An Actor's Process as Applied to the Role - Point Park University

AN ACTOR’S PROCESS
AS APPLIED TO THE ROLE OF GILBERT MARSHALL IN
THE ROYAL FAMILY
By
Daryll Heysham-Nutt
B.F.A., The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio, 1977
Submitted to the Graduate Faculty in the
Conservatory of Point Park
In partial fulfillment of
the Requirements for the Degree of
Master of Fine Arts
Point Park University
2011

ABSTRACT
This thesis focuses on the development of my creative process and how I applied it, from
pre-rehearsal to performance, in creating the character of Gilbert Marshall in The
Pittsburgh Public Theater’s 2010 production of The Royal Family, written by George S.
Kaufman and Edna Ferber.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank Mr. Ted Pappas for giving me the opportunity to play this role and
for his incisive, generous, and supportive direction.
I also thank Ms. Robin Walsh for her invaluable instruction and guidance
throughout the entire course of my graduate study.
And finally, I thank those instructors and directors on the faculty of the
Conservatory of Performing Arts at Point Park University who have contributed to my
growth during the past three years. In alphabetical order, they are John Amplas, Dr. Kyle
Bostian, Bridget Connors, Rodger Henderson, Richard Keitel, Ronald Allan-Lindblom,
Sheila McKenna, John Shepard, and Scott Wise.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Faculty Endorsement………………………………………………………………………i
Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………ii
Acknowledgements………………………………………………………………………iii
Table of Contents…………………………………………………………………………iv
Part 1: Statement…………………………………………………………………………..1
Part II: Project Summary………………………………………………………………….2
Part III: My Core Process—Foundation and Development………………………………4
Part IV: The Royal Family—Pre-rehearsal………………………………………………18
Part V: The Royal Family—Rehearsal.…………………………………………………..26
Part VI: The Royal Family—Performance……………………………………………….38
Part VII: Conclusion……………………………………………………………………..43
Works Cited……………………………………………………………………………...46
Works Consulted…………………………………………………………………………48
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Part I: Statement
My acting process has given me the freedom and the skills to succeed artistically,
which provides me with great personal satisfaction and growth. It has also given me the
flexibility to be able to adapt and work cooperatively with other theatre artists, enabling
me to find fairly regular employment in this most precarious of professions.
I believe that the creation and execution of every role is unique. It’s a one-of-a-
kind process and experience that not only cannot be duplicated, but duplication should
not be strived for or attempted. Even if an actor tried to rigidly employ exactly the same
method of working and creative process to each and every role, the myriad of variables
would inevitably create a different experience and result. Apart from the obvious
differences of role and material, the other variables include the director, designers, fellow
actors, rehearsal and performance venues, time-frame, and the actor’s constant growth
process (age, life experience, knowledge, etc.). If we suppose that an actor were to play
the same role twice in his career, a twenty-five year old actor who performs Macbeth
with three weeks of evening rehearsals for a church-basement production will surely
create his second Macbeth very differently if he is in his forties, working with a
Grotowski-inspired director, rehearsing for months, and performing in a 1,000-seat
amphitheatre. If we make the further supposition that the actor’s approach and process
has somehow remained identical—unaltered by fifteen year’s worth of artistic growth
and life experiences—then the host of variables in the theatrical equation would still
undoubtedly affect his process and the result.
For me to be truly successful in practicing my craft, I need to have and utilize a
“core process,” a reliable method of working. My process has been years in the making
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and is still being refined to this day. It is based upon classroom training, from my teen
years to the present, and has been honed through extensive and diverse stage experience,
ranging from Shakespeare to Wilde to Tracy Letts. In addition, I strive to be open to the
variables that will alter or affect that process. In order to honor my own artistic integrity
and to be a successful working actor, I must bring all of myself into the rehearsal room,
have clear ideas of what I need to accomplish, and also remain flexible, willing, and able
to work in the way expected of me by such personnel as my director, artistic director,
producer, and my fellow actors. I may also be required to make adjustments according to
set, costume, and other technical elements. While adjusting to and incorporating these
variables, I endeavor to stay true to my process, which includes script analysis, extensive
research and its application, my well-rounded training, and my instincts, which have been
honed by four decades of stage experience. I believe that my process served me very well
in creating the role of Gilbert Marshall in Kaufman and Ferber’s The Royal Family.
Part II: Project Summary
My involvement in this project came about when Ted Pappas, the producer and
artistic director of the Pittsburgh Public Theater, contacted me in the spring of 2010. He
was directing The Royal Family, the opening production of the fall season, and he invited
me to play the role of Gilbert Marshall. The family of the title is the Cavendish clan, a
theatrical dynasty that’s loosely modeled on the Barrymore family and especially real-life
siblings John and Ethel, who are the basis for the characters of Tony and Julie Cavendish.
The character of Gil Marshall is a successful and very wealthy businessman who, twenty
years before the play begins, was romantically involved with Julie (daughter to Fanny
and mother to Gwen). Ted first contacted me by email, and in his own words,
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It’s a terrific role, and pivotal to the play and my production. It is a
smashing play, challenging, worth doing, big, and I believe, significant.
George Kaufman’s daughter is delighted that we are producing it, and will
be here for at least some of the performances. In fact, I got the rights
directly from her. I anticipate that it will be a first-rate cast, many friends,
and a swell way to start the season (Pappas, Ted).
The plot of the play is as follows: Within the luxurious Manhattan apartment of
the Cavendish family, matriarch and legendary actress Fanny Cavendish constantly
endeavors to keep her famous, talented, and flighty offspring on the theatrical path.
Daughter Julie is the toast of Broadway who never found success in her personal life,
until it appears that her old boyfriend, millionaire businessman Gilbert Marshall, will
marry her and take her away to South America. Tony, Fanny’s son, is a womanizing,
trouble-making matinee idol who is always just one step ahead of former lovers, jealous
boyfriends, and process servers. Julie’s daughter Gwen is a rising young star who is torn
between the stage and her Ivy League, stockbroker fiancé, Perry Stewart. The other
theatrical performers in the play are Fanny’s brother, Herbert Dean, and his shrill, social-
climbing wife, Kitty. Both of their careers are decidedly middling compared to the rest of
the Cavendishes. Oscar Wolfe is the long-time friend and long-suffering business
manager of the family. The action unfolds over the course of exactly one year, during
which time there are many comings and goings, involving various outside events and
characters. By the play’s end, Tony has returned from a long trip abroad with a renewed
interest in the theatre; Gwen is managing to handle a career, a husband, and a baby;
Herbert and Kitty have a starring vehicle together; and, while not stated, it appears as
though Julie will refuse Gil’s proposal and continue her reign as queen of the American
stage. Fanny, whose health has been failing, dies a peaceful death in the final moments,
happy in the knowledge that her family will carry on in the grand tradition.
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As I read the play, the main themes seemed to be that “the play’s the thing” and
that artists are special creatures that cannot be held to the standards of “normal” society
or judged by the narrow-minded thinking of mere mortals (anyone not in the theatre).
Fanny is the lynchpin of the play and her speeches exhort the importance of family, of the
family staying together, and the carrying on of tradition. She believes that if the theatre is
in one’s blood, it is destiny and one must follow it. In Act II, just before Gil’s first
entrance, she tells Julie that an actor’s life is everything: “It’s work and play and meat
and drink…and you love it! You love it! You couldn’t live without it!” (Kaufman and
Ferber, 83). In almost every play, there is at least one main character that embodies the
voice of the author(s); in The Royal Family, that character is clearly Fanny.
Written in 1927, The Royal Family has had numerous productions regionally and
worldwide. According to the “The Royal Family” page on the Internet Broadway
Database, the play has seen three Broadway revivals to date. The most recent was in
2009, starring Rosemary Harris as the grand matriarch of the family, Fanny Cavendish.
The first revival was a short-lived one, playing only fifteen performances in 1951. The
second revival is the legendary one, the most critically acclaimed. It was produced at
Lincoln Center in the 1975/76 season, directed by Ellis Rabb, and Ms. Harris played
daughter Julie. The production won several Tony and Drama Desk Awards, including
Outstanding Revival, Best Director, and Best Actress for Ms. Harris.
Part III: My Core Process—Foundation and Development
In this section I will discuss my core process, that creative way of working that remains
constant. I will discuss the foundation of my process and the influences that have shaped
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its development over the course of my many years as a student and professional actor.
There are numerous schools, disciplines, and techniques of the acting process, but
they can usually be classified in one of two ways: the inside out and the outside in
approach. Some actors start from the emotional and psychological interior of their
characters and work towards the outside. This is variously referred to as the “internal,”
“Method,” or “American” approach. Other actors start from the physical exterior and
work inwards to develop the character. This is known as the “external,” “classical,” or
“British” approach. However, there are those actors who fall somewhere in between,
employing a little of both approaches in varying degrees. I include myself in this category
as I always use a combination of the internal and the external approaches when creating
my characters. As I read through a script prior to rehearsals, I make comprehensive notes
about my character’s function in the play, his psychological and emotional background,
and possible physical characteristics, including the way he might look, move, and talk.
