II. THE ACTOR

II. THE ACTORAuthor(s): RALPH RICHARDSONSource: Journal of the Royal Society of Arts, Vol. 100, No. 4872 (2ND MAY, 1952), pp. 429-438Published by: Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and CommerceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/41368139 .

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2ND MAY 1952 THE MODERN THEATRE

II. THE ACTOR

By SIR RALPH RICHARDSON

Monday , 3rd March , 1952

I think acting may be a difficult subject to talk about. It is possible that I say this now in order to excuse myself; but, truly, I have come across little that has been said or written on this subject. Actors who have written their biographies have said that it is not easy to describe how they go about their work, and that it is perhaps more seemly that these mysteries should remain a secret.

We possess a wealth of written material on acting in our dramatic criticism: but the critic describes the effect that acting has had upon him, and the effect, all important as it is, is the end and the conclusion of the actor's work. He spends his life in preparation for the moment that the critic observes: this moment is the last touch of the work; it is the finish.

Sir Ralph Richardson 429



JOURNAL OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF ARTS 2ND MAY 1952 If one is to say anything on the subject of acting it is necessary to go further

back than the point at which the dramatic critic comes in ; and it is also necessary to alter the angle of observation. We will want to know something of the thoughts that go on inside the actor's mind as on the stage he winds his way through the labyrinthine process of his part. But, as I say, there is little to go on ; it is not an easy subject; nothing in connection with art is easy.

I read that many years ago there was a debate on painting at the Royal Academy of Art. Turner was present. Many artists took part in the debate, and spoke at length, but Turner said never a word. Afterwards, on the steps of the Academy, somebody stopped Turner and said to him, "I do wish, master, that you had spoken to us to-night about painting; tell me what do you think of it all?" "It's a rum go, painting", said Turner, and departed. That is so true about acting: "It's a rum go, acting!"

Unfortunately, I am not in my own profession the equal of Turner in his, and I cannot now borrow his taciturnity. I cannot depart so quickly. Having accepted the honour of the Society's invitation to speak on acting, I must try to carry the conversation a little further than Turner did. But whatever I say, I shall afterwards murmur under my breath, "It's a rum go, acting".

I think acting is a little like painting, and it is a little like music too : the body of the actor is an instrument on which a tune is played; but unlike music acting possesses no written notation. Acting is a little like the work of a surgeon, once it is commenced there is no drawing back, but there is no text book of anatomy. The actor makes a journey through his part but he is without maps or charts.

I was wTatching some acrobats in the circus the other day; high up in the air they were springing, leaping and cátching each other. The grips and the holds that they employed to lock the muscles and take the strains were wonderful and complicated. I wondered where they had learnt in all; not out of a book I was quite sure. The truth is that they had inherited their knowledge from someone who had passed it on to them; and, in the same way, the knowledge and technique of acting, though not written down, is passed on from one generation to be inherited by the next. That is how it is with acting.

We are rich and fortunate in this country in the strength and the wealth of our inheritance. We can realize our good luck when we look around at some other countries in Europe, once rich in their drama but where for some reason the chain has broken; and these countries are left now with no actors and no theatre of their own, and this is sad, because, once the roots have gone there will not quickly grow another flower.

It may be some satisfaction to this Society, which has been and still is such a splendid patron of our arts, to consider that one very old British craft, that of acting, has survived, when so many have been lost to us; and through mechanical invention, to which our acting has in some measure been able to adapt itself, we to-day not only have a thriving stage but we are producing films, television and broadcasting in a way that gives us no cause to be ashamed r And let us realize that should some great genius be born to us again, of the kind of Burbage, Garrick, Keen and Irving, there exist with us at the present 430




day a wealth of opportunity for talent and the widest choice of field of which it might avail itself.

