling in rote phrases such as "the lion leaped over the long lagoon," I eventually managed to solve my l problem. But at the same time that I was improving my elocution, I was performing roles in plays. The warm reception I received for these performances, even from my parents, who would have been horrified to think their child could ever consider an actor's life, were my first realization that certain kinds of work were also species of play. This--along with the pleasure of the stage and the visceral thrill of the applause--may be the reason a drama is the only art form called both a work and a play.