With Gil Marshall, for example, I created a brief character biography, invented the given
circumstances surrounding his scenes, and made notes about his voice and physical
appearance. I will detail this further in the pre-rehearsal section.
My combined approach of the internal and external methods was reflected in my
choice of favorite actors when I was growing up. The two actors I looked up to and
admired the most—exemplifying the two traditions of acting approach—were Laurence
Olivier and Robert De Niro. Olivier was famous for the physical range and appearance of
his characters, closely tied to his affinity for makeup. His process usually began with
finding the external aspects of his character and working inward. He has said that he
frequently observed people in cafes, on the streets, and on buses in order to make mental
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notes of faces, posture, and vocal characteristics for future reference. As he approached a
role he would often begin with the shape of his character’s nose, his walk, or his speech
pattern. In the book Great Acting, a collection of actor interviews, Olivier states the
following: "I’m afraid I do work mostly from the outside in. I usually collect a lot of
details, a lot of characteristics, and find a creature swimming about somewhere in the
middle of them" (Burton, 23).
Olivier’s formal training began when, at the age of 17, he was accepted at
London’s Central School of Speech Training and Dramatic Art. In his autobiography,
Confessions of An Actor, he writes “There were classes in movement, voice, diction and
every aspect of the job” (38). He then went on to an apprenticeship at the Birmingham
Rep, which was a typical career path in those days. At the Rep, as was common at that
time, the younger actors-in-training would play the older character parts so that the
experienced, middle-aged actors could act the plum leading roles such as Hamlet and
Romeo (65). And although Stanislavsky’s influence was starting to become known in
England, Olivier soon became aware of how appearing to be natural onstage required
great technique:
The 1920s brought forth a generation of actors, to which I belonged, who
fell under the magical influence of the “natural” actors, led by Charles
Hawtrey and followed by Gerald du Maurier. They deceived us into
believing that realistic acting was, in fact, realistic behavior; those
marvelous artists hoodwinked us. Their influence upon us was pretty
disastrous. We all assumed that acting wasn’t acting at all, it was just
‘being.’ We had insufficient experience to appreciate that they were such
brilliant artists that they were able to conceal their special techniques. (65)
Further in his autobiography, Olivier details the trials and tribulations of dealing
with Method-trained (and undisciplined) Marilyn Monroe on the film set of The Prince
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and the Showgirl. While he maintains respect for Stanislavsky, Olivier makes no bones
about how he feels about Lee Strasberg and his Method:
…my opinion of his school is that it did more harm than good to his
students and that his influence on the American theatre was misapplied.
Deliberately antitechnical, his method offered an all-consuming passion
for reality, and if you did not feel attuned to exactly the right images that
would make you believe that you were actually it and it was actually going
on, you might as well forget about the scene altogether….In the ten years
since the war there had been very little repertory training; Stanislavsky,
upon whose philosophy Strasberg’s Actors Studio was founded, was much
in the mode in England at the time when we were in Rep in the 1920s. It
was a gift we could take advantage of but should not be obsessed by. (207)
Throughout Olivier’s career, there were those who criticized his acting as being
too technical or cerebral, but there is still no denying that he was one of the greatest and
most famous actors of the 20 th Century. Whether on the stage or in films, he moved easily
between period and modern works, tackling the lightest comedies and the heaviest
tragedies. On both the large and small screen, I have admired Olivier’s facility with
language, his instincts as an actor, and the amazing physical transformations he was able
to achieve. I was too young, unfortunately, to have ever seen him onstage, but I have
enjoyed his incredible range in films such as Wuthering Heights, Hamlet, The
Entertainer, Sleuth, and Marathon Man.
On the other side of the coin, Robert De Niro studied the aforementioned Method,
with Lee Strasberg at his Actors Studio. While based on Stanislavsky, Strasberg’s
training placed a much heavier emphasis on exercises for relaxation, sense memory, and
emotional memory, and more or less ignored Stanislavsky’s later work on physical
actions. And there was nothing at the Actors Studio that resembled Olivier’s formal
training in voice, movement, and diction. In Strasberg’s book A Dream of Passion, he
quotes Paul Scofield as saying that “…unlike the ‘Method people,’ he preferred
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technique to spontaneous emotion. ‘They have to be lucky to hit the bulls-eye without
technique. What happens to them on an off-night?’” (176). Strasberg also reports Olivier
as saying that although he is not a Method actor, he finds Stanislavsky useful but it’s not
the whole answer, and that art is not just about talent, but technique and skill (177).
Strasberg counters these arguments by saying that the creation of spontaneous emotion
and the qualities that make a great performance—beyond technique and skill—are what
“…the Method tries to define, to make conscious, to strengthen, and to exercise” (177).
Robert De Niro, in common with Marlon Brando, the most famous Method-
trained actor of all, works from the inside out and immerses himself in the world of the
character. This approach led him to prepare for roles by briefly living as his characters—
spending many weeks playing baseball for Bang The Drum Slowly, and driving a cab for
Taxi Driver. With the exception of Raging Bull and a few other films, he usually avoids
any sort of makeup and is more focused on the inner life of his various characters. While
his work on film is extraordinary and his portrayals are complex, truthful, and specific, he
has rarely worked onstage. He only ventured onto Broadway once, in 1986’s Cuba and
His Teddy Bear. I saw this production and while I was thrilled to see one of my acting
idols performing live, I was a little disappointed that his energy never reached me in the
back of the mezzanine. It seemed to be a small, film-scaled performance and I was rarely
involved or invested in his character’s story. Of course there are many instances of
Hollywood stars that cannot successfully make the transition to the stage, but De Niro
was the actor of the seventies and eighties. As the heir apparent to Brando—whose
Broadway performance in A Streetcar Named Desire is legendary—I was surprised that
his New York-based, theatre training did not serve him better.
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As a young actor, in my early teens, I was fortunate enough to study at the
Hedgerow Theatre, in Rose Valley, Pennsylvania, which was founded by Jasper Deeter in
1923. The central acting philosophy that was taught there was Stanislavsky-based, and
revolved around a few basic tenets. My teachers there, including the brilliant and
irascible Rose Schulman, introduced me to the concepts of the “magic if,” “being in the
moment,” “awareness,” and the value of honestly listening and reacting to your scene
partner. Many of us who were students at the Hedgerow school were able to put into
practice what we were learning when we had the opportunity to perform onstage at the
theatre. Sometimes we would be performing with some of the actors who also directed
and taught at the school. I remember several occasions where, standing next to them in
the wings before an entrance, they would say under their breath “This has never
happened before and it will never happen again.” I occasionally say this to myself prior
to an entrance, particularly late in the run of a play, just to remind myself to stay fresh
and remain open to new possibilities onstage. In fact, I did this very thing during several
performances of The Royal Family, mostly at the evening performance of a two-show
day, when the temptation was to relax, settle in, and repeat what I had just done a few
hours before.
Another mantra that was integral to Hedgerow’s training was “mind, body, eyes,
face, talk.” This phrase was used to teach us how a person normally reacts to any given
stimulus or piece of information. First the mind receives the information, immediately
after that the body has a primal and involuntary reaction, followed by a reaction in the
eyes, then the face, and lastly the vocal reaction (whether it be verbal or sound only). As
an example, if a person were to be startled by a sudden noise such as a gunshot, the
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natural chain of events would be as follows: the mind registers the stimulus; the body has
a primal, involuntary reaction such as jumping; the eyes widen; the face registers shock
or fear; the talk happens last, as the person screams or yells out something. In our acting
classes and early rehearsal, one would slow down and isolate these stages clearly; in later
rehearsals and performances they would speed up to “natural” time, or even a split-
second if one were doing farce or other fast-paced material. Our teachers at Hedgerow
believed that the most honest and truthful acting was that which mirrored real human
behavior and reactions. This technique is so ingrained in me that it is an automatic part of
my process. I seldom apply it consciously when I rehearse or perform, except perhaps
when I get a director’s note that a moment is not ringing true, or I have to keep a scene
fresh and truthful for myself. An example of the latter might occur when, during a run, I
have to listen to a long speech onstage and must stay engaged, and ensure that my
listening is honest.
This concept of “mind, body, eyes, face, talk” is absolutely sound, based on the
various anthropological sciences, such as anatomy, bio-mechanics, and psychology.
Indeed, the study of kinesics (body language) and the relatively new field of microscopic
facial expressions (micro-expressions) have shown us that just before words are
spoken—even by a skilled liar—the unconscious body movements and fleeting facial tics
can invariably give away a subject’s true thoughts and feelings.
It was also around this time that I developed a love for the art of theatrical
makeup. As I continued to work as a fledgling actor at Hedgerow, I would watch
backstage with great fascination as the old pros applied their foundation, crepe hair, and
nose putty. I bought a few books on makeup, the best one being Stage Makeup by
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Richard Corson. I soon learned that many of the old-timers’ materials and methods were
sadly out-of-date. For example, some of them still used solid greasepaint sticks, softened
with cold cream, as their foundation and even applied white shoe polish to gray their hair!
