“Well, this is it—it’s a hard, hard, hard, hard business. And it is a business, and if you ever forget for one second that it’s anything but, they’ll send you packing. The bottom line is not digging into your characters, or mastering your emotions and being able to turn on the spigot at will. The bottom line is—can you make money for other people with your acting talent? That’s it. If you can’t, forget it. What you have to do is hone your craft and become so damn riveting that people pay—eagerly—to watch you on a screen or a stage.
“Let me tell you a hard truth. There are people in LA who don’t give a remote shit about the craft. Here’s a harder truth. They’re brilliant actors. They make gobs of money. So what am I saying? Let’s condense it to this. Care about your craft. Care more about making other people care about your craft. ’Cause let me tell you. You might be the best actor on the planet, but if you never get beyond theatre in the park, what does it matter? And don’t say it matters to you and that’s enough. Bullshit. Acting is more about what you give the audience than what you give yourself.”
That’s all I’ve got. And you know what? I made it up. A Lancelot original speech. Actually, that’s not true. It’s from Jansen’s Inside the Actors Studio interview with James Lipton. But it felt like I made it up.
Since I get quiet for a minute, all the students sort of look at each other like “are we supposed to clap?” And even though I’ve probably ripped the hope right out of their chests, and they’re ready to hang themselves, they clap for me! Wittig, too! He’s beaming like I’ve just espoused a hard, honest truth that these students are going to take with them for the rest of their lives. I can’t think about it too hard, or I’ll start laughing.
When they finally stop clapping, I say, “I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”
Wittig butts in and tells his students, “Let’s keep the questions on a useful level. Like technique and relaxation. Let’s try to stay away from ‘what’s it like to be famous?’ Okay?”
This very tall girl with long, straight black hair actually stands up and she blushes so deeply I think she’s going to faint.
“I’m Natalie. Um…I’m sorry, Mr. Jansen, I’m just nervous.”
“Oh, no, I’m more nervous than you are.” It’s true, too. I probably am.
Natalie smiles. She’s so thin and pale I feel kind of sorry for her, so I give a real serious if-I-like-you-you-must-be-okay smile.
“Okay,” she says, “I have a hard time getting out of myself when I do a part? It’s like, when I watch these actors onscreen or onstage, I can just look at them and tell they’re so engrossed in the part, and I see it when I watch you, too, so could you tell me how you do it? How you get into character so convincingly?”
“You always hear ‘get out of yourself, get into the part.’ Well, I disagree with that. When I’m doing an intense scene, the truth is, I’m usually thinking about myself. What I’m going to get at the grocery store next time, about some book I’m reading, what I want for lunch. I find it helpful not to think about the character I’m portraying, you know?” That, I did make up on the fly. “Confidence also helps,” I say, and I suddenly have another great idea. “Tell you what, Natalie, let’s do something. Do you have an audition monologue in your head?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Are you… Okay. Hold on. Oh my God.”
“Stop. I’m not really serious. I just wanted to make a point. You’re standing here, and if you had the sort of confidence I was talking about, it shouldn’t have even crossed your mind not to do it. You should dive right in. Don’t be scared. That’s wasted brain power. It takes your attention away from doing the part effectively. So Natalie, everyone, don’t wait for success to be confident. Go ahead and just believe in yourself right now. It’ll make you a better actor, and it’ll get you work.”
I’m starting to enjoy this. You know, it wouldn’t be that difficult to be a professor. You just say the same thing over and over, and when that gets old, ask questions. I could do this all day.
The lights will go down in less than fifteen minutes, and I feel deliriously happy. I’m sitting in the green room in my costume, a heavy brown wool suit and yellow bowtie, drumming my fingers against my knees and not even worrying over my lines.
Jane and Ben are sitting on the couch, Ben bitching about one of his roommates drinking his soy milk, Jane nodding attentively. I try to absorb their ease. I succeed. The greatest moment of my life so far is coming, and I’m ready for it.
“It’s been a pleasure working with you two,” I say, interrupting Ben.
They look over at me and smile.
Then I get up and head for the bathroom for one last pee.
When the lights come up, I’m sitting behind the desk, looking down the stage at Ben and Jane on the couch. The darkness beyond the stage is now full and alive. The play is sold out, the theatre packed. Time crawls by in chest-shuddering increments. I register the audience, know that suited men and perfumed women have paid money to come here and watch me, that Wittig and his students sit somewhere out in that audience darkness, anxious to receive the genius of my talent.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy.”
The air is buzzing. I can hear the blood in my brain. My line. My line. I can feel the audience collectively wondering why I’m not responding. How much time has passed since Ben spoke? My line. My line. I need to hear him say it again if I’m going to remember.
I clear my throat. It’s so quiet. Above us, I hear those autumnal lights humming.
“Could we start over?” I ask.
God, my voice sounds strange in this theatre. Even through their masks of acting, the shock on the faces of Ben and Jane is unmistakable, their eyes widening in unison. In rehearsal, I said my lines with nervousness and imperfect timing, but I always said them. This is not how it was supposed to go. I’m too nervous to act nervous.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” Ben says again.
“Yes, well, my time’s limited.”
More silence.
Jane mouths something, but I can’t decipher it.
I mouth back, “What?”
“Why don’t you tell me the problem?” she mouths again.
“Why don’t you tell me the problem?” I vocalize woodenly.
“I’m the problem,” Jane says. I can’t even remember her character’s name.
Someone sneezes in the audience, and I look out into the darkness for the sneezer. My line. My line. My line. My chest is really heaving.
I smile that Jansen smile and stand. As I walk around the desk (not rehearsed either) Jane’s still trying to mouth my lines to me, and boy does that make me angry.
“Cut that out,” I say.
Her face goes white, and she eyeballs the floor. Ben turns red. I feel so lightheaded. Numb. I stop several feet from the couch and look down on them from my towering six foot, three-inch frame. I do not feel well.
I manage to turn and throw up on the stage instead of on Ben and Jane.
I wipe my mouth.
“Look at me,” I say, and they do, and man you wouldn’t believe how utterly mortified they are. I think they’re more uncomfortable than I am.
I have to save this scene, so I blurt out the only thing that comes to mind.
“By God, you may walk out of here with that money, but which one of you is it going to be?”
Jane’s eyes fill with tears.
The lights go down.
No.
I go down, my cheek against the hardwood floor.
The audience is gasping, the darkness spinning, voices calling that name which I covet.
Chapter 9