There has been a golden chain of acting in our country and we do not know how far back it extends. In the earliest days, long before the playhouses were built, there were players wandering about our country. More has been recorded of their tribulations than of their triumphs. It is preserved in our records how these early players were prosecuted here, how their playbooks were taken from there, but our dry parchments do not tell how they made the people laugh !

We learn that these early actors, or "glee-men" as they were delightfully called, used to visit the monasteries and were made welcome by the monks, who used to assist them by writing material for them, and sometimes joined in the acting themselves. Then, it is recorded, there came down the thunderbolt of an edict which forbade the monks to encourage "the rogues and the vagabonds". I suppose they were called "vagabonds" because they were "vagrants" or wanderers: and perhaps it was considered roguish to be able to move about so freely when it was more usual and more respectable to remain settled in one place and under one authority. It is these "glee-men", and these "rogues and vagabonds" who hold the one end of the golden chain of our acting; and they dance away with it into the distance of history.

The next link in our direction, still before the play-houses were built, was the creation of the "court players", and King Richard III was the actors' first

great patron. Never before King Richard had an English prince been known to have a company of players of his own, and a company of such servants was attached to his household; and Richard was unselfish with his new retainers and, if he was too busy or was "not in the vein" to receive amusement at their hands, he gave them leave to travel abroad; forth they went, the mirthful company, from county to county, from mansion to mansion, from one

corporation hall to another, winning favour for themselves then and a measure of

public regard, possibly, for their generous and princely master. It is really hard luck on poor King Richard that having done so much for the English stage he should afterwards have come to be portrayed on it as such a villainous character.

The King's example in keeping a company of players set a fashion that was followed by the nobility, which led to legal recognition of the actor and his craft in the Royal licence of 1572 whereby players connected with noble houses were

empowered to play wherever it seemed good to them, if their masters sanctioned their absence, without let or hindrance from the law. And so one other link was made.

Our early players had a tough life, and their vagrant journeyings were hard

undertakings, and there were glee-men but there were no glee-women; it is

perhaps another indication of the monastic influence on all our early art and craft that there were none. Something more than an edict might have come down on the monks if they had given entertainment to ladies of the theatrical

profession. It was not until after the playhouses were built, and the players were well settled down in them, that the individual names of actors and actresses

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began to appear on record, and they increased in ever growing numbers until a collection was made by Doran in his Annals of the English Stage , a gallery of which any craft might be proud. Through nearly all these years the British public gave welcome and encouragement to the actors, a little suspiciously at first, but opening their hearts more and more as time went by; for on the whole our people enjoy acting, and have been fond of, and have fostered their British school of players. Perhaps affection reached its height when on Henry Irving's death, as Laurence Irving tells us in his recent book, "Every cab man in London tied a black ribbon on his whip".

All arts and crafts must reflect something of the character and the life and times of those for whom they are created, and especially must this be so of acting which must live very close to the mood and the feeling of large numbers of the people; if we have had stirring times in our history, we have had stirring histrionics too. The gripping thrill, and the flash and thunder of Edmond Keen's acting still seem to leave an echo in the air. If a long tradition of acting is to be kept alive in a country the audiences must possess hearts that can beat fast, a tenderness of nature, and a laughter easily aroused. In this country we have kept alive our acting. The force and the magnetism of acting can be both powerful and subtle in their effect.

Professor Whitehead in his Adventures of Ideas has some very interesting things to say about the effect of art in general which seem to me relevant to a description of acting in particular. He says that art can provide satisfaction in a particular way, in that it provides a free contemplation of action. Though one may have an instinct and a desire for action, and it is said that we in this country have these things when caught up in action in real life, one is, at such times swept hither and thither, and contemplation is absent. But in art, says Professor Whitehead, and I say that this applies particularly in the theatre, there is satisfaction derived in re-creating and re-enacting scenes of life so that one may experience, freed from all other consideration, the unadulterated joy of intense feeling. This can be one of the more subtle effects of acting.