I bought my first makeup kit at the age of fifteen and was soon delightedly experimenting
with cake makeup, liquid latex, and derma wax.
One afternoon, to test my new-found skills and have a little fun, I made myself up
as a middle-aged man, complete with wrinkles, mustache, wig, and some borrowed
clothes. I was sixteen years old (and looked even younger) and went into a local
restaurant with a director friend for lunch. When I ordered a burger and a beer, my usual
waitress not only failed to recognize me, she didn’t ask to see any identification, and
returned moments later with my illicit beverage. The funny thing was that I didn’t even
like beer and immediately swapped it for the coke that my older friend had ordered. As
mundane or trivial as this episode may seem, I count it as one of my earliest acting
triumphs!
In my high school there was an art major program in which I enrolled for three
years. I immediately saw a natural connection between my two interests. The makeup
artist is essentially a painter and sculptor, working on the three-dimensional canvas of the
face. In my senior year, one of my final art presentations was a series of me made up as
about fifteen different characters, shot on slide film by my father. The slideshow
concluded with a shot of me dressed in tweed jacket and tie and fully made up as my art
teacher--complete with putty nose, mustache and goatee, and his trademark glasses.
Fortunately, he had a good sense of humor and I received an “A” for the project.
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A few months later, I attended Boston University, majoring in fine art. I studied
there for two years and then transferred to The Ohio State University, where I received
my B.F.A. During my four years as an art major, I audited acting classes, performed in
student productions and a campus comedy troupe, and even directed my first show, the
musical The Me Nobody Knows.
Throughout my acting career, and to this very day, I always include some form of
makeup as a component of my process, even if it’s very minor or subtle. For Juror #3 in
Twelve Angry Men at Prime Stage, I grayed my hair to add several years and gave myself
a ruddy complexion, reflecting the character’s high blood pressure and explosive nature.
In That Championship Season at The REP, I simply darkened my eyebrows to give Phil
Romano a slightly more aggressive appearance. As The Royal Family’s Gilbert Marshall,
I would sport a period mustache, grayed temples, and a deep suntan. Those elements
came about through a combination of the dictates of the text, my own choices, and the
choices of the director and costume designer, so I will explain further when I discuss the
dress rehearsal period.
The art of makeup has all but vanished today, and I think that’s quite unfortunate.
Most stage actors use little to no makeup nowadays, except in certain instances where it’s
necessary or dictated by the text, such as facial hair, a scar, or the famous nose of Cyrano.
Perhaps to many contemporary actors and directors, the use of makeup seems to be a
crutch or a substitute for the actor’s skill. Maybe it smacks of an old-fashioned era, when
primitive lighting and large theaters required the use of makeup for actors’ faces to be
seen clearly. Perhaps makeup was also an aid in clearly identifying characters to a less
sophisticated audience (the drunkard’s red nose or the villain’s black mustache, for
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example). However, I still believe that makeup is an intrinsic, important part of our craft.
It’s as legitimate a component in the actors’ toolbox as sense memory or a facility with
accents.
Lastly, another benefit of makeup is that it can accomplish things very quickly
and effectively, including those things that are unplayable for even the best of actors. To
use the previous example of Cyrano, how could an actor, with a nose of average size,
walk onstage and within seconds convince the audience that he has a comically large
one? With a believable prosthesis the task is accomplished instantly. Furthermore, when
that actor looks in the dressing-room mirror, he will feel more like Cyrano. The outside
appearance informs the inner life. For me, makeup is as useful and necessary as working
with rehearsal clothes and props in the rehearsal room.
The next crucial stage, in my early development as an actor, was a summer
training program at London’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. This was a 100-hour
course that I took in the summer of 1979. We had classes five days a week in the areas of
movement, Shakespearean acting, voice, and clowning/improvisation. It was an exciting
and eye-opening experience. My teachers instilled in me a deep appreciation of the
language and gave me the tools to express it more fully. We were taught that
Shakespeare’s characters, even the lowliest clowns and shepherds, had a love of language
and used it with relish. I learned how to analyze the text and uncover those acting clues
and cues that Shakespeare gave to his actors. I learned almost as much in my five weeks
at RADA as I had in the years leading up to that point.
The next phase of my actor training was book-ended by being cast in two long-
running comedies that required the actors to improvise with the audience at every show.
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They were the original Philadelphia companies of the murder-mystery-comedy Shear
Madness and the off-Broadway environmental comedy Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding. I was
cast in Shear Madness in 1981, obtaining my Actors’ Equity card and staying with the
show for its entire three-year run. I logged over 1,000 performances while playing three
different roles (a young detective, a shady businessman, and a flamboyant hairdresser).
Then, in 1989, I was cast in the audience-interactive Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding. I played
two different roles, an eighty-year-old Italian immigrant in the nine-month Philadelphia
run, and then the drunken, boorish father of the groom when the show transferred to
Atlantic City for a three-month summer engagement. The experience of playing a variety
of characters for so many performances in these kinds of plays was invaluable. It was like
attending a college for comedy and improv. Both shows required the performers to stay
in character without a break, even under close scrutiny by the audience.
For all of its apparent looseness, the improvisation in those two shows demanded
focus, discipline, creativity, and timing, to an incredible degree. These skills are useful
even when playing classical and/or dramatic material, and they unexpectedly came in
handy during The Royal Family. At a key point in the second act, while positioned
upstage, my character had to engage in a lengthy but almost silent improvisational
dialogue with the character of fellow businessman Perry Stewart. What made this
especially challenging was that some audience members were within a few feet of us, and
the fact that, in the middle of our scene, I had to listen for a cue so that I could come in
with a short line, and then return to our animated but sotto voce conversation.
When starting to work on a role, well before rehearsals commence, my process
always starts with the text. I read the script several times so that I am thoroughly familiar
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with the plot, sub-plots, characters, and the dialogue. I study the given circumstances of
the play and its characters, the author’s point of view, use of language, etc. After I have a
solid and well-grounded overview of the play, I start on my specific character analysis.
Some actors may start with the internal approach and focus at first on their character’s
personal details and emotional life. While I agree that those are important factors, what I
focus on first is my character’s function in the play. I look at the character from the
outside (as a director or dramaturge might) and ask the question “Why is my character in
the play?” To be more specific: “What function does my character serve in supporting the
author’s themes and ideas?” After my analysis, I came to the conclusion that Gil exists to
create the central conflict for Julie’s character. He represents financial security and the
allure of a world beyond Broadway; these are things that are missing from her life. Julie
finds herself torn between her family, and family tradition, and Gil’s world of finance,
security, and a traditional life. From his first entrance halfway into the play until the last
few pages, he is the catalyst for many of Julie’s thoughts, feelings, moods, and decisions.
Having understood what Gil’s function is in the play, my challenge is to still create a real,
believable human being, not just a plot device with lines.
The vital importance of asking this question of character function early on in my
process was brought home to me in 1992. I attended a workshop in New York City which
was led by John Barton, the renowned Shakespearean director and scholar. At the outset
of the workshop, Mr. Barton referred to the six elements of drama as outlined by
Aristotle: action (or plot), character, ideas, language, music, and spectacle. He maintained
that of these elements, the most important one was plot. The other five elements exist to
serve the plot, the story that needs to be told. He told us that no matter how much we may
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get inside our characters, or wrapped up in the poetry and nuances of the language, we
must always be mindful of, and never lose sight of, the story that the writer is
communicating to the audience. The director will, of course, have his or her own vision
of that story as well. Mr. Barton’s words had particular resonance for me. I think that
most actors can recall, as have I, attending at least one production of which they
remarked something along the lines of “The actors were great, the music, sets and
costumes were spectacular, but so what? Where was the story?” Conversely, one of the
most riveting pieces of theatre I ever saw was Patrick Stewart’s solo tour-de-force A
Christmas Carol. Dressed simply in black, on a bare stage with only a chair, a table, and
a basket of props, he created an entire world, peopled by Dickens’ colorful
characters…and he told the story.
In short, I think the argument can be made that whether the work of art in
question is a play, ballet, opera or film; whether it’s a sculpture, painting, or novel, it is
the story that the artist is trying to put forward and it is the story that will reach and
engage the audience. In the case of a play, the artist/writer’s story can only be told fully,
skillfully, and artistically when all of the production elements come together in the clear,
unifying vision of the director.
Typically, as I continue my pre-rehearsal text analysis, many more questions will
surface—questions that pertain to the given circumstances, the inner life of my character,
and ones that spring from my own invention. These questions would include, but are not
limited to, the following: “What is his over-riding goal in the play, his super-objective?
What happened in my character’s life to shape his persona? What has happened to him
immediately before each entrance and after each exit?” In addition to analyzing my
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character’s intentions and motivations (the what and why of each specific objective), I
also scour the text to find out not just what my character says, but how he says it, what he
does, and what other characters say about him.
