Brando Experience

As a young actor immersed in study I loved Brando. Nearly every method trained actor does- excepting those with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove (we'll discuss THAT in a future post, I suppose) - because to look at Brando's fiery work in his younger days is to look upon some of the most complex acting creations in American performing history. Not to mention that Brando's young physique is one of the most beautiful specimens of manhood ever to walk the planet. I could watch Brando over and over again, from A Streetcar Named Desire to Last Tango in Parisand I never found him anything but bold and honest. That scene in Last Tango in Paris where he talks to his dead wife is so brutal, especially knowing what we know about Brando's personal life. It was impossible to understand, as a student, why such a brilliant actor would turn on his craft and call it all bullshit. It offended me to my core that someone with such talent would dismiss what he had worked so hard to become.

Of course, the older I get and the more immersed I become in day to day living the more I understand about Brando's disdain for the craft. When the first organic thoughts of "that's bullshit" entered my mind I almost keeled over from shock. The further my family life took me from the dirty rehearsal studios, cramped dressing rooms and masturbatory post-show drinking sessions the more I could see how deeply actors wade in their own self-important excrement. I began to despise the whole thing. I hated actors, I hated plays, writers irritated me, autuers made me want to pull out my hair in bloody clumps and set myself on fire. It all seemed so obnoxiously elitist and arrogant and I did not want to encourage that part of myself. Oh and it is a large part of me. It causes me great shame. I started to see what Brando had been getting at- I think...

When you are a young actor facing some daunting statistics regarding your future employment (or lack thereof) your mentors will mostly say things like, "We are lucky to get to do what we do. You have to be exceptionally strong to follow your passion against such odds". They paint a highly romantic picture about suffering for truth and art and how important it is. Everything loses perspective and suddenly everything in life is seen through an almost adolescent prism of art and that which is personal suddenly becomes public display. It is your duty to "use" yourself, your experience, for the cause of truth! What they neglect to mention is that it is just a job. It is a rewarding and fun job that requires great skill and commitment, but it is just a job.

One never hears lawyers, doctors, financial analysts or teachers discussing their work with such religious ferocity. Well, perhaps teachers, but teachers are passionate about teaching to lift up their pupils- not themselves. In acting the actor himself becomes the subject of his own religious fervor. He is his own deity. Frankly, that is a little difficult to live with. (My apologies to my husband!) Not only is it difficult for those who love the actor, but it becomes a burden to the actor him/herself. Look at what happened to Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland. Without proper perspective regarding the place of entertainment within the scope of the Universe an actor can and will implode. We are not built to withstand such self-scrutiny!

I am not saying that we should avoid introspection or examination of our past experiences. I believe there is a level at which the craft is therapeutic. But I've met actors who, even when low on the fame totem pole, have fallen victim to the pressures the craft can exert on a person. There is something wrong about selling your life, your essence for the amusement of others. Which brings me back to that scene in Last Tango in Paris that is just so brutal. Knowing what we know about Brando's tragic family life, this scene begins to topple. It is by turns both beautifully honest and a horrible prostitution of pain. I can't look away. I feel something. It is naked and real, but a human's nakedness (both figurative and literal) can be a celebration or it can be a degradation. It is so difficult to figure out which is which and so often so many of us are degraded and what is worse is that we DO IT TO OURSELVES! Is it worth it? What we give- do we get back? Not just in little gold- plated statuettes, but in reception. Does the audience open up and understand? Do we achieve any kind of acceptance on any real level? Does the world change? Is it really worth the price we pay?

Then again, do we really have to pay that price? Can we act, be honest and personal but still maintain some privacy? Can we maintain the dignity of the form without plumping up our egos with the cheap currency of celebrity?

I'm not willing to give up on the form. I still love the process. I still love taking a great script, pulling it apart and putting it back together again. I love what I learn in rehearsals. I just need to figure out why it ever needs to be performed and how to do so without selling myself or my castmates too cheaply. Then I watch this scene and I feel so... human.

I like feeling human.

Satire School

Frankly, enough has been said about the political implications of this cover in the last 24 hours to last the rest of the campaign. I'm not interested in the political fallout here. (Well, I am- just not within the context of this blog.) However, this does give me the opportunity to talk about the joys and the dangers of satire.

It is not clear who or what this cartoon is attempting to skewer. Apparently, the artist was trying to communicate the ridiculousness of the rumors surrounding the Obamas. The editor has defended the cover saying that it was so over-the-top that no one could possibly see it as anything other than humor. Unfortunately, since people really DO believe these things about the Obamas the cover would not seem that far-fetched to 12% of the population- according to a poll conducted by The Pew Research Center. If this were not the case, The New Yorker would have no reason to even run the cartoon on the last page. Funnier still is that those are the people least likely to read The New Yorker so they could learn more about the cover story. But they will see the cover at the news stand.

Where the New Yorker went wrong, in my humble opinion, is not in the subject matter but in the designation of the subject. Since the artwork does not depict the type of person who believes such untruths the message is that the New Yorker and its readers endorse these beliefs- thereby legitimizing those rumors as fact. An easy way to solve the problem is to use the cliche thought bubble- attributing the beliefs to someone other than The New Yorker itself. Of course, the problem with that is how do you portray such a population without coming off as elitist and judgmental? How would that message be received if the cover had portrayed a slack jawed yokel (clinging to his gun and Bible, perhaps?) watching FOX News and imagining the Obamas as such? Then the focus would not be on the rumors about the Obamas (although they would be reinforced just by having that image out there) but on the unflattering image of rural America and the prejudice of elitist, urban liberals who work at the New Yorker.

Perhaps we SHOULD focus for a moment on the prejudices of elitist, urban liberals. You see, no matter what cartoon was chosen to be on the cover to convey that particular cultural disconnect the joke is, at its heart, an elitist one. It is a private and angry chuckle for the intellectuals who read the New Yorker which allows them to feel superior over the ignorant masses. Perhaps a more effective cartoon would be to have three thought bubbles. The first depicting a latte liberal imagining the slack jawed yokel imagining the Obamas. The best satire sheds light on whole and uncomfortable truths- not just selective ones. We all shoulder some responsibility for the divide in this country- even the "enlightened" and self-satisfied urban liberal. Over simplifying the fears of 12% of the population does nothing to dispel them. In fact- it adds to the further entrenchment of the belief.

That is the sin of The New Yorker. It does not step back far enough to see what this anxiety is truly about and therefor cannot possibly make a sharp or witty observation about it. It simply strokes itself for being smart enough to "get it". Unfortunately, it seems that only The New Yorker staff got the joke. The rest of us can only stand back and stammer at its stupidity.

Anyway, the biggest truth of all is that New Yorker cartoons have never really been that funny- but that was already addressed on an episode of Seinfeld.