The Great Acting Blog: "Trial & Error"

When rehearsing a scene for the first time, it is important to make a start. I used to find this blindingly obvious notion extremely difficult, and couldn't bear to walk across the stage until I was solidly off-book and confidently understood the meaning of the scene, for fear of experiencing that horrible feeling of falsity (I remedied this problem by learning my lines before the start of rehearsals, and improved my script analysis powers as I became more experienced). Anyway, at some point we have to make to start, when the director asks you to move from the sofa to the armchair, move we must, regardless of how we feel. And that's the point isn't it? If we waited until we felt “ready” then we probably never would make a start, actors don't need to be asked twice not to act, a cup of tea and a catch up with the week's gossip is far more preferable to the turmoil of actually creating something, perhaps we may even ask the director to explain his latest acting theory, and hope he forgets that we are actually in a rehearsal, then we can all go home, and perhaps we never will have to act if we can keep the ruse going long enough. Despite the aforementioned cosiness, we all know that, in the end, the turmoil of creation is what it is all about, the pressure, the stakes, the potential to damage your own self-regard, the fear of failure – or to put it another way – we should be setting our bar high enough that it is a real struggle to reach it, or it should be no certainty that we will. The struggle is not a bad thing, the sweat, infact, it is out of that struggle our creation is, in the end, borne, and the greater our struggle the greater the creation. Trial and error is a step into the unknown along the path of creation, we have a go at it, then look at what we did then try to improve it. But how much can you bear? At many points you will have to step into that unknown until you master it and get on a secure footing (as secure as you can in art), and once you get onto that secure footing, you must inch forward once again, and the process is repeated. Before you can provide an answer to the new question brought forth, you must first be able to formulate the question, and hope you have formulated the correct question. It is a relief when you actually have something that can be improved. As I write this, I start to think any great piece of work requires a miracle in order to bring it into the world, certainly the odds on it happening must be extremely long. And this is in stark contrast to the National Lottery, which creates the illusion that something is at stake, which is why we feel foolish and degraded after realising we have not won – there was nothing at stake after all. Thirteen million to one is certainly long odds. But the odds in the creation of a piece of work must be infinite. Something stirs in the imagination, perhaps it touches off a series of associations, and we slide into the groove of blessed inspiration. But it cannot last, and we cannot rely on it, and so we develop technique in order to give our work some order, some structure, to help us out of a jam. Technique is the difference between the serious person intent on becoming an artist, and somebody chancing their arm, or just having a go. Technique also helps us move beyond trial and error, when we have a clearer vision of what the work at hand might eventually become. That's why I like the technique of theatrical action so much: it gives us something absolutely concrete to work with, and helps us to make decisions when there seems to be innumerable possibilities open to us – if I go into the scene with, say, the action of “selling the other guy a great idea”, I've got something to hang my hat on. Yes, it's still trial and error, perhaps I find that “selling the other guy a great idea” doesn't work in the scene after I've tried it, then I can change the action to “convincing the other guy to come through for me”. But without technique we will lack the strength to probe rigorously, to improve the product, to open it back up again after we think we finished it, just to make it that little bit better. A true artist will always rouse himself to new effort, especially when he knows it's obvious that something can be improved, it's the difference between producing something excellent and something acceptable (or not even that). The hack will do the minimum to get by, technique to them is merely a well worn formula, selecting the appropriate off-the-shelf characterization, and making the scene at hand fit into it – no turmoil of creation for him – and it is unlikely that he will continue probing for ways to improve. The true artist faces upto the turmoil of creation, and continually seeks to improve himself in order to face the turmoil  better.