The most recent refinements to my core process involve the continuing
development of my craft during my graduate study here at Point Park. During the past
three years I have sharpened my abilities, been reminded of things I had forgotten, and
been introduced to new tools. My vocal and movement skills have become sharper. The
voice work, based on the teachings of Kristin Linklater, has been extremely beneficial
and now I always incorporate a warm-up, even a brief one, before I perform. In the past,
although I’ve rarely suffered from hoarseness or loss of voice when performing, I have
not had even one single instance of either in the course of the last seven roles that I have
played here in Pittsburgh. The acquisition of IPA skills and my advanced dialect work
(both as student and teacher), has been put to practical use in a couple of recent plays,
including the Chicago accent I am learning for my current role in Superior Donuts at the
Pittsburgh Public.
Being introduced to mask and clown work has made my body freer than it was
before. The incorporation of Viewpoints, as created by Anne Bogart and Tina Landau,
and other movement techniques for performing on thrust and arena stages, has served me
well in working on those kinds of stages at Prime Stage, Pittsburgh Irish and Classical
Theatre, and the Public. In my acting classes, especially in comedy and Shakespeare, I
have been introduced to useful exercises, such as the status game, physicalizing the
punctuation of the text, “pitching” the plot of a play, and the use of a character’s personal
objects to deepen connections. In creating the role of Gil Marshall, the status exercise
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proved useful, particularly in the manner in which I would deal with the Cavendish
household servants and my employees to whom I spoke on the telephone. I don’t always
use every single exercise when creating a role, but I have used all of them at one time or
another in developing the various characters I’ve played over the last three years.
Part IV: The Royal Family—Pre-rehearsal
As mentioned previously, my process starts with the text. In the weeks before
rehearsals commenced, I read the entire play three times through and my individual
scenes at least five or six times. I also took many notes on my character.
Having established that Gil’s function as a character is to motivate Julie’s actions,
I looked at his two scenes and identified them as showing two very different aspects of
Gil. His first scene is written to show him as attractive, considerate, compassionate,
wealthy, generous, romantic, and someone who can take charge and get things done. He
appears to be Mr. Right and Prince Charming. Why wouldn’t Julie be swept off her feet?
And I looked pretty good in my tux, if I do say so. In his second scene in Act III,
however, he is presented as insensitive, socially unaware, patronizing, provincial, and a
man who would deny Julie the life that he had promised earlier. Instead of exotic ports of
call, he explains how they will live on an isolated ranch in Argentina with only the
household servants (to whom he refers as “children”) and the distant neighbors as the
only people she will see. The other alternative (in a speech that was cut in our
production) is an equally isolated house in the English countryside with the only visitors
being Lord and Lady Randolph, who sound like fairly dull company.
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Furthermore, in contrast to Fanny’s earlier, impassioned speech about loving the
theatre, Gil tells Julie that in South America “…you’ll meet real people. None of
your…Solid! Substantial! The kind that make a country what it is” (130). These
sentiments clearly sum up what Gil thinks of New Yorkers and particularly show people.
This other side of Gil—the reality of life with him as opposed to the fantasy he
offered in the first scene—is the impetus for Julie to decide to read a new script at
Oscar’s urging, and consider another starring role. When they say goodbye at the end of
this scene, and arrange to meet after her evening performance, there is the sense that Julie
will reject Gil. As we would rehearse this moment, Helena made that choice very clear,
and I chose to play that Gil realized that. He may sometimes be unaware of his social
gaffes but he knows Julie so well that he could not miss the coldness of her tone and
demeanor.
After I established Gil’s function, I found answers to some of those questions I
always ask as part of my process. As I mentioned earlier, these include the questions of
what Gil does, what he says, how he says it, and what others say about him. To take the
question of what others say about him, for example, I turned to his first entrance. The
authors describe him as “…forty-seven, quiet, dominant, and successful. He gives the
effect of power and control” (94). Julie comments on these qualities in the middle of their
first scene together. Immediately after Gil has intervened and solved a problem for Julie,
she turns to him and says “You’re one of those strong, silent men, aren’t you?” (94).
In another example of what other characters say about Gil, there is a discussion
between Julie and Fanny that reveals many useful pieces of background history and
character information about Gil. In the following exchange from Act I, Julie tells Fanny
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that Gil is back in town and plans to visit. We learn that Fanny was responsible for
breaking up the relationship, and that she didn’t have a very high opinion of Gil.
FANNY: When I think that if it hadn’t been for me you’d have gone off to
South America--given up your career--everything.
JULIE: I wonder what he’s like now. He may have grown very charming.
South America, and millions, and perhaps a little gray here. (Touches her
temple) Sounds rather romantic.
FANNY: No more romantic now than he was nineteen years ago. Ah! What a
siege that was!
JULIE: And what a demon you were!
FANNY: I had to be. You thought because he looked serious and didn’t
say much that he was doing a lot of deep thinking. I knew it was because
he didn’t have anything to say.
JULIE: You certainly acted like a mother in a melodrama.
FANNY: I told him, I said, ‘Here’s a girl that’s going to have fame and
fortune—the world spread before her. Do you think that you can make up
to her for all the things you’d rob her of!” (40)
I found this exchange very useful in that it disclosed the reason that forced Gil to
leave Julie and it sets up for me the cordial yet cool relationship that we see between
Fanny and Gil in Act III. Furthermore (and this could mostly be just Fanny’s critical
opinion) I gather that Gil is not overly bright or a deep thinker. However, I don’t believe
that he is a stupid or dense man; he’s made shrewd investments that have earned him
millions before the age of fifty and he commands a small empire in South America.
However, he is not a great admirer of the arts and he certainly could not be called a
member of the intelligentsia.
As part of my pre-rehearsal process, I also researched the background and other
dramatic works of George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber. Over the years I have seen
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several plays by Kaufman, from a 1980 RSC production of Once in a Lifetime, starring
Bob Hoskins, to a 1996 Off-Broadway revival of The Cocoanuts, originally a vehicle for
the Marx Brothers, with music and lyrics by Irving Berlin. From reading biographies of
Kaufman, especially the one by Rhoda-Gale Pollack, I found some interesting facts.
Kaufman was a native of Pittsburgh (which I did not know) and he collaborated on
almost every play he wrote, except for The Butter and Egg Man, which was early in his
career (1925). Kaufman had many writing partners but several of his and most successful
and best-known collaborations were with Moss Hart and Edna Ferber. Many of these
plays enjoyed great success as film adaptations, musical versions, and revivals. With
Moss Hart he wrote the supremely well-crafted comedies Once in a Lifetime, Merrily We
Roll Along, The Man Who Came to Dinner, and You Can’t Take It With You. With Edna
Ferber, in addition to The Royal Family, he wrote Minick: A Play, Dinner at Eight, and
Stage Door (Pollack, 35-60).
Michigan-born Edna Ferber grew up in Appleton, Wisconsin and the Appleton
Public Library has an “Edna Ferber Biography” page on their website, which was
informative. She first worked as a local reporter and writer for newspapers and
magazines. She was a prolific novelist and won the Pulitzer-Prize in 1924 (for So Big).
Many of her books found lasting fame as Hollywood films and/or Broadway musicals
including So Big, Showboat, Cimarron, Saratoga Trunk, and Giant. A skillful and
descriptive writer, she created strong female protagonists and, in The Royal Family, it is
the Cavendish women who are the central characters of the play, especially Fanny and
Julie. In fact, Pollack states that “The idea of writing a play about the private life of a
family of actors was Ferber’s” (42).
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Whenever I’ve had to play an educated or affluent upper-class character in a play
of that period, I often watch and listen to the screen actors of that era for useful
information as to the style and mannerisms. I have always enjoyed Hollywood movies of
the twenties and thirties, ever since I took a college class in film history. Making
allowances for the broader and sometimes stylized acting style of the period, I still find
that there are many things to glean, such as speech and vocal intonations, manners and
protocol, the popular hairstyles, and how to wear and move in the more formal clothing
of that time. For example, it’s common today for jeans and shirts to be acceptable attire
virtually anywhere, from restaurants, the theatre, nightclubs, and even in many
workplaces. In the period of the The Royal Family practically all men, of the middle class
and above, were expected to wear suits, or at least jackets and ties, in their daily lives—
and a hat was always worn. I have seen many newsreels and still photographs of crowd
scenes from that period, and whether it was in the heart of Times Square or at an outdoor
sporting event, regardless of the weather, virtually every adult man was wearing a hat!
Suits were usually in a heavyweight wool fabric (lightweight synthetic fibers were not yet
mass-produced), and the three-piece suit was common, as were stiff, detachable shirt
collars.