Acting is work with a number of facets; and again it could be compared in the first stage, at the time when the actor first receives his part and commences to study it, with the work of a barrister. The actor receives his part, the barrister his brief, and out of the written evidence somehow or other a convincing story must be prepared, a case must be made out. The first thing to be done is "to examine the evidence,,) to examine the part. Every stop and comma will be observed, every single thing that the author has to say about the part will be noted - every hint of character, and of physical appearance searched out; for the hunt is on - the hunt with a two-fold purpose: the first purpose is to discover enough evidence about the character to convince the actor that such a person could really éxist, and, secondly, to find means by which the physical equipment of the actor can adapt, extend, or somehow or other be moulded to take on this character's shape.

Before anybody else can be convinced, the actor must convince himself in the reality of the person he is to portray. This is the first step; and parts, or as I dare

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say briefs, vary enormously in the assistance they give on first examination. There may or there may not be a complete observation of the part by the author, or at any rate sufficient observation to satisfy the actor; in such a case his task is to make up what is lacking from his own imagination, and he must then search in his own memory for likenesses to the character, picturing how they would speak, look and move.

Sometimes an author may be meagre in his measure, sometimes rich. I am at the present moment engaged in studying one or two of the great parts of Shakespeare which I am going to attempt to perform at Stratford-upon-Avon this year. When one takes one of these parts to pieces and studies each word, one finds oneself surrounded by an immense store of verbal jewellery. The first task in such a case is to avoid the embarrassment of so many riches and to endeavour to construct a clear, straight path from one point to another, and, while hoping to preserve in its place every detail, ever to keep moving, resisting all temptations to pause to pick up a delaying jewel.

Shakespeare offers such wealth that the difficulties of dealing with his material are very great and many. The conception of the poet is so lofty that it is hard for the ordinary mind to move at such heights : as it is hard for the explorer to walk on Everest; and then, up at these heights, Shakespeare demands a rapid pace. He is always in a hurry to tell his tale, and trying to keep up with him is a tremendous effort. I am, for instance, studying Macbeth. The beginning of this part is an example of the speed at which Shakespeare works. Macbeth enters, makes one short observation on the weather and is immediately plunged into the drama of the murder. Only one second is allowed for the establishment of the character, before events sweep upon him. "We have not time for this" Shakespeare seems to say - "I am in a hurry, friend; come, let us get on with it".

Well then, when an actor receives a part, he has two things to do: to construct a story line for himself, a pattern or a path along which he is to move, and then to assemble sufficient evidence of the reality of his character (together with a certain confidence that he can himself appear in its likeness) to believe in the part.

The next, and the most important stage, is that of "make-believe". Acting is make-believe all the time for the audience but, some of the time, it must be make-believe for the actor too. While rehearsing and while playing, when taking part in what is fiction, a section of the actor's mind must take its leave, take its flight of fancy, and must, as it were, dream that what is happening is indeed reality. This dream or "make-believe" is the all-important rudder that guides the assembled and developed techniques at the actor's command, together with the cold reasonings and the pre-conceived facts that he has in his mind.

Coquelin summed up acting briefly. He said, "Acting is a trick"; and having said that he vanished like the Cheshire cat leaving everyone to guess at what he could have meant. My guess is that he meant that it is the trick of being able to detach a part of the mind to dream at will.

So, with some picture in mind of the end in view, the actor begins the main creation of the part, which of course takes place during the time of rehearsal; this time may be four, five or six weeks, according to the complication of the

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piece. Most actors are in a hurry to learn their words so that they may be free to rehearse with as much detachment as possible. While the mind is searching for words it is to a degree locked down ; but as soon as it is free, and the actor is rehearsing with his fellows and in the company of the director, one part of his mind must begin to believe in the truth of what is happening.

