In the mindset of a professional actor, ego takes a back seat.
Many of our readers are teachers, or theatre enthusiasts, simply looking to find some insight into the world of Shakespeare. Some are interested in exploring the intricacies of understanding Shakespearean verse, or perhaps just want to wrap their heads around how the pros approach classical theatre. And I think (at least I hope) this is a good resource for those folks.
But there’s another category of reader, one I personally identify with on a profound level, who study these little blurbs to build out their toolbelt. They’re searching for new techniques, or for clarity of method, or any number of tips and tricks to help them in their goal:
To become a better actor.
I personally relate to that goal, and in fact, helping those younger or less-experienced actors to grow and improve is a huge part of the mission behind Chanticleer Shakes. It’s the reason we put these blogs together in the first place. Because better actors make for better productions, and stiffer competition, which only improves everyone’s game.
That being said, one of the most important lessons an actor can learn has little to do with technique. It’s not about controlling their vocal instrument, or stage presence, or technical understanding of poetry. There’s something more important, and it applies to more than just us actors.
Mindset.
Something I learned awhile back was that the mindset of an actor plays a large role in their success, or failure, as an artist. For example, there’s an old saying that goes something like this:
“If you want to hear an actor complain, give them a job.”
Sure, it’s kind of funny, but I’ve found it to be dishearteningly true in so many cases. Actors are generally self-centered creatures. We love to be on stage, in the spotlight, all eyes trained on our every move. Each of us wants to be a star. Not just a star, the star. But this kind of toxic narcissism bleeds into our everyday life, and makes us incredibly difficult to get along with.
But what I’ve discovered is that this all-too-common attitude among the rank and file of our occupation is not what I’d call professional. The mindset of a professional actor is less vain, less cringe-inducing, less selfish. Let me give you a small anecdote to illustrate this point.
I was working on a production of The Dresser years ago, with one of the finest actors with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of treading the boards. He was playing Norman, and as expected, his character work was nuanced. His dialect, flawless. His physicality, brilliantly specific.
For those of you who know the show, you’ll remember that Norman plays “dresser” to an aging actor/manager of a small, traveling theatre troupe. Sir, as he’s called, has played every lead role in this company for decades, and his age is finally catching up to him. Our Sir was being played by a well-known theatre actor who, just like the character he was portraying, was beginning to experience the memory lapses and physical limitations of his eighty-some years of age.
One evening, during a performance before a packed house, Sir’s age got the best of him, and without even realizing, he jumped lines from somewhere in Act 1 into his final scene of the play. It was just him and our Norman on stage. I couldn’t just enter the scene to help, and the curtain couldn’t just come down. They were stuck, and no one could save them.
But that’s when I witnessed greatness.
Standing in the wings, watching in amazement, I saw our Norman carefully guide both Sir, and the octogenarian actor playing him, through the scene, winding their way back to where they left off, without a hitch. He was attentive, gentle, and kind. But what struck me most was how he sacrificed any desire to deliver the performance he’d rehearsed, and lived only in each moment as he led his scene partner back to the path he’d wandered from. He focused on preserving his scene partner’s performance. He refused to let him fail.
That’s when I learned that the mindset which allowed this actor to save the show was the same mindset that compelled him to save his partner’s performance. Ego was not even in the conversation. He saw what needed to be done, and he did it. He was being the consummate professional.
Now, as impressive as this realization was, it’s not even the most important piece of the puzzle here. What’s incredible about the mindset of this particular actor, was that everything he did during that moment to save the performance of his scene partner made his own performance absolutely sing. He was tuned in, anchored in his companion, hanging on every word, every movement. And as a result, his performance was nothing short of brilliant. By focusing on making Sir look as good as possible, Norman delivered the performance of a lifetime.
What can we learn from this? Let me submit that adopting the mindset of a true professional actor, regardless of what one’s official occupation might be, can only improve our performance. It can only improve our reputation. Improve our overall approach to difficulty. It’s the refusal to let your companions fail. That, in my opinion, is the mindset of a professional.
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