One of the many challenges for an actor appearing in a period play is a simple,
practical one: how to feel and appear comfortable and completely natural while wearing
and moving in this type of clothing. Gil’s first entrance in the play has him wearing a hat,
gloves, a topcoat over a suit (a tuxedo as it would turn out), and carrying a cane. It’s
important for me to do this kind of research, so that I know what to expect; then when
I’m able to work with this type of clothing in the rehearsal room, I won’t look awkward
22

or unnatural. When I step on the stage, I want to feel and look as if I were a wealthy,
well-educated business man of the 1920s who wears his clothes like a second skin, rather
than a 21 st Century actor who is self-consciously wearing a costume.
Together with a sense of how to move and behave like a wealthy, educated
gentleman of the period, it was very important for me to incorporate the accent and vocal
quality that would have been heard at that time. The best resource to answer these
questions was to watch film and newsreel clips on YouTube. The actors of that era that I
listened to, and that helped me the most, were William Powell, Douglas Fairbanks Jr.,
Fredrich March, and Franchot Tone. All of these actors had a similar accent that was
common at the time, not just for actors in drawing-room comedies, and urbane dramas.
This speech can be characterized as “trans-Atlantic,” what actors sometimes study under
the name of “good speech” or “stage standard.” This speech was not limited to just actors
but was actually the accepted accent of many upper-class, educated white men,
particularly in the northeastern United States. The speech is clearly enunciated, with a
softening of medial and final “r” sounds, and the tendency to use the intermediate “a”
sound in such words as “chance” and “after.” The effect is that the speaker gives an
indication of being born into a privileged and distinguished family, and of obtaining a
prep school and /or Ivy League education. I also watched and listened to Youtube clips of
the U.S. presidents of the period and the voices of Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge, and
Franklin Roosevelt all employ a similar trans-Atlantic accent and convey an upper class,
patrician quality. It is this type of accent and vocal tone that I wanted to use for Gil
Marshall. I began to work on this voice in the weeks prior to rehearsal so that I could
employ it at the initial read-through.
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From a conversation that took place after I was cast but some months before
rehearsals began, I knew that Ted had seen Ellis Rabb’s acclaimed revival in 1976 and
absolutely loved it. I had never seen the play and decided to view an archival video
recording of it. Some actors don’t wish to do this, but I sometimes do if I think I may
glean something important from it, and I have no problem with viewing a prior
production or performance and remaining objective, i.e., not allowing it to interfere with
my performance. In fact, in this instance I used nothing from the actor who played Gil,
and my characterization and performance was very different from his. The actor was
Donald Barton and he was quite a different physical type from me: very tall, husky,
slightly balding, with a bland, Midwestern look. His character seemed older than his
actual years, in a stuffy, middle-aged way, as if Gil had always been a bit old-fashioned
even as a young man. His Gil came across as a stolid, simple, uncomplicated man. It was
a very good and effective performance but I felt that his character arc was somewhat
limited. I don’t know whether it was the choice of the actor or the director, but it seemed
as though there were other levels and colors in the character that could have been
developed. Gil is on for just two scenes but they are very full scenes, with a lot of
information to be mined. We should see many different facets of him. After watching that
video, I knew that my characterization, even though it was just starting to form in my
mind, would be quite different.
In the final week before rehearsal started, I wrote a character biography of Gil—
his back-story. Here is a brief excerpt.
Gilbert Marshall was born in 1880, in Hartford, Connecticut; he was the
eldest of three boys. His father was a vice-president in the insurance
business and his mother was from a prominent Boston family. Gil attended
Brown University and studied economics. He was also captain of the
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lacrosse team in his senior year. He moved to New York City in 1902 and
began working on Wall St. as an investment banker. In December of 1906,
he met rising young actress Julie Cavendish at a New Year’s Eve party
and they were inseparable from that night on. Their brief courtship ended
when her mother, Fanny, intervened. Shortly after that, Gil moved to
England and began working at the London stock exchange. He made his
first million by the age of 35 and began investing in African diamond
mines and South American silver and gold. He moved to Buenos Aires in
1920 to expand his operations, which now included platinum and emerald
mines. His net worth today (1927) is 8.5 million dollars. He owns property
in Argentina, Brazil, England, and France.
These character details were never revealed to the audience, or even to any of my fellow
actors. That was not the point. This specific biographical information was for my benefit.
Everything that my biography contained was either supported by the text, or could not be
contradicted by the text; therefore, it was valid. Using a tool from the internal half of my
toolbox, I fleshed out Gil’s character more thoroughly than it is in the play, and I felt
more grounded.
This concept of creating a detailed character bio was introduced to me in my days
of audience-interactive theatre, when the audience could, and often would, quiz the actors
at any moment about our characters’ life stories. If we didn’t know the answers to
questions or gave a vague, halting response, the illusion was broken and we had failed
our audience. This technique also proved useful during my private scene with Perry
Stewart in our scene upstage when we were talking business. I wanted to be able to really
discuss finance with him, not just mumble “rhubarb-rhubarb…” as many actors might
have in the old days. What really kept me on my toes was the fact that Evan Alex Cole,
(the actor playing Perry) was actually studying economics at the time! He knew what he
was talking about, so I had to keep up.
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Finally, before rehearsals started, I answered the important question of what is
Gil’s over-riding need or goal in the play? What is his super-objective? Gil’s super-
objective is quite simple: Julie. He wants her. He’s wanted her for years and now he is
determined to have her.
Part V: The Royal Family—Rehearsal
On the morning of our first day of rehearsal (after the usual introductions, design
presentations, etc.) we read through the play. I have always found the first read-through
to be an exhilarating experience, and this was no exception. As usual, Ted had cast the
play extremely well and the actors were already breathing life into the script, attacking it
with vigor, and beginning to find the charm, humor, and pathos of the story. It was also
wonderful to speak the dialogue aloud for the first time with my leading lady. The vast
majority of my dialogue in the play is with Julie; with Helena Ruoti playing the role, it
was a pleasure to read those scenes. Even sitting around the table at this early stage, we
were already beginning to listen, react, and connect with each other.
After lunch, and before we read through the play a second time, Ted talked to us
about his thoughts and reactions to the play. He spoke about his deep feelings for the play
and the huge impression it had made on him as a teenager. It was one of the main factors
in his desire to pursue a theatrical career. He mentioned this to us and he spoke very
lovingly of the play, its characters, and the legendary actors he had seen performing it,
including Eva Le Gallienne, Sam Levene, and the aforementioned Rosemary Harris. He
described the play as a love letter to the theatre, but it was also much more than that. He
said that the play is comedic but not a farce; we should avoid playing that. Unlike farce,
this play is more concerned with character than plot twists, and it is first and foremost
26

about family, and that the best American plays are about family. Having previously been
directed by Ted in Harry’s Friendly Service by Rob Zellers, I had heard him speak on
this subject during those early rehearsals. Ted believes (and I agree completely) that
almost all American plays are about family. In Ted’s own words: “American theatre is
about family, it’s what we do.” British and European playwrights (such as Beckett,
Orton, Stoppard, Brecht, and Dario Fo) typically deal with language, ideas, and issues of
a societal, political, or religious/moral nature. But American playwrights are drawn to the
family unit, whether it’s an actual blood family, a surrogate family, or a metaphorical
one. If we look at the greatest and most iconic American playwrights—from Eugene
O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, and Lillian Hellman, to more recent writers
such as Sam Shepard, August Wilson, and Tracy Letts—we see that central to their plays
is some form of family, and the dramatic conflict is directly related to the dynamics of the
family unit.
Ted also went on to discuss the implications of the play’s title. There is, of course,
the idea that the Cavendish family is theatrical royalty; they rule over the Broadway world
with Fanny the matriarch as the Queen Mother, Julie as Queen, and Tony as the bad-boy
prince. There is also the broader concept that because America is a country without a
system of royalty and nobility, there has always been a need to find people to admire, live
vicariously through, emulate, even worship.
To expand on this briefly, it seems very clear that the American public has always
admired and looked up to highly successful and public figures, such as politicians, wealthy
industrialists and entrepreneurs, athletes, and entertainers. In the early 20 th Century there
was Teddy Roosevelt, Andrew Carnegie, Henry Ford, Babe Ruth and the real-life
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Barrymores. Today, the media feeds the public’s celebrity-obsession with a constant
coverage of such high-profile figures as Barack Obama, Donald Trump, Tiger Woods, and
Madonna. All of these individuals fuel the long-held concept of the American Dream.
America has always been that unique country where the common man could, by pulling up
his bootstraps, rise to the highest heights: fame, fortune, even the presidency. At the time of
the play’s premiere, in 1927, the notion of celebrity as a substitute-royal was firmly
established. Rudolph Valentino, for example, was a poor Italian immigrant who became the
most famous screen icon of his day. According to the History Channel’s website, when
Valentino died in 1926, an estimated 100,000 fans turned out to attend his funeral in New
York, almost as many in Los Angeles, and there was rioting and reports of grief-induced
suicides by some of his female fans. Valentino had a funeral to rival that of kings and
queens, but he was a film actor who had been a star for just a brief five years.
Continuing his speech, Ted explained that the Cavendishes are also royalty in that
they are safely ensconced in their expensive, lavishly furnished apartment as if in a castle.
