A few weeks ago, after Philip Seymour Hoffman’s tragic
death, I suggested that he may have been a casualty of method acting. It was a
thought, something to ponder.
I find
it more telling that Junod believes that Hoffman died “in character?” Who
decided that there is a special virtue for an actor to die “in character?” Who
told actors that they had to become the characters they were playing? I think
we know the answer to that one. If Junod is right, it means that it's time for
the acting profession to take a few steps back from the “method.”
Surely,
Hoffman was a great actor, but was it necessary for him to become the
characters he was playing? Is there any real virtue in thinking that you are
sacrificing yourself for your art?
On Friday, Richard Brody picked up my suggestion in a post on the New Yorker site, and offered
some further insights into Method acting. I see no indication that he was
specifically responding to my post, but still….
Brody defines the Method:
There’s
something about modern-day acting—the style that is famously associated with
Lee Strasberg’s Method and that gained currency from his Actors Studio and its
offshoots—that inclines toward deformations of character. That modern school,
which links emotional moments from a performer’s own life to that of a
character, and which conceives characters in terms of complete and filled-out
lives that actors imagine and inhabit, asks too much of performers.
Method acting requires actors to undergo a semi-therapeutic
process of introspection. In so doing, they dredge up past experiences-- experiences that would have best remained buried-- in order to access raw their own emotions. Then, they transfer the emotions to the characters they are playing.
Brody explainss:
An
actor’s attempted excavation of her own deepest and harshest experiences to
lend them to characters adds a dimension of self-revelation (even if only to
oneself), of wounds reopened and memories relived, that would make for agony in
therapy. On the other hand, the effort to conceive a character as a filled-out
person, with a lifetime of backstory and biographical details, becomes a
submergence into another (albeit fictitious) life, an abnegation of a nearly
monastic stringency. In the effort to make emotions true, to model performance
on the plausible actions of life offstage or offscreen, the modern actor is
often both too much and too little herself.
As Brody presents it, the Method pretends that fictional characters are fully human beings. If that
is true, an actor must put his humanity into his character. And yet, those who teach the
Method do not worry about how this exercise will impact the actors
psychologically And no one seems to notice, as I mentioned in my post, that
this produces a goodly quantity of bad acting.
My prior remarks:
Even if
we ignore the damage it does to the actors themselves, method acting fills our
screen with actors who mistake intense emotion for great acting.
There’s
a reason why so many of today’s greatest actors hail from the other side of the
pond. Can you imagine Benedict Cumberbatch or Tom Hiddleston (or John Gielgud
or Laurence Olivier or Vanessa Redgrave) dying on a bathroom floor with a
needle in his arm?
Unfortunately, method acting also produces actors who can only play themselves. If you are the character you are playing
you are more likely to take the role home with you, even to the point of
playing out your dramas in the tabloids.
In Brody’s words:
Compare
Brando with several of his noted predecessors, such as Cary Grant or Robert
Mitchum, who seem not to become the roles they play but to turn the characters
into versions of themselves. Their roles aren’t put-ons, but they do put them
on: they don their roles like costumes while continuing, manifestly and even
brazenly, to be—themselves.
Not that actors in the early-studio era didn’t live strange or even riotous
lives, but the reason was altogether different: it’s precisely because of the
way their private lives flowed into their onscreen personae.
Of course, Marlon Brando counts among the most famous method
actors. Brody could also have mentioned another exemplary product of method
acting: Marilyn Monroe.
Not to mention River Phoenix and Heath Ledger. If method acting is based on emotional sincerity, I wonder if it matters that they're all sincerely dead?
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My understanding is that Cary Grant found one of his characters so satisfactory that he played him the rest of his life.
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