The Actor's Function in Talking Pictures

This article appeared in Behind the Screen: How Films Are Made, Chapter 8, "The Actor" by Stephen Watts

[Spelling and punctuation are Mr. Howard's]

I must, in all honesty, preface my observations with a reiteration of a long-held conviction that the talking picture, as at present known, is not a medium for the actor's art at all. I am perfectly aware that this will be regarded in some quarters as a sweeping and irresponsible statement, but the fact that it is believed by many actors, and suspected by a great many more, seems to make it a matter, at least, for enquiry.

Such a discussion raises, of course, the old controversy as to the artistic status of acting in general, but I dare not be lured into this, and must proceed on the assumption that it is an art form, whether creative, interpretive or what you will. I must further insist that it is the talking picture with which I am concerned and not the silent picture which, from the actor's point of view, was a kind of impromptu pantomime.

The modern talking picture sets itself up as a vehicle for the spoken drama and as a logical successor to the flesh and blood theatre of the past. Indeed over a large portion of the civilised globe it has entirely supplanted what is known with increasing truth as the 'legitimate' theatre, and has possessed and, apparently, satisfied its audiences, the younger generations of which are largely ignorant of any other sort of dramatic diversion. But it is only a relative satisfaction, a fact which can be borne out by comparing the behaviour of an audience at a successful play with that of a similar audience at a successful picture. There are a number of reasons for the comparative apathy of the latter, not the least being that the movies cannot properly convey the actor to the audience.

In order to pursue this contention, one must enquire into the ideal conditions under which the art of acting can flourish. It is significant that from the Theatre of Dionysius down to the smallest and most scientific of modern legitimate playhouses the builder has had two simple aims: first, the provision from every seat of a clear view of the stage; and, second, the creation of perfect acoustics. The complete realisation of these two objectives results in an intimate theatre—the actor's dream and the audience's pleasure, for intimacy produces communion, and communion between actor and audience is the first essential of living drama.

Though this fusion of player and spectator is the final consummation of all that has gone into the preparation of the drama, the creative period itself demands certain conditions for its perfect functioning. The original work which the actors are to interpret must have the purity and unity of one man's creation, or at least a collaboration working as one man and having the freedom of expression which only an independence of outside influence can bring. The author of the work must be able to provide the actor, either on paper or orally, with concise, detailed and intimate knowledge of the role he is to portray. Whether the play as a whole be good, bad or indifferent, it is essential to the actor's performance that his particular character be known to him in its entirety, nothing hidden, nothing obscure, nothing in doubt.

It is further essential that he understand to a nicety the 'genre' of the whole work, whether it be naturalistic, impressionistic, poetic, satirical, farcical, etc. When the actor has had sufficient time to read, re-read and understand the play in question, that vital period of absorption, the rehearsals, commences. This digestive process occupies several weeks. Even the actors's unions, with an eye on the fact that the player works without pay at this important time, have set the rehearsal period at four weeks; and there are many plays for which twice this number of weeks would not be too long a preparation.

The rehearsals occupy seven or eight hours a day, commencing with careful readings of the play, during which every implication of story and character can be examined, and proceeding by logical stages to the perfect combination of the physical, mental and speech functions of the characters. I am convinced that nothing but a reasonably slow growth produces the faultless fusion of the subconscious and the conscious by which we recognise a first-rate performance.

I am quite sure, for example, that a parrot-like learning by heart of lines before rehearsals is absolutely detrimental to the final execution. Learnt-by-heart words quickly become words and no more, and the mere straining to remember them in the initial stages produces a conscious effort which is destructive of spontaneity and from which the ultimate performance may never be freed.

The dialogue should be read during the first week, or even two weeks, of rehearsal (depending, of course, on the individual actor), and unconsciously absorbed simultaneously with the physical movements and the psychological motives of the characters. At no time should there, or need there, be produced that tension or strain which ends in self-consciousness and lack of conviction. The whole thing must be governed by the general common sense of walking before running.