In lieu of guards and ladies-in-waiting, they have a staff that caters to their every need
and whim, including a butler, cook, maid, hall-boys, and a part-time physical trainer. Ted
described the character of their business manager and friend Oscar Wolfe, as serving the
function of ambassador, an emissary from the outside who acts as a go-between between
the aristocratic Cavendishes and the lower class order of theatre-owners, playwrights,
fans, and the general public. Oscar is a man of business and a lover of the arts who
navigates and manages these worlds. He is a friend, advisor, paternal figure, and a
faithful watchdog, protecting the family—often from themselves.
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Ted then spoke about the many ways in which the family has an “us versus them”
view of the world. Insulated in their rarefied world, they represent, and often discuss, the
dichotomies between the elite versus the common, the stage versus film, the arts versus
commerce, and the artist’s non-traditional life versus the traditional life of day jobs,
marriage, and children. This is where Gil’s function becomes apparent. He represents the
outside world of the non-artistic, business-minded person, one who seeks wealth and
stability. In the large cast of characters, there are only two that purely represent the
outside world of business and traditional values. They are Perry Stewart—the rich, young
banker who eventually marries Gwen, the youngest Cavendish—and his senior
counterpart Gil Marshall.
Lastly, Ted went around the room, discussing each of the main characters. When
he came to me, he mentioned those qualities of strength, dominance, and control as
described in the stage directions. He said that Gil is unflappable, slow and steady like a
battleship, overcoming any problems in his path. He’s used to getting his own way and to
having people carry out his orders right away. He has a commanding manner and voice
but doesn’t need to use it; he never raises his voice or yells. Gil is a gentleman, very well
mannered, but is sometimes careless with his remarks and clueless in social situations. He
went on further to say that Gil represents the stability, security, and also the exotic nature
of the outside world. Julie is not good at saving or even keeping track of her money, but
finances would never be an issue with Gil. He is incredibly wealthy, even by today’s
standards. On more than one occasion it’s stated that Gil has made millions of dollars in
emeralds and platinum. Ted made the comparison that Gil is royalty in his own way; he is
royalty in the business world, a land baron and captain of industry. Gil also represents the
29

world outside of New York City, the allure of exotic travel; he talks to Julie of taking her
to places she’s never seen, such as South America, England, Switzerland, and Egypt.
Concluding his thoughts on Gil, Ted said that, in contrast to the flamboyant, emotionally
demonstrative Cavendish clan, Gil is in control of his emotions, and never wears his heart
on his sleeve. I wrote down all of these notes and gradually incorporated them into the
process of creating my character.
After another day of table work, we got up on our feet and started to block the
show. Having worked with Ted before, and talking to actors who have worked with him
many times, I knew that he liked to get the show on its feet very soon into the rehearsal
process. He also, as a rule, likes to block the show very definitively. As with other
directors I have worked with, Ted has a clear vision of where and when he wants his
actors to move. I have also worked with directors who allow the actors to follow their
impulses and create the blocking almost entirely themselves. Sometimes the results can
be wonderful, and sometimes they can be a mess. Most directors that I have worked with
employ a combination of the two approaches. I usually favor this method but, as I have
said, I like to stay flexible and adaptive in my process. I think that Ted’s approach, and I
am speculating here, may spring from a number of factors, such as the painstaking
research he does on each and every play that he directs; his many years as a
choreographer, creating beautiful stage pictures that tell a story; and the fact that he
knows the space at the Public so well (sightlines, acoustics, etc.). In any event, when Ted
gives his actors the blocking, he trusts that they are smart, intuitive, and skillful enough to
make it organic and truthful. This is not to say that he won’t allow actors to have input or
offer alternative ideas, because he definitely will. It’s simply that when he has a limited
30

number of rehearsal days to maneuver a cast of fifteen around a huge and complex set,
there isn’t a lot of time for actors to question every other move or debate at length
whether or not they would drink a cocktail on a certain line. Furthermore, Ted is a master
when it comes to comedy, and if he tells you that a slight movement or an extra second’s
pause will kill a laugh, you should listen to him!
I always like to have my script in hand for the first week or so, when I’m blocking
and reviewing scenes. From a practical point it obviously helps to have the script to make
notes, jot down blocking, and be ready for further cuts or tweaks to the script. But more
importantly, even if I am virtually off-book, I like to see the words and the words of my
scene partner. While still looking at my partner and listening to our lines, I take note of
the pattern of words on the page, the use of language, and the repetition of words and
sounds become more apparent, not just aurally but visually. And because of my visual art
background, I find that I can often make quicker and deeper connections. I am not a
musician, but perhaps it is similar to musicians studying the score of a piece of music that
they know by heart, looking at the pattern of notes on the page. It is at this time, during
the first week of rehearsal, where I begin to get the text into my body, not just my brain.
As I previously mentioned, Ted casts his shows very well, and since Helena Ruoti
herself is an attractive, talented, and charismatic actress (like Julie) there was really no
need to create the given circumstances that I was drawn to her. It was not difficult to
imagine being in love with her and wanting to romance her. This is an excellent example
of how the other actors can affect your process; in this instance, Helena made my work so
much easier. From the early rehearsals Ted was very pleased with our scenes and most of
31

our notes were along the lines of “Your scenes are lovely; keep doing what you’re
doing,” which is very satisfying and the sort of feedback that actors hope to hear.
It was also in this early phase of blocking that I found Gil’s voice beginning to
deepen slightly. This came about as a result as a combination of the external and internal
approaches. My normal speaking voice is basically a bari-tenor, but I purposely shifted
towards more of a baritone as I continued to work. These deeper tones are supported by
the character description in the script, and Ted’s notes, that Gil be strong, domineering,
and unflappable. However, there was something else. In playing my actions towards Julie
(to calm her, to reassure, to protect, to woo), I instinctively fell into a mellower, more
soothing voice. And the more that Helena played her given circumstances of being upset
by her family, overtaxed by their demands, and feeling vulnerable, the more I wanted to
take care of her—to take her away from everything. This feeling in me that was
stimulated by her behavior, of being a loving protector and guardian, manifested itself in
the voice. My internal work was affecting the outer characterization.
As I touched upon earlier, the status exercise had a practical application when it
came to my first entrance. Gil enters the Cavendish household when there is a minor
catastrophe happening. Fanny has suffered a brief collapse, been taken upstairs to bed,
and the family members and servants are bustling about in a state of anxiety. I enter into
this domestic turmoil and Jo, the houseman/butler, encourages me to stay by taking my
coat, hat, and gloves (the cane was deemed unnecessary by Ted and the costume
designer). The actor playing Jo (James FitzGerald) and I established a subtle but definite
hierarchical relationship, expressed through body language and facial expressions. I was
pleasant enough towards him but also a little taken aback at his informality and the way
32

in which he came into my personal space; he took my coat from off my shoulders and
coerced me into staying, against my wishes to leave and return when things in the house
were more settled. Standing very straight, I gave him a slight, forced smile as I moved
slowly towards the living room—putting to good use the body language and micro-
expressions that I discussed earlier.
Further along in the scene, I make a phone call to my employees in order to solve
a problem for Julie, one that is forced upon her by her brother. Tony has turned his
desperate need for a passport into a major problem for Julie. Gil comes to her rescue by
calling members of his staff to arrange for an emergency passport within minutes. The
speech is as follows, including the original punctuation:
GIL: Hello! John?...Let me talk to Moran….
JULIE: Gil, do you mean you can get it?
GIL: Don’t you know there isn’t anything in the world that I
wouldn’t…Hello!...Why, if I thought you needed me, Julie, I’d go to the
ends of the…Hello! Moran? This is Marshall….Now get this…I want an
emergency passport Aquitania tonight…That’s right…I want you to meet
me on the Cunard dock in half an hour. (To JULIE) Can he make it in half
an hour? (93)
In this speech I was able to convey Gil’s sense of purpose and precision when problem-
solving. Although the phrase didn’t exist in 1927, Gil is multi-tasking, jumping back and
forth between the tasks of dealing with his employees and wooing his lady. I accomplished
this by clearly playing the circumstances of the situation and Gil’s intentions. He wants his
men to get the job done immediately and he wants to reassure Julie that he loves her so
much that he will stop at nothing to ensure her happiness. This manifested itself physically
through a change of tone as I snapped orders when talking to my men and then softened
33

my voice when addressing Julie. I also turned my head clearly and decisively, towards the
phone, then to Julie, and then quickly back to the phone.
By the end of the second week of rehearsals, many elements were coming
together. Since we were all off-book, we were able to play our scenes and beats with
more confidence and clarity, and to be more receptive in allowing the other actors to
affect us. Once I knew where Ted needed me to be at any given moment, and
remembering what all the taped lines on the floor represented (imaginary doorways,
levels, and stairs), I was able to move forward with freedom and this allowed my scene-
work to flourish.
