I had planned to be out of the city this weekend, like so many other New Yorkers. With the 4th of July falling on a Wednesday, I thought it a safe bet to spend a week out of town at my parents house in Pennsylvania.
Inevitably, when I plan to go out of town, an audition comes up. I'm forced to choose between the sanity of time out of the city and the duty of vying for work. I received the screenplay from my agent on Wednesday, and an hour later my decision was made. This time, work won out.
The audition was for a film called Wake.
Wake is a 25 minute short film written and directed by Andrew Lawton. In the film, a ten year old attends the wake of his older brother, a photo-journalist killed in Iraq. He recovers his brother's camera, and survives the day by documenting the events through the lens. It is a taut script and a compelling story. I was immediately hooked.
The role I was auditioning for was that of JOHN, the father of the two boys. Having lost his first son to the war, he finally confronts his own failings as a parent. He is separated from his wife, and a stranger in his own house. This is a man who covers everything with a smile. But the events of the day are too much, and at the end of the story he finally breaks, realizing the mistakes he has made simply by being too afraid to take a stand.
"I'm sorry, Nicky." he says to his surviving son.
"What for?" says the boy.
Silence. A tear rolls down JOHN's face. His eyes remain locked on his son.
"I'm so sorry."
NICKY holds his father's gaze. Tears now stream down JOHN's face. JOHN's head falls and he begins to sob.
This was the scene for the callback.
Much to his credit, Andrew told me that he understood this was only a reading, that in actuality there would be weeks of preparation, and not to feel obliged to "push" or reach for anything that wasn't actually there. But I had spent the entire previous evening thinking about this scene, thinking about how to get to that place emotionally, and truthfully. How do you cry on cue?
I've had auditions before where this is required. I've never been able to do it. What is missing in my technique? Why can't I just cry? What is so hard about doing this?
Some actors are fantastic at it. Matthew Fox who plays Jack on Lost is a master of the single tear drop. And there are plenty of actresses who seem able to turn on the faucet simply at the mention of the word "action".
So what to do? Am I just emotionally blocked? Is there something in me unwilling to give it up? Or am I simply too afraid to be that private in public? Any way you slice it, it doesn't bode well for me as an actor.
I thought about what happens when I really cry. That feeling in the solar plexus, the trying not to cry, the overwhelming terror, the tightness in the stomach. I seemed to have some success if I held my eyes open for a while without blinking and lifted my cheekbones slightly. If I breathed through my mouth, felt the air on my lower lip, a quiver might enter my voice.
But this was all way too technical. If I'm thinking about how to cry, then I'm not living the situation of the character. He's not thinking about how to cry. He's thinking about how not to cry. But how could I trust it would be there when I needed? What if it just didn't come?
Well....I wish I could tell you I learned how. I wish there were some secret discovery, some small trick, something to guarantee success. But alas, I came up with no such thing. What I did do was think alot about the situation of the character: where I am, what has happened today, the smells in the room, any sensory input that may be useful. I read some poems that are inspiring. I wrote in the character's voice about losing my son in the war, how it was my fault, how I felt about it. I wrote until the voice of the character merged with my own voice, until I found a place of common sadness. It didn't take long. And I listened to music along the way: Barber's Adagio for Strings, Mahler's 9th Symphony, anything by Artetha Franklin.
The result?
I got it on the first take, but lost it on the second. It felt organic and true one time. Two times felt like I was trying.
So I guess the lesson here is, when they say "rehearsal is up", hopefully the director knows to roll the cameras anyway. Or maybe it will happen on the second take. Or maybe it will take three. I honestly have no idea. All I know is, you've only got to get it right once.
Which is all so unlike the theater, where you've got to get it right every night. But the theater is a different beast. You have the benefit of the whole story behind you. You have the adrenalin of a live audience. And if "it" doesn't happen, you can always fake it. But the camera tells no lies.
Keep breathing. Deeper and deeper. You can always trust the breath. I'm beginning to actually believe that.
Peace,
Wayne