It is then that something happens that is common to all creative work. When the factors and the materials are placed together an inner development takes place, the emergence of something hoped for yet unexpected, imagined yet arriving unlooked for; the creation of an extra dimension, that could not be foreseen by anyone of its creators. When this stage is reached there is a certain excitement in the air; one is on the way, something is coming out of the work, a little more than anything that has been put into it. This is a kind of magic; it is, in fact, the magic of the theatre. Writers have told me that they sit down and begin to write with little notion of what is going to take place, and then' 'something comes to them". I do not know much about that, I wish I did, but there does come "a little something extra" to the actor when he takes his facts to the make- believe stage.

It is in the nature of the work of the theatre, which now for once makes it unlike any other work, that the actor is unable to complete his portrait in the rehearsal stage; it cannot be said to be finished until it has been played to the audience. It is customary for actors to send each other messages of good luck on their first nights. This is because they realize how unpredictable is this last vital stage that the work must pass through. However long or with whatever care the actor may have prepared and rehearsed his part, the moment when he comes to test whether what he has done in private will fit and catch the mood of a living audience is one of extreme anxiety and uncertainty to him. In his anxiety, it seems to him that it can only be a matter of chance and of luck if he can succeed. The player may have a good deal of experience of what an audience can be expected to like; but, on the other hand, if he has something of real interest to say with his new part it is likely to be something that he has invented, of the playing value of which he has as yet no experience.

The player may think that on the whole he knows his audience and the nature of their reaction, but this cannot be wholly true ; the audience as a body is always changing month by month ; some are growing older and changing thereby, while some are growing younger, as the new generation begins to take their places in the theatre; but the actor himself is changing only in one direction - he is growing older. Nothing in the theatre remains the same.

So the memory of first nights are, to the actors, something of a dark and light nightmare - recollection, littered with yellow envelopes.

Sometimes one runs into complete disaster and one tries to cover these occasions with what dust of forgetfulness one can create. We will not disinter such memories from their shallow grave. Sometimes, when a play has not turned out well on its first night, there is time to retrieve, to patch and alter, to search for leaks and stop them, but this is not often possible; the theatre, rich and generous with its rewards, seldom awards a second chance.

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Success is as hard to come by in the theatre as elsewhere, but the great success of a play, though ardently wished and worked for, brings with it more perplexity than is common to success in many other businesses.

The very successful play, on the ordinary London stage, may run from one to two years, and the applauded player finds himself locked up with one part, precluded from further study ; I am sure if one were to offer any self-respecting painter a contract to paint the same picture over and over again for a couple of years, one would get a paint pot hurled at one's head. But the long run can do something more for the actor than pay him a steady salary. I think it is possible that one year can profitably be spent in contemplation of a single part, though after that time, perhaps, more will be lost than gained by not moving on to fresh material. The experience of a long run can be particularly helpful for the young actor. Acting is very detailed work, very complicated; and by repeating the same pattern over and over again, every facet of its detail will be observed; and then when at last the neatest way of doing each tiny thing has been discovered, the young actor will have the opportunity to learn the next lesson which is to hold a part fixed. This he may find a hard, though necessary exercise. The work of inexperienced players often varies and swings about from day to day, and this cannot be allowed.

We say the play will run a year. In one year the young player, if he is of the lively disposition that one hopes he is, will at times feel merry and at others sad; he will be exhilarated and exhausted; the weather will change, he will be too hot and then too cold. Moreover, and more important, he will at times be bored to distraction with the play and his part. But it is no matter, he must learn to hold the part fixed, repeating exactly what it is desired to represent, and be able under all circumstances, as they say in Julius Casar , to

Bear it as our Roman actors do , With untired spirits and formal constancy.

Acting is a matter of discipline. It is true that it is a matter of mood, but it is a mood mastered. The work is always under pressure of exact time, it must be rehearsed in a certain week, ready for a certain day at a precise time. It is, of course, much more easily said than done, but I think it would be very useful for a young actor if he could spend, let us say, one year of his first five in repeating the same part over and over again.

