PERSONALITY AND THE ACTOR

George Arliss

THE art of acting is so intimately connected with what is known as "personality" that it is an exceedingly dangerous experiment to attempt to set down in writing any assertion of what methods should be adopted in the making of a good actor and what should be avoided as a preventive measure against becoming a bad one.

There are actors who know every move on the board, whose technic is beyond reproach, who are endowed with those advantages of voice and appearance generally regarded as being "exactly suited to the stage" and who are yet very bad actors indeed. And there are others who are painfully devoid of any visible fitness for their calling, who defy— or rather fail to observe—almost every known canon of stage-technic and who yet succeed in giving the greatest delight to their audiences. The actor of this type is, as a rule, physically and mentally incapable of adopting the acknowledged methods; he "gets across the footlights" without any real knowledge of "how it's done"—by ways that baffle even the expert; he is carried to success almost entirely by what for the moment I will call his personality; he manufactures his methods from material close at hand and seldom borrows or profits by the experience of others. Such an exponent of the art is generally spoken of by his professional brethren as "a very bad actor, but the people like him."

But is he a bad actor merely because he adopts his own methods and knows nothing about the art of other people? Well, I think perhaps he is. Although he amuses me, I'm afraid he is a bad actor. But he is not as bad as he would be if that other type, who really knows the rules, took him in hand and tried to make him a good actor. Then he would be atrocious. As a matter of fact, he is an actor who can play only one kind of part. But he plays that better than any good actor living. Therefore the public, for whom the theater is run, gets the advantage. His reign lasts just as long as there are plays which require that type. If his part is a prominent one and he makes a very great success, so much the worse for him. He is then placed in an exalted position from which he is bound to fall when the authors have worn themselves out in their frantic endeavor to hold him there; and he will automatically pass from the public ken, destined merely to bob up now and then in a small part that lends itself to his "personality"—and destined to become a disappointed man for the rest of his life.

THIS actor would never know such bitter disappointment if we could have the ideal condition of stock and repertory companies; he would then find his proper place—which would possibly be that of a valuable "small part" actor for certain "bits." Under present conditions he goes along, possibly for five or six years, in a false position—a bad actor disguised by a mere fluke as a good one. In reality his success is merely an adventure. But he doesn't know that. How should he? He is in the position of Christopher Sly— flattered and deceived. But unlike Sly, he is never again able to realize that he is not really

a king dethroned by a fickle and ignorant people; and his life is soured for all time. The mere theatergoers may very naturally argue, that as the theater is run for their amusement, and as they pay for its support, they would much prefer to have the "types" selected for each play. Thus they are quite content to have the bad actor in the one part in which he shines, and to allow him to go into oblivion as soon as possible afterwards. There would be something in this argument if the success of plays generally depended mainly on the proper selection of types. But I am convinced that the success of a season's plays, so far as their success shall be swayed by the acting, depends upon the greatest number of actors and actresses who know their business.

I have used the word "personality" because it is difficult to find another word to express the different degrees of that much discussed attribute of the actor who is remembered. The personality of the bad actor I have been considering should have a name of its own; it is in reality more of the nature of a deformity. It is generally quite distinct from the personality that helps an actor along to a distinguished position which he is then able to hold. And, after all, what is this personality that actors are sometimes asked to stifle and at other times counseled to cultivate? Surely it is the Man Himself as he has grown up in his own particular environment. Whether he gets the something that we like about him from his father, or his mother, or his grandfather, doesn't matter. But he certainly hasn't placed it there himself—and he just as certainly cannot remove it. It is inextricably a part of the individual. It is as the egg which is added to enrich the salad in the making. It is part of him as he speaks and lives and has his being. It is that which has made us notice him on the stage. He didn't put it there in' order to be noticed; he didn't even know he had it, till we told him so. If personality were merely a particular movement of the eyelid peculiar to the individual, or if it were only the repetition of some unnecessary gesture, it might with some effort be eliminated. But it is so much more. I do not think it fair to an actor to say that he "fits a part to his personality." In studying a part, should he meet with a scene in which he feels he should strike a certain note that he realizes he is physically incapable of reaching, if he then adopts another method which will bring the scene within his range—this is not pandering to his personality; it is merely using legitimately the tools of his trade. Your voice is part of your personality, and so is your nose, and so are your eyes and your mouth; so the way you open your mouth and your eyes, and the way you close them again, and the way your head is put on your shoulders, and the way you move those shoulders to which your head is loosely attached.