A particularly nice moment occurred organically during the last week, as we
moved towards the tech/dress weekend. There is no scripted kiss between Gil and Julie at
the end of their first scene, nor did Ted want one. One day however, as we were saying
our goodbyes, Helena leaned slightly in and almost closed her eyes, wanting or expecting
a kiss. I leaned into her as well, then pulled back and said goodbye, as if not wanting to
spoil the moment. It was a subtle beat and without talking about it before or afterwards,
Helena and I instinctively knew that this was a great moment and we kept it. As we
moved onto the stage, and over the next few dress rehearsals, the only note we got from
Ted was that the moment was lovely and “It doesn’t need to be any bigger than that.”
The period of onstage dress rehearsals is always an exciting, challenging, and
sometimes frustrating time. By this time in the rehearsal process, my performance had
arrived at a place that was very satisfying, and I felt that Gil was an interesting, three-
dimensional character with virtues and flaws. There was still time to create and grow; in
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fact, I have often found that my characters can keep developing and show new facets in
their personality during the closing week of a show.
Since part of my personal process is to stay flexible and adapt to whatever
directorial or design changes there might be, I try to take such things in stride and adapt
them to my performance. In the case of The Royal Family, these elements were usually
simple things related to the set, such as working with actual steps and levels (instead of
the taped-out lines in the rehearsal room), or recalculating the number of paces it would
take to enter or adjusting a line of dialogue to cover a cross that is now slightly longer.
Working with the actual entranceway, sofa, throw pillows, telephone, coffee table, etc. all
necessitated slight adjustments.
Two elements that were slightly more involved were the areas of costume and
makeup. The tux that I wore in the first scene was wonderful. It was a vintage double-
breasted model, in medium-weight wool, that fit me as if it were custom-made. I
absolutely loved it. My shirt, however, was a different story. It was not a true wing-collar
shirt but one that had been modified from a regular point-collar shirt, and then turned up
and pressed into shape. It looked fine in the mirror, but the problem was that it was so
high up on my neck that it forced me to move differently. It was as if I had a stiff neck; I
had to slightly turn my entire torso towards the person I was talking to. This was not an
insurmountable problem, but it did take me two or three dress rehearsals to get used to it
and incorporate it as part of Gil’s physical bearing.
As I mentioned previously, I always think about my characters’ appearance and
what makeup choices will be most effective in helping to creating them for an audience,
as well as fulfilling the image I have in my mind as I read through the script. My makeup
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choices for Gil were a mustache of the period, slicked-back hair, graying temples, and a
suntan. These elements were drawn from the script, from my research, and my own
choices. They would be modified by the director and costume designer (who was also in
charge of hair and makeup design).
The mustache was an easy component. Not all men in the 1920s wore one, but
many did. I looked at photos of the period, of both actors and everyday people, and noted
the shape. I started growing it a few weeks prior to rehearsal and both Ted and the
designer were happy with the look of it. All I needed to do during the run was to give it a
weekly trim, in order maintain the shape and length.
For the hair itself, most men of the period wore it short and slicked back with
Brilliantine, or a similar hair pomade. In fact, the extremely oiled and shiny hair, favored
by Rudolph Valentino and his imitators, was actually known as the “patent-leather” look.
However, our designer took a cue from the script and wanted Gil to have a slightly
tousled look, with no hair product of any kind. Her inspiration for this was Gil’s dialogue
referring to his living on his Argentinean ranch and riding several hours a day as he
supervises his workers and mining enterprises. She felt that he even though he wore
formal wear and a suit in the play, his hair could reflect his lifestyle and his simple
grooming habits. I thought that it was an interesting and viable approach, so the only
thing I needed to do during dress rehearsals and performances was lightly spray it to keep
the look that she wanted, which was natural without looking unkempt.
The other component of my hair was the graying temples. As I cited earlier, Julie
speculates on their existence and they are confirmed by the stage directions when Gil
enters. I had assumed that they would be grayed with a silver/gray liquid solution. I have
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used this method before many times with great success, most notably when I played the
octogenarian in Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding, where I had to fool the audience at a distance
of less than two feet—and I did. In this case, however, the designer made small
hairpieces ventilated onto lace; these were to be applied at every performance by the
backstage hair and wig person (all the women in the show were wigged, as well a few of
the men, so this crew member was vital). The pieces did look excellent and I wore them
to great effect. However, the process of applying adhesive and then adhesive remover to
my temples eight times a week took its toll. Occasionally there would be a redness and
sensitivity which would flare up at the end of a week’s performances, and on a few
Tuesday nights I could not wear them and simply grayed my hair, which looked just as
effective. In fact, many of my fellow cast members could not tell the difference.
The last component of my makeup was Gil’s suntan. This is directly referenced
upon his Act III entrance. Returning to New York, after being away on his ranch for
several months, Gwen says to him “How brown you are!” (126). I also looked at the line
where he tells Julie that he spends eight hours a day in the saddle. This scene takes place
in November, meaning that for the last three months he was in South America during
their spring and early summer season. Riding every day in that climate would definitely
give him a deep tan. I achieved this look by a simple method: I extended my summer tan
with a combination of self-tanning creams and judicious touch-ups in my backyard when
the Pittsburgh sun made its occasional appearance. This also meant that I would not have
to apply a foundation before the show, nor would I have to clean it off afterwards. During
dress rehearsals, I experimented with the idea of powdering down before my first scene
in Act II, giving Gil more of an indoor, winter pallor in contrast to his tanned look in Act
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III. All I would do during intermission was to wash off the powder and presto: instant tan.
However, Ted was not a fan of this look and so I had to let that idea go. He said to me “I
just want you to look handsome the whole time,” so I found it hard to complain about
that.
Part VI: The Royal Family—Performance
Our previews went very well. The audiences enjoyed the show, from the moment
they saw the luxurious set, to the final curtain call, staged with style and glamour. During
our previews (and we had the luxury of having eight of them), there were several
developments that are worth mentioning, such as my entrances and exits, my pre-show
preparation, and the audience response.
From our final dress (with a small, invited audience), through the opening week, I
continued to work on making my entrances and exits just a little sharper. I had not
received any notes regarding them, but I felt that they could be more clearly defined and
highlight Gil’s arc just a bit more. A useful adage of acting says that every entrance is an
exit from somewhere and every exit is an entrance to somewhere. This may sound
obvious but, as I have learned from teaching undergrads, sometimes actors just enter a
scene without realizing that the scene has started offstage. Often the student or novice
actor, when asked where they are coming from at their entrance into a scene, will say that
they are coming from the hallway, or from backstage.
To make my entrances and exits more meaningful to me, and the audience, I
reminded myself of the given circumstances before I entered and allowed the final beat of
the scene to more fully affect my exit. For example, in my first entrance, I have only been
in town for a few days, Julie is expecting me, and we haven’t seen each other in twenty
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years. I know that her career is at the peak and that her mother never approved of me as a
suitor. I am on my way to a formal dinner event so I am wearing a tuxedo and all the
accessories. Finally, there are the butterflies of still loving Julie, hoping she still loves
me, and wondering if either of us will be disappointed in how the other has changed after
all these years. When I am greeted at the door by the maid, and then the butler, there is
the added tension of realizing that there is some kind of family commotion and I have
come at the wrong time. My body language and demeanor must reflect these internal
factors. I came into the main room at a moderate-slow pace and wearing an expression of
concern and caution. Then there was the added element of the houseboy taking my coat
and coercing me to stay, as I outlined earlier.
My exit in this first scene has a decidedly different energy and tempo. It is
immediately preceded by the near-kiss between Gil and Julie that I have described. Gil is
elated at this point. He feels as if they have picked up where they left off, and that they
are still madly in love with each other. Julie seems so close to giving in and saying yes to
Gil, and her almost-swooning moment at the door sends Gil off in a burst of controlled
excitement (remembering that is a well-mannered gentleman, who does not display the
Cavendish emotionality). They have promised to meet after her evening performance, so
Gil rushes off to his dinner, flushed with happiness and success—he has achieved his
super-objective! In contrast to my cautious and concerned entrance, I exited in quick,
long, confident strides, wearing a smile.
At the top of my second scene, Gil has just arrived in New York after being away
in South America. His cruise liner has just docked and he has raced over to the apartment.
Ted didn’t want me to have a topcoat and hat in this scene because he wanted Gil to come
39

smartly on and not have to be slowed down with any clothing business. His rationale was
that Gil disembarked the ship and jumped in a cab right away. This helped to motivate
my entrance, along with the fact that I haven’t seen my beloved in six months. I came
bounding into the room, with a big smile, heartily greeting the maid, kissing Julie, and
waving and saying hellos all around to the assembled family. I was excited, confident,
supremely happy, and felt as if I owned the room.
In sharp contrast to the entrance, my exit was another story entirely. As I have
mentioned, there is no indication in the script that Gil picks up on Julie’s rejection of him.