The Repertory theatre may be the ideal place to begin the study of acting but the refinement of detail and discipline would be achieved by playing a small part under such conditions as are given in the long run.

It is in the nature of things that young actors are given small parts, and it is fortunate for the actors, as well as for the public, that this is the custom; for there is a very great training value in playing small parts. Small parts require accuracy - the smaller the part the smaller the target - there is only one shot allowed, and it must go in. If the leading actor misses with one barrel he can at least let off the other, and then can probably send off for more ammunition.

The small part actor will very likely be on the stage for quite a time, although he has little to do; it is in this time that he may make a profitable study. While

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JOURNAL OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF ARTS 2ND MAY 1952 he is on the stage his time is his own; he is given a canvas, but he is asked to paint very little on it. Now it requires a nice composition to set out a little piece pleasingly, being careful not to muddy or to besmirch the blanks, and in the study of these blanks, or rest bars, may be discovered some of the secrets of playing large parts; if he were to attempt such parts before the small ones, he might not have had the leisure to observe their secrets. The greater the player the more can he be seen upon the stage to rest. Rest is created as if it were air between pillars, without which their strength could not be observed. Immobility can be thrilling both in nature and in art; for example, what pleasure there is in seeing a hawk poised in its flight.

Acting is hard to learn, and it is difficult to teach. It is a deceptive business, and the easier it looks often the rarer the work that has gone to make it. We have some good schools of acting in this country, but with the best will in the world schools are limited in what they can teach. Acting does not go very well upon a blackboard. But people thinking of becoming actors might go with profit to one of these schools. It would be folly for anyone beginning a life's work to neglect the basic direction that can be found in schools of acting. It would be too much to hope that somehow stumbling about in the theatre in the early stages one could just chance on good voice production, diction and movement, which can all be studied in dramatic schools.

But the whole situation as regards the study of acting compares unfavourably with that in many other of our professions. It is not the custom for the most prominent players to go to the schools of acting and take an active part in their teaching, as happens in schools of art and medicine. Students are not encouraged in any way to attend rehearsals of productions in the theatres so that they may observe how the work is carried out. This is a pity because traditions of acting are passed on from one generation to another. They are not written down.

It would be ideal for a student, after a period at a dramatic school, to move on to work in the repertory theatres in the country, but very few of these companies are equipped to receive and to continue the training of students. This is again a pity, and particularly as I imagine that if the repertory companies were able to devote more time to teaching work, they might find it easier to persuade the local treasurers to assist them. However, repertory companies have a hard struggle to carry out all the work they have on their hands at present, and teaching may come later.

The stage to-day is overcrowded ; and it is very easy for anyone to style themselves an actor or an actress, for they can get employment if they can induce anyone to pay them the minimum salary laid down by British Actors Equity. I do not know if acting is an art, a craft or a trade ; but it is certain that there are other crafts and trades that are more carefully guarded. While - you can pay anyone you fancy to act for you, the make-up and the hairdressing people, in the film studios at least, must have a ticket before they can be employed; and they will not get that ticket until they have proved that they have skill, and that there exists, in the opinion of their fellows, economic room in their trade to permit their presence there.

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2ND MAY 1952 THE MODERN THEATRE It may sound as if there is more sense in the hair-dressing world than in thé

theatre; but it is not easy to apply these rules to the actors. Perhaps it is because acting touches on the world of art. It is not easy to attach tickets or to stick labels on works of art, since opinions on them vary so greatly, as was shown, for example, when our brilliant Sir Alfred Munnings told us emphatically that he did not care for the painter Matisse; and from what he said, I do not think that he would be likely to give Matisse a ticket for painting, were he to be asked to do so; yet, when I was in New York the other day, I had to wait in a queue outside the Museum of Modern Art before I could get in to see an exhibition of the works of Matisse.