NOW, how is an actor to set about stifling his personality? It will be at once conceded, at any rate by those of experience in acting, that it is an undoubted mistake to attempt to alter one's voice throughout an entire performance. So personality cannot be stifled that way. The mouth may be covered by a large moustache; but in parting with that mouth you are giving up a very eloquent lieutenant that might be most useful during the action of the play. We can let the nose stand, because it is possible that that assists your personality less than any other feature— although it has its uses. But what about the eyes, and the head that is on your shoulders and nobody else's? If they are to be swathed in disguises, you become a lay figure and not a human being at all. No, you must give it up! The only way for you to stifle your personality is to cease to be a person.

ON the other hand, how are you going to foster your personality? I confess that I haven't the remotest idea. You may play nothing but footmen, or nothing but gardeners, or nothing but gay husbands in French farces, who can all be played one way—but that isn't fostering your personality, that is merely limiting your sphere of experience. There are a great many people on the stage who have peculiarities; but I do not remember any one having been accused by an audience of possessing personality who had not great sincerity. It is the fact that the actor is feeling and living the life of the man he is impersonating that compels his features and his body to have free play, and so the real flesh and blood man is seen. The individuality of the actor cannot be stifled, if the actor himself is feeling and living his part. It may be charged then that personality is a bar to varied characterization. I think not. Let us suppose that it takes one hundred attributes to make a personality, plus a characterization—now it requires only ten of these to assimilate the character of an old rout— the other ninety are required to make him a vital human creature. One of the ten is used to keep the limbs a trifle stiff, another to give a slight limp perhaps, No. 3 to infuse a little deadness into the eyes, No. 4 to soften the voice, No. 5 to take care of a slower delivery, and so on. But out of the remaining ninety flow all the other springs of life that belong to the actor and are always playing and being drawn upon and governed by his imagination. Peculiarities and. mannerisms may sometimes attach themselves to personality, but they must in no wise be regarded as the whole thing. -They may perhaps be units in the hundred, but they are not what make an actor attractive to an audience.

THE mental machinery of the actor is more delicate than the record of a phonograph. That mental needle which acts upon the record of the author's words is influenced by weather, by sudden sounds, by unusual lights, by pains in the back and head, by dinner, by no dinner, by a letter from home, by feeling too well, by not feeling well enough, by no ink in the place where the ink ought to be, by a fear of forgetting, by a sudden awful realization of being stared at by hundreds of pairs of eyes and of not being able to escape. These are only a few of the thousand influences that are entirely apart from the ever varying influence of the pulse of the audience.

But I am not sure that my lay readers will understand what I mean. I will try to explain. The actor comes on to the stage to play his same part for the 560th time—to go through the"grind" once more, as he often puts it (but seldom means it). The audience is dull, the play is dull, and the whole thing seems a bore. Suddenly the electrician (who is alwaysdoing something my sterious at the back of the stage) drops a hundred lamps with a crash;—it is possibly only two or three, but it sounds like a hundred. The spectators hear it, of course, and commence talking pleasantly to one another about it, and fall speculating as to what is really the cause. The actor instantly becomes mad with rage; and the next instant he realizes the necessity of regaining the attention of the audience at once, or allowing the first act to go to pieces. So he "acts for all he's worth" for the next ten minutes and he gradually feels his audience coming back to him. And they become more and more attentive; and the sensation of having brought them back is so pleasant that the actor becomes interested in them personally and feels a certain friendly relationship between them and himself; and for the rest of that performance he gives them the best he has. And something of this kind happens almost every night.