As written, she declines to have dinner with him, saying that since Tony has just arrived
as well, she’s going to stay in. Gil says that he’ll see her after her evening show and
leaves. As we ended up playing this moment, Gil is aware of her suddenly cooler tone
towards him and sees that she is choosing her family over him; he will always come
second. Gil says “I understand. That’s all right. I’ll call for you at the theatre at eleven”
(138). With the line “I understand,” I tried to make clear that Gil not only understands
that she is choosing to spend time with Tony rather than him, but also that he understands
that this is the end—they are finished. The last two lines are said, almost perfunctorily,
with the knowledge that tonight will be the last time that they see each other. As I turned
and left the stage, my jaw was set, my hands were slightly clenched and, although my
tempo was slower than when I came in, my stride had definite purpose in it. Gil just
wanted to get the hell out of there and if anyone had gotten in his way, he might have
punched them.
For my pre-show preparation, I had the luxury of a late entrance into the play.
Since Gil doesn’t come on until the middle of Act II, I started to get ready around 8:15. I
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could shave (if need be), apply a little eyeliner, and then get my hairpieces applied, after
the other actors were done with their wigs. I would then wait until the dressing room was
empty and do an abbreviated voice warm-up. When I’ve performed roles that were
vocally demanding, such as Macbeth or Milo in Sleuth, I would warm up for about
twenty to thirty minutes. Since Gil is only onstage for about twenty minutes or so and
doesn’t have any huge speeches, I found during dress rehearsals that a ten-minute warm-
up was more than sufficient. I would drop down the spine a few times, do a few simple
breathing exercises, hum into my resonators, go up and down a few octaves, and end with
an articulation exercise, such as a tongue-twister. For the entire run of the show, I never
had any vocal issues and never received any notes about projection or lack of clarity, two
things that Ted insists upon in his actors.
It’s been said many times that without an audience, a play is just a rehearsal. It’s
also said that the audience is a character in the play, the last character to show up in the
process. This is never more true than with a comedy. If you don’t hear any laughs during
a comedy, you know that you’re in trouble. In our show, fortunately, the audience usually
laughed early on and throughout the rest of the night. There were a couple of previews
when the audience took a while to warm up, as often happens, but Jenny Sterlin (playing
Fanny) was a consummate actress and comedienne who delivered her punch lines with
great timing and aplomb. The character of Fanny is the voice of the authors, and
Kaufman and Ferber gave her the best zingers in the show.
Comedy is a tricky thing and I have found over the years that there are two rules
worth remembering. The first is that you should listen to the audience. They will
invariably tell you where the laugh is. They will let you know just where and when they
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feel the need to laugh. This is why playwrights attend workshops, tryouts, and previews.
They are often cutting and reworking lines and jokes that don’t work. The second rule is
that you never play the comedy of the situation; you play the reality. If you are playing
the truthfulness of the character, the situation, and the line, your chances of getting the
laugh increase immeasurably. The oft-repeated story about Alfred Lunt and Lynn
Fontanne is the best-known example of this concept. The famed husband and wife duo
were acting in a long-running comedy and Alfred was failing to get the laugh that he used
to get when he asked for a cup of tea. He tried whispering the line, yelling it, smiling,
frowning, doing all sorts of business, but nothing worked. Depending on who is relating
the story, there are many slight variations on how Lynn phrased her advice, but she
basically told him “Don’t ask for the laugh; ask for the cup of tea.”
Since I was playing the straight man, more or less, I knew not to expect too many
laughs. However, there were a few to be had and I think that by the opening weekend I
had found and cultivated them. The first one usually came at my reaction to Tony’s
outburst in my first scene. He is running up and down the stairs and screaming at the top
of his lungs to Julie. He then gathers his composure and exits. I ask Julie if he is always
like that. At the first few previews, the audience chuckled. They were telling me where
they wanted to laugh. While being careful not to ask for the laugh, I experimented over
the next several previews. I found that when I took a few beats, gestured with my thumb
in his direction, and simply asked Julie the question, there was a nice laugh—not a huge
guffaw but a decent response.
My largest laugh was a shared effort. It came during Gil’s second scene speech as
he talks about the penniless theatrical company he encountered onboard the ship. With
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complete unawareness and a lack of social graces, he embarrasses the entire family by
saying that he felt sorry for them because they reminded him of the Cavendish troupe.
The manager of the acting company had stolen their money, so Gil inadvertently gets on
Oscar Wolfe’s bad side by saying “You know the way those fellows are” (128). Between
the pained reaction of Larry John Myers (as Oscar) and my oblivious, smiling expression,
we invariably got an excellent laugh. Again, we were both playing the reality of the
circumstances and not trying to ask for the laugh.
Our opening night was thrilling and a great success. We had a packed house, the
show raced along, crackled with good energy, and the laughs came one after another.
Also, much like my wedding day, it was a bit of a blur. I recall bits and pieces, but the
adrenaline of opening night and the highly responsive full house made the show seem to
fly by. The most exciting thing I remember was that, after our final preview and at the
opening night party, we all got to meet George S. Kaufman’s daughter, Anne, which was
a real treat and privilege. She loved the show, and was very sweet and complimentary to
the cast. Ted told us that after the opening weekend she had written him a glowing letter,
praising the production all-around and declaring it to be one of the best she had ever seen.
Our production was a hit with audiences and critics, but those sentiments from Mr.
Kaufman’s daughter were the best review we could have ever received.
Part VII: Conclusion
The experience of working on The Royal Family was an extremely happy and satisfying
one. I was honored and delighted to have been invited to join the cast, without having to
audition. I found the rehearsal process to be a smooth and pleasant experience (which is
43

not always the case, unfortunately). I was very proud of my work, especially in creating a
multi-faceted human being with a strong and well-defined character arc, who is only
onstage for about twenty minutes and could easily turn into a two-dimensional cardboard
character, if one is not careful.
My creation of Gilbert Marshall was a combination of many elements: my
extensive research and pre-rehearsal work; my combination of internal and external
techniques; the time spent in rehearsal, particularly with my generous and talented scene
partners; Ted’s invaluable direction and discerning eye; and the efforts of all the
designers. As I have said, the show was a critical success, with Christopher Rawson of
the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette naming Ted as Director of the Year for three plays, including
The Royal Family. Mr. Rawson also singled out our cast as the outstanding ensemble for
a large-cast play.
In addition to that distinction, and Anne Kaufman’s words of praise, the best thing
that I could have hoped to hear from any director was in the card that Ted gave me on
opening night. He thanked me for my work, saying that it was “true, subtle, and alive.”
As proof that my process serves me as a working actor, I had the great fortune to
be invited to join Ted once more, without auditioning, as part of his current production of
Superior Donuts. He telephoned me this past winter, when he unexpectedly had to direct
the show; he needed to quickly cast actors whose talents he appreciated and in whose
methods of working he trusted. To be cast by Ted midway through his season was
especially noteworthy. Ted often casts favorite actors from year to year, but he rarely
casts an actor twice in the same season. In the 2010/11 season, I am one of only three
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actors who share that distinction (the other two being David Whalen, for The Royal
Family and God of Carnage, and Joe Jackson for Camelot and Superior Donuts).
In closing, I am proud of my accomplishments as both student and professional
actor during my three years at Point Park University. And I consider myself doubly
fortunate to be a working actor in the same month that I am completing my M.F.A.
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Works Cited
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2010. Web.
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Kaufman, George S., and Edna Ferber. The Royal Family, Acting Edition. New York:
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Olivier, Laurence. Confessions of An Actor. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1982. Print.
Pappas, Ted. “Re: from Ted Pappas.” Message to the author. 14 Apr. 2010. Email.
Pollack, Rhoda-Gale. George S. Kaufman. Boston, MA: Twayne, 1988. Print.
Rabb, Ellis, dir. The Royal Family. Perfs. Eva Le Gallienne, Rosemary Harris,
Donald Barton, et al. New York: Broadway Theatre Archive, 1977. VHS.
Rawson, Christopher. “Theatrical performers of the year.” Post-gazette. PG Publishing.
5 Jan. 2011. 12 Apr. 2011. Web.
Strasberg, Lee. A Dream of Passion. Boston: Little, Brown, 1987. Print.
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10 Aug. 2010. Web.
“Warren G. Harding: ‘Return to Normalcy.’” Youtube. 24 Feb. 2010. Aug. 9. 2010. Web.
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“William Powell and Myrna Loy in Libeled Lady” (1936). Youtube. 3 Apr. 2010.
14 Aug. 2010. Web.
“Valentino Dies—8/23/1926.” The History Channel. 2011. A&E Television Networks.
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Works Consulted
Bogart, Anne, and Tina Landau. The Viewpoints Book: A Practical Guide to Viewpoints
and Composition. New York: Theatre Communications Group, 2005. Print.
Corson, Richard. Stage Makeup. 4 th ed. New York: Appleton Century Crofts,
1967. Print.
Cottrell, John. Laurence Olivier. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1975. Print.
Linklater, Kristin. Freeing the Natural Voice. Hollywood, CA: Drama Publishers,
2006. Print.
Magarshak, David. Stanivlasky on the Art of the Stage. London: Faber and Faber,
1950. Print.
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