By allowing the stage to become overcrowded one allows for the possibility of abuse. It can be very tempting for a slightly venial manager to say, "This is the price I pay for this part, vou can see for yourself how many there are waiting". This might be said, when it is not strictly true; there may be many waiting, but not so many of them are really able to do the work ; but the argument in certain circumstances may carry weight.

I think something will be done to regulate entry on to the stage. British Actors Equity are carefully considering the subject, and they know well that acting is a delicate matter and that it will not bear too much rubber stamping.

I do not know if acting is an art or a craft. They are both fine words, and if a craft were flattered by being described as an art, art would lose no dignity by being called a craft. I think acting in its finest uses could justly be called an art, and it has been put to very fine uses; and also it has been chosen for very fine uses. I do not think that Shakespeare would have chosen to write for actors if he had not considered acting a worthy instrument for his genius. Acting has much in common with other arts. It consists in observing, selecting and com- posing; in creating order, pattern and harmony; in inventing and imagining, and in bestowing vitality. It is the anatomy of emotion.

The actor selects his colours much as the painter does. The actor's colours are the tones of the voice and his movements; these he must compose that they may fall in effective sequence and rhythm. Firm selection is as important to the actor as to the painter, and further, in order that what has been selected may stand firmly, cleanly and clearly, he must with equal firmness reject.

It is so often what the painter decides to omit from the view that confronts him that makes the point of his observation and the beauty of his composition; which a photograph of the subject would never give. It is the same thing in

acting. In real life men's actions are often confused by the multitudes of thoughts and feelings that tangle the expression; but when the actor expresses a thought he endeavours to suppress all others that might cloud it. He will make no movement but those he has carefully selected to support and illustrate that one

thought; in real life people fidget about, but the actor never fidgets, he only moves.

First the actor must learn to keep perfectly still; and then to make only those movements which have bearing on what he has to express ; that one thought. It is then that things begin to get difficult. It may now be necessary for

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JOURNAL OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF ARTS 2ND MAY 1 95 2 him to introduce a second thought, and to hold that clear; then, with its own movement, even a third or a fourth. The most marvellous actor I ever saw in this respect was Raimu, the greatest juggler of them all. One could indeed trace three or four separate trains of thought going on in his mind at the same time. In a word the actor must learn to stick to his point.

As I told you at the beginning of my talk, and as I shall now murmur under my breath at this, its end, "It's a rum go, acting".

Since I have been given the honour of being allowed to speak to you this afternoon on acting, perhaps I may permit myself the honour of speaking for actors, and on their behalf tendering their grateful thanks to the Royal Society of Arts for their interest in sponsoring a Cantor Lecture on this subject.

III. THE PRODUCER

By TYRONE GUTHRIE

Monday , 10th March , J952

May I begin this evening by saying that the one thing I do not want is to dogmatize, because I am one of those who hold most firmly the belief that in all artistic matters there is no single right way. There may be a single right way at this particular moment in this particular place, but never again will the time and the place and the loved one be all together. To-day's right way will be the wrong way on Tuesday week. The right way at five minutes past six will be the wrong way at six minutes past six. In artistic matters there are as many ways as there are people who are prepared to have a go.

I am inclined to think that this is not only confined to artistic matters. I must admit I was exceedingly pleased to hear not very long ago a mošt distinguished scientist saying that there was really no reason whatever why two and two should make four, except that we had never known it make anything else. That seemed to me a most refreshingly realistic assertion from the most romantic of professions.

Producing a play clearly requires the co-ordinated efforts of many people, and the producer is no more than the co-ordinator. His work may, and I think should, have creative functions, but not always. The important thing is gathering together the different pieces and welding many disparate elements into one complete unity, which is never, of course, fully achieved in artistic matters.

The work of the producer can be analyzed - indeed, has been analyzed - in many different ways.

To-night I propose to deal with it under two headings: first, the producer in relation to the script of the play, that is to say the raw material of his work ; and secondly, the producer in relation to actors and staff, that is, his animate collaborators.

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II. THE ACTOR

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