Robert Cohen - Theatre, Brief Version-McGraw-Hill Education (2016)

48 Chapter 3 The Actor
Actions of physical vehemence, and
actors who can make them look
real, have been a critical element in
theatre—particularly in tragedies—
since the days of Aeschylus and
Sophocles. Here, in 2014, Aasif
Mandvi and Heidi Ambruster are
the husband and wife battling out
their disagreements—enflamed
by alcohol, sexual jealousy, and
a sudden, volcanic outburst of
religious friction, in the 2012
production of Ayad Akhtar’s Pulitzer
Prize–winning Disgraced, which
opened (with a new cast) on
Broadway in 2014. © Sara Krulwich/
The New York Times/Redux
Magic
Are conviction and virtuosity all there is to great acting?
Probably not.
Almost all theatergoers, directors, and critics find a
final acting ingredient, often called “presence,” “magnetism,”
“charisma,” or even “theatre magic,” that has been
felt by audiences throughout the centuries. It is a quality
that, though impossible to define precisely, is undoubtedly
felt. It is a quality we cannot explain except to say
that we know when we are under its spell. The philosophical
term for this kind of spell is the sublime, which
has long history as a component of many art forms. If
you’ve ever stayed in your driveway to finish listening to
a song because it captivated you, or couldn’t take your
eyes off of a painting, or lost all track of time while reading
a book, you have experienced the sublime. The same
is true of actors: they have the ability to ensnare and
entrance us.
This all might sound vague or superstitious, but there
are historical reasons for this sense of magic. We must
always remember that the earliest actor was not a technician
of the theatre but a priest, and that he embodied
not ordinary men but gods. We may witness this apparent
transcendence directly today in certain tribal dramas
in which a shaman or witch doctor is accepted by
cocelebrants as the possessor of divine attributes or as
one possessed by them. The greatest actors still convey
a hint of the divine. Elevated upon a stage and bathed
in light, charged with creating an intensity of feeling, a
vivid characterization, and a well-articulated eloquence
of verbal and physical mastery, the actor becomes
nearly superhuman. This elevation above mere mortals
explains the language we use when discussing superior
actors. They become extraterrestrial beings, or “stars.”
The French call such actors monstres sacrés (“sacred
monsters”).
We also say that actors have “presence.” This quality
of presence—the ability not merely to “be present”
but to project an aura of magic, of the divine—does not
come about as a direct result of studying realistic impersonation
or technical virtuosity. It is more a factor of the
actor’s inner confidence and profundity, which, though
usually a result of the actor’s mastery of his or her craft,
cannot be taught as part of training. It is perhaps frustrating
to find that this final measure of acting depends
so heavily on an elusive, largely inexplicable goal, but
it is also true that every art incorporates elements that
must remain as mysteries. The best acting, like any art,
ultimately transcends the reach of pure descriptive analysis;
it cannot be acquired mechanically. The best acting
strikes chords in the deepest, most inaccessible reaches
of our brains, where it rings with a resonance we do not
fully understand and evokes an ancient reality we no longer
remember. We should celebrate, not lament, this fact.
Becoming an Actor
How does one become an actor? Many thousands ask
this question every year; many thousands, indeed, act
in one or more theatrical productions every year. The
training of actors is a major endeavor in hundreds of colleges,
universities, and conservatories and in both private
and commercial schools across the United States; and