Of course, I happen to be a violent opponent of the impromptu or inspirational school of acting and a firm believer that the best results are obtained by a careful working out of detail, a complete control by the actor of emotional and physical processes, and the whole of such method being then studiously concealed and producing the fascinating illusion which results when a properly constructed work of art has the flavour of the impromptu.

Proceeding along these general lines for a month or more, the ideal production finally reaches the public, when for the first time a performance can really be given. For I do insist most vigorously that, as a play does not exist without actors, so does the performance not exist without an audience. Furthermore, there are still many weeks before the play reaches that audience by which it will be finally judged. It has to go through its 'trying-it-on-the-dog' period, and those remote districts which might otherwise object to being a canine testing ground may find some consolation in the fact that they are taking a most vital part in the creation of a work of art.

It is at this moment that the actor comes into his own as artist. For immediately the piece is confronted with its audience, all the elements (save one) that have contributed to the production disappear from view: the producer, the director, the scenic artist, even the author; all retire behind the scenes, their work done. With all credit to them, it is almost as if they had never existed.

And who is left? No one but our old friend, the actor, now in undisputed command of his medium. To the audience, there is only the actor, no one else. He has absorbed into himself all that went into the making of the production. More to the point, and this is no idle egotism, to the actor there is only the actor. He is the man in charge. He is the creator. There is no one between him and his audience. Only the actor can tell of the joy of that creation, of the sublime satisfaction which is the immediate reward of a perfect communion between both sides of the footlights as the actor leads his audience, without interruption, from the beginning to the end of a fine play.

Here, indeed, is the artist in control of his medium just as much, I think, as is the painter, the poet and the composer. Or, if you want to quibble as to the rights of the actor as a creator, then certainly as much as is the interpretive musician. I submit that any art-medium, to be worthy of the name, must be capable of being controlled by the craftsman who will express himself through it.

Can we possibly say that the talking picture fulfils this essential fundamental as a medium for the actor? I shall try to prove, on the contrary, that in this case it is the medium which controls the artist, or, in other words the tail that wags the dog. The method of manufacture of the average motion picture contravenes, from beginning to end, the conditions, briefly sketched, which from time immemorial have been regarded as basic necessities for the actor's art.

Let us follow quickly the course taken by a typical 'talkie' in the making in relation to its actors. In the first place, it is written to order—it is manufactured on the conveyor-belt system. A producer has bought the rights to a play, a book, a story, even an idea, and has commanded a number of writers to prepare treatments. Sometimes the writers work in sequence, sometimes in a kind of collaboration, but they always work to the specifications of the producer—because he is supposed to be a man who knows what the public wants. The experienced screen-writer, therefore, in the interest of economy of effort, excludes any original ideas from his work, knowing they are not only frowned upon from above but may be discarded by half a dozen other writers who may, from time to time, be assigned to the job. The resultant literary hybrid (or centipede) is a matter of some mystery to all concerned, for it is a product of creative confusion, a brain-child long separated from its responsible parent.

This conglomerate work is handed to the actor anywhere from a few days to a few hours before he reports for work, and even if he is important enough to be allowed to criticise, he will hesitate to add another cook to the many who have concocted the broth. What the actor really needs is precise information concerning the part he is to play, and if such knowledge is not in the script, he will turn to the director for enlightenment. But that gentleman, by the nature of things, is no better informed than he. After all, the director can hardly know more about it than the writers—and they, after weeks of conferences and re-writes, are now so muddled about the whole thing that they are not even interested. (Need I say that there are varying degrees of exceptions to this state of affairs? And need I add that these exceptions are in a marked minority?)

The actor, then, is pretty well in the dark about the nebulous character he is to portray and, since there is no preparation or rehearsal period, he continues to remain in the dark. The cast is not even gathered together to read the script before it goes into production. On the contrary, the actor arrives on the set at nine in the morning all dressed and made up for his part. He has learnt by heart the particular scene to be shot that day—which, of course, is practically never the first scene and, more likely, to be the last in the picture.