Note: This paper is printed with the kind permission of the Dramatic Museum of Columbia University. It constitutes a part of the recently published second volume of their "Papers on Acting

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(Continued from page 39)

THE actor is nearly always fighting against some odds. I am speaking now of the time when the play has settled down to a long run. If he is feeling ill, he is anxious that he should not appear so; and he fights against any possible evidence of his pain, mental or physical. If there is an understudy playing, he makes an effort to cover any defect that may thus arise. If there is no ink when there ought to be ink, this is sufficient to break the monotony and to stimulate him to a certain degree of spontaneity.

Then, of course, there is the audience, the great stimulant. One intensely attentive figure in a dull audience, one distinct but invisible chuckle at a pet line, one spontaneous ejaculation expressive of appreciation, will serve to stimulate for a whole evening. Two sneezes, two coughs from the same scoundrel, will put the devil into you and make you swear to yourself that you will keep him quiet or die in the attempt. Then, of course, there is the great concerted influence of an audience, that inspires the actor and lifts him far above himself. This concerted influence is frequently brought about if some petty incident has served to break the monotony of repetition and has aroused in the actor that delightful sensation of spontaneity. These conditions in themselves are not sufficient to prevent an actor from falling into many evil practices which creep in as a result of long familiarity with the author's lines; but they help very considerably.

Mr. William Gillette recently raised an interesting question when he spoke of the necessity of the stagelover to adopt an artificial method if he desired to please the dramatic critics. I wonder if the critics are not after all right in their attitude. How many authors write a love-scene that is a real love-scene? There must be many—but for the moment I don't recall one. I will even go so far as to sympathize with and forgive the authors for not doing so. I believe that love-scenes in real life are generally spread over a fairly considerable time. They cover several luncheons, and some dinners, possibly an occasional dance, and a number of unexpected meetings in the morning. As a matter of fact, I doubt whether the majority of people who marry for love have ever had a love-scene which, segregated, would be recognized as such. Of course, the author hasn't time for all this—or rather the audience has not. So the lovers have to say it all in words, and in one afternoon—or perhaps in the middle of dinner, or while some mature person is putting on her cloak in the next room. It therefore becomes an artificial love-scene. Now the result of attempting to play an artificial love-scene in a natural way is fatal; it must be played artificially. It is necessary for the actor of these scenes "to stand behind the lady and breathe the love messages down the back of her neck, so that they can both face to the front at the same time." These messages are generally so long, that if she turned her back all the time, the audience might easily imagine she was fast asleep— unless she moved her shoulders, in which case, it might have some doubt as to whether she was laughing or crying. And if he turned his back to the audience and let her "have the stage" half the people in the house would hear only half he was saying to her, which might be "natural" for the lovers, but it would be very unnatural for the spectators to be there at all, because the only reason they came and paid their money was because they were led to believe they were going to hear it all.

OF course, one can never be really, truly "natural" on the stage. Acting is a bag of tricks. The thing to learn is how to be unnatural, and just how unnatural to be under given conditions. Many plays appear to be natural to the casual audience, but are in reality perfectly artificial from beginning to end. To play these naturally would be equivalent to an artist sticking real leaves on his painted canvas in order to suggest a natural tree. Half the fun and half the art of the actor is to play such pieces artificially while appearing to play them naturally.

Leading actors are continually being blamed for taking the center of the stage and facing the audience. It is called entirely unnatural. It is. But an actor who gets his living by acting will discover that the leading actor generally has the most to say. As he goes through the country playing in all sorts and sizes of theaters he may find that his manager will come round to him and say "I have had a number of complaints at the box-office lately that you are rather inaudible in some scenes." If the actor shouts he can ruin any scene. Now, the center of the stage is the spot that can be seen easiest by everybody in the house and in some theaters it is the only spot that can be seen from certain portions of the house. Therefore, I say, use it as much as possible. It has to be admitted that the words of a play are quite necessary to the proper interpretation of an author's work. It has also to be admitted that, speaking generally, the face expresses more to the square inch, by at least one hundred per cent than any other available adjunct in the actor's equipment. Therefore, I say, face the audience as much as possible.

The thing to learn is how to do these things without being found out.