Casting about

The relation between and the actor and the role is an ambiguous one.  The essence of acting is to become the character, to lose oneself in the role.  And yet actors by their very nature are extroverts: their performance consists of nothing less than showing themselves off, offering their every word and action to the microscopic scrutiny of the audience.  At all times, their mere presence on-stage proclaims that it is they, not the factitious characters, who exist.  And beyond that, for most actors the stage is just that - a setting for their own glorification.

It is interesting to contrast some of the approaches to this central dilemma.  There have been schools of thought - best exemplified by the obsessive immersion technique of Method Acting - which seek to dissolve the boundary between life and art by transforming the actor to such an extent that they themselves are no longer clear about the distinction between their real and assumed persona.

When Olivier was filming with Dustin Hoffman in The Boys from Brazil, the latter was required to play the part of man near total collapse through exhaustion and lack of sleep.  Applying the Method, Hoffman dutifully stayed up for nights without a break, and so attained the required level of near self-destruction,  Olivier's sardonic comment on all this was 'Why not try acting?', and this has generally been the British approach.

Oliver himself provides a classic case of the dual nature of the actor's metier.  His greatest performances - which for most people now will be the films and recorded plays - are unmatched pinnacles of theatrical virtuosity.  His Hamlet is loping neurotic, his Richard the Third a spider-like psychopath; Henry the Fifth is almost nationalism personified, while his Lear stands as a huge towering monument to the universal tragedy of old age.  Yet while these and other roles are unquestionably true representations, their truth is driven by the calibre of the actor. 

As we watch, we remain aware that this is Olivier playing Henry or Hamlet; indeed, we watch it as yet another definitive performance of the master. For all its moving greatness, the role remains separate from the actor.

Just slightly below Olympus, there are actors such as Tutin, Hopkins and Gambon.  All are consummate artists.  Yet once more, all remain those artists even as they produce their best work.  The two men in particular seem to hit visibly against themselves in so many performances; there comes a point where the body and mind of Hopkins or Gambon breaks through the role.  This is even more true of the younger and lesser players who are still learning their art, and whose rough edges and glaring miscalculations allow the ordinary man or woman beneath to show through.

It comes therefore as something of a shock to encounter not just one but two performances by actors who seem so subsumed by their role they are indistinguishable from it.  Perhaps it is significant that they occur in a film, made by a playwright, for a relatively small budget by actors who are not big stars.  The film is House of Games, the actors, Lindsay Crouse and Joe Mantegna, and the director David Mamet.  For this kind of acting perfection cast about no more. 

(28.11.87)

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