In an atmosphere of indescribable din, the technicians are getting to work: the camera crew busy with their equipment, electricians hanging lights, the sound department adjusting their paraphernalia; grips, carpenters, property men and painters putting finishing touches to the set. There is, furthermore, a small army of assistant directors, stand-ins, hairdressers, make-up men, costumiers, publicity men, still-photographers, dressers, script girls, scenic artists, technical advisers, cutters and others who shall be nameless because no one has been able to discover their precise functions.

There are also quite likely to be a number of visitors besides, who have no right to be there at all, including relatives, sight-seeing tours, insurance salesmen, wine merchants, and brokers of various sorts. When this well-meaning chaos has been partially subdued by a number of people shouting 'Quiet' even louder than the general noise, the director gathers the actors together and, putting them onto the chalked marks which have been placed for them by the cameramen, conducts what is known as a 'run through'.

The 'run through' is the movie equivalent of the long, cumulative rehearsal period of the stage, and consists of a rapid repetition of the scene to be shot. This happens a sufficient number of times for the actors to give a superficially proficient performance of their hastily learnt lines, and not much more, upon which the director announces, 'We'll take it.' The actors make ready for the big moment, the army of technicians do their stuff, and the scene is given to the world perhaps an hour after the cast has read it together for the first time. Consider, too, that the scene may be from two lines to two or three pages taken at random from the context; that the actor is working under the tension of consciously trying to remember his words, his movements, the director's instructions, the cameraman's chalk marks and the position of the microphone; that a barrage of lights are burning him up and blinding him; and that it is under these ill-prepared, hastily conceived and uncomfortable conditions that he comes as near as he ever will to meeting his world-wide audience.

Of course, the mechanical conditions of film-making do not permit of those hesitations and irregularities of word and gesture which give charm and spontaneity to an experienced stage performance. Any deviation from a steady flow of words, any straying away from the line of the camera angle, or unexpected movement which the cameraman cannot follow quickly enough with his cumbersome instrument, and the whole scene must be retaken. This produces a tension and nervousness which is like a vicious circle and can end by completely stultifying the wretched performers, a state of affairs only intensified by the knowledge that delay costs untold thousands per hour, and by the vigorous and unyielding pressure applied by the production department to inspire speed at whatever cost.

The actors, having performed the scene in 'long-shot', will then be shot from a variety of camera angles, each getting closer and more constricted until the thing ends in the ubiquitous 'close-up' in which nothing can move at all except the lips, and they only very discreetly, since they will be at least three feet wide on the screen. A close-up of two people, known most originally as a 'two-shot', is even more trying, as the performers work nose to nose trying not to get in each other's light. This, I believe, accounts for the apparently alarming number of cross-eyed persons on the screen.

The screen-actor has to be prepared to jump into any situation at a moment's notice, and I have observed that the experienced ones, who know how to preserve their nervous systems and peace of mind do not enquire very deeply into what they are doing, but just do it. If the director says, 'Please change into evening clothes—I want a close-up of you saying "Ah"', it is better to do as you are told and say 'Ah' in a variety of ways as if you knew all about it. Even if no sounds are demanded, and the actor merely asked to make faces into the camera (known as 'reactions' in movie parlance), the wise ones just look intelligent and carry on. They know only too well that no matter what they may expend in nerve and brain power, their grimaces will be taken by a man into a little fire-proof room, snipped appropriately and pieced in here and there wherever they will do the most good, and others, often the most cherished ones, negligently dropped upon the cutting-room floor. So much for the control of the artist over his medium!

As for the audience, that other half of the actor—well, the nearest the screen actor gets to it is the somewhat blasé and weary staff on the set, or an occasional wide-eyed visitor completely bewildered by the odds and ends of acting he sees, and who usually goes away finding it all very silly and, probably, thinking 'Our Willie could do better than that.'

