An Actor's Best Moment

When I was in a play in 9th grade (The Diary of Anne Frank), one of the seniors in the production, who was in many ways a role model for me in all things drama, told me about the time he saved a show. A necessary prop (incriminating evidence for a murder) wasn't where it was supposed to be; in the instant he realized that it was gone, he was forced to make up lines to work around it, while still sounding completely confident that he had solved the case.

A staff member, who has been involved in musical theater productions for decades, frequently would talk of one memorable incident in which a glass bottle broke on stage in the middle of a musical number. Rather than freaking out, everyone just kept singing and dancing, while one cast member danced off the stage, danced back on with a broom, swept it all off the stage, and the show continued.

Some actors may say their best moment was when they got a certain role in a play, or earned a certain award, or pulled off a flawless performance, or got a standing ovation, or something of the like. But quite often, an actor's "best moment" comes when something goes wrong. The whole point of a play is to keep the audience inside a fantasy world; as soon as the audience realizes something is wrong, the illusion is broken. So the toughest part about dealing with big problems that pop up unexpectedly is not just being able to work around them, but staying in character the whole time, and directing as little attention as possible to the mistake; or somehow working the mistake into the plot of the story so the audience thinks it was supposed to be that way. Problem-solving is hard enough - problem-solving in such a way that no one notices that you're problem-solving is quite the achievement. And when an actor faces a problem that they can solve without anyone noticing, that very often becomes their best moment. It becomes their story.

This is my story. A story which really shows how practice, practice, practice pays off - once you get used to your character, make your character truly a part of you, you can just be your character without even thinking about it. So even as you focus on dealing with a problem, you never sacrifice being in character.

Thursday, February 17, 2011. Opening night for Christian Academy in Japan's production of Annie. Act 1 Scene 5. Annie has just arrived at billionaire Oliver Warbucks' mansion, and is being greeted by all the staff with a delightful little tune assuring her that she's gonna like it here. I, Oliver Warbucks, have been away from New York, on a tour to inspect my factories, and I am currently waiting outside the door of my house, waiting for my staff to stop singing and for the audience's applause to die down in order to make my grand entrance.

The song reaches a climax. "we know you're go~~~~nna~~~~ like~~~~ it~~~" and I go over a quick list to see if I have everything ready. Coat buttoned up, check. Hat on, check. Deep breaths. Somewhere in my mind there is a voice called "Jonathan" who is both nervous and excited because it's opening night for his last high school production, but I try to push that strange thought back. And what? Did I say it's 2011? What am I talking about, I don't live in the future. The year is 1933, there is no audience but my staff, I am upset about the state of my factories, but glad to be home in a city I love. And I feel a strange twitch in my nose.

What? I gently raise my finger to just under my nose...

and took it away to see a small red droplet.

panic

"here!!!~~~~~~~~~~~~~" the song reaches its last, sustained note, and the voice in my mind called Jonathan is beginning to get very upset. "WHAT no I can't have a nosebleed now please stop please stop what am I going to do..."

I gently try to coax Jonathan into being a bit more calm, but I must say, I'm a good deal nervous myself. I can't appear before my staff with a bloody nose, not on my first day back when I need to get all my affairs in order! I check my pockets and find that I didn't bring a handkerchief. Jonathan informs me that there is a washroom nearby - down a flight of stairs and along a corridor - but that being even five seconds late would throw off the show, and ten seconds would ruin it. In other words, I don't have time to do anything - I'll have to deal with the problem in front of everyone. I can't walk in pinching my nose... I'd prefer not to sniffle, sniffling is a sign of weakness and I am not weak. In addition, Jonathan tells me that I'm going to be on stage for a long time - through two scenes straight, including a substantive solo in which I sing about why I love NYC. How on earth am I expected to sing when I have a nosebleed to worry about?!

So Jonathan and I make a deal. He will take care of the nosebleed, he says; timing the sniffs so that they're neither too strong nor too often, just enough to keep the blood in. Making sure they don't interfere with my speaking or singing, and hopefully ensuring that few people notice. To do this, he will have to concentrate entirely on that task, and for the most part ignore what I'm doing; what I say, the people I'm with, my actions, interactions, singing, dancing, and the like. Fine by me, I never appreciated the way Jonathan always controlled me like that. But I understand that it's a big risk for him - he's so used to telling me what to say, what to do, and now he's giving me free reign. I suppose he trusts me enough now that I know what I'm doing. About time, if I do say so myself.

And with that, the four last measures of the song are over, applause swells, begins to die down. "Been away six weeks," I shout; and never before has it been so truly I, Warbucks, doing the shouting. Small sniffle, "Where the dickens is everybody?", and I swing open the doors.