The first contact with the public, the moment which is for the stage actor a thrilling and inspiring culmination, is for his motion picture brother a dreary and fruitless affair. This function is known as a preview, and is given at some remote theatre without warning, the entire production being carried there in several tin cans on the floor of the producer's car and tried out on an unsuspecting audience.

Most actors take care to be a long way away on these occasions, and many avoid all public representations of their work—which is very wise of them. To sit among the spectators watching one's anaemic shadow flitting about on the screen, its glaring shortcomings irrevocably fixed for posterity, all contact with its audience missing—and to be unable to exercise any control over its antics is, indeed an agonising experience. The audience may be hysterical with laughter during what should be a most touching scene—but the fatuous creature on the screen, oblivious to it all, continues in the same silly vein; or if there is genuine laughter at its witticisms, the absurd shadow rattles along without pause, its succeeding remarks completely lost to the hearers. Surely, thus helplessly to observe himself is, for the actor, a refinement of artistic torture.

And so much for the sublime communion of actor and audience.

I should like to go further and hint that not only are first-rate artists, by the nature of the medium, reduced to virtual impotence in talking pictures, but that they can be actually unnecessary to the making of them, given a producing brain that can find substitutes. It is not easy, but it has been done.

For example, I cite the extraordinary case of Mr Darryl Zanuck. This astute producer, having formed the Twentieth Century Picture Corporation with no assets whatever except his own knowledge of showmanship, proceeded shortly thereafter to combine with his infant organisation the enormous Fox Film Company. When he took over the latter it possessed one of the biggest plants in Hollywood, a technical equipment capable of mass picture production, and practically no star actors. Actually, I believe, it had only one male star and the baby performer, Shirley Temple, this child being the great concern's principal asset.

Zanuck, with his journalistic instinct and sense of the topical, promptly made the world-famous Quintuplets the stars of one of his early pictures and shortly followed this by creating stars of the skating champion, Sonja Henie, the celebrated columnist, Walter Winchell, and of Ben Bernie, 'the old maestro', whose orchestra is internationally known, but who, as an actor, was an unknown quantity. Other similar productions followed, and the new company prospered mightily in its very first year, largely because its head man knew his medium so well, and knew also that, if you haven't got the actors with which to make films, you can manage very well with anything from heavyweight champions to Negro babies, provided you strike an angle of public interest.

Of course, everyone knows the enormous success of the wild animal pictures and remembers fondly the various animal stars—horses, dogs, etc.—headed by the unforgettable Rin-Tin-Tin of blessed memory. And surely the greatest and best controlled star of all is Mr Michael Mouse, closely followed by Messrs Donald Duck, Popeye the Sailor, and all that host of talented performers.

In exact proportion to the actor's lack of control over the motion picture medium, so is the control of the producer-director intensified. To the director it affords real power of expression and unlimited imaginative possibilities—far more than the living theatre can ever offer him. Therefore, to condemn the talking picture because of its shortcomings as a vehicle for the art of acting would be foolish and false. It is, without question, a fascinating and potent method of expression, and its range and depth with, or without, actors is immense. Yet it is destined to have a far more profound power when a sustained attempt is made to develop its possibilities along its own unique lines. Such an advance seemed to be under way at the death of the silent picture, but the invention of the talkie has so far merely produced an imitation of the legitimate theatre, a medium with which the screen has little in common. But it must utilise its own art-form rather than be a purveyor, second hand, of others. Technically, the film has made portentous strides and may even through television, now in its infancy, develop further. So far, however, the talking picture, as a development of a unique and separate art, has in the main stood still.

Glancing over these notes, it occurs to me that they would have carried more weight had they [been] written by anyone but an actor. It is too bad.

Trivial Fond Records, pgs. 117-124


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