Assist the Scene

By Rob Adler | Posted Oct. 1, 2015, 3 p.m. Most people remember Michael Jordan for his high-flying dunks or his game-winning shots. I was recently reminded of his ability to pass the ball while watching the 1989 documentary “Michael Jordan: Come Fly With Me.” In basketball terms, a pass that sets up a teammate to score is called an assist. In one game, Jordan had 17 assists, meaning he passed the ball for 34 points! Believe me when I tell you that his passes were as spectacular as his shots—or watch for yourself.

Acting, like basketball, is a team sport. An “assist” is anything an actor can do to enhance what their scene partner is doing. Most actors learn some variation of Stanislavsky’s system, which has the actor identify the character’s objectives and then fight for them at all costs. I’ve heard people liken this to a chess or boxing match. The drama is obvious in those solo sports, but in those games, the other person is your opponent and the metaphor may overlook an essential component of great acting: collaboration.

Understanding that each moment in a scene must be born of the moment before, you can collaborate by behaving in ways that anticipate what your scene partner must do next. If his line is “et to Brute,” make sure to stab him. While every line is not an obvious slam dunk like that one, every moment in a scene works in partnership with the prior moment. How can you pass your partner the metaphorical ball and “assist” them?

The crew is also an essential part of the team that makes the scene great. I’ve been on set when a camera move necessitates an unnatural pause, and when blocking requires an actor to power walk. Assisting your partner may mean waiting an extra beat for the camera to crane up before speaking your line or pacing your walk to the exact rate of the dolly tracking backward. On the set of “Up in the Air,” George Clooney was delivering his lines on an airport tram. Because of a beeping noise at the tram stops, he was getting cut off, so he learned the timing and delivered his entire 45-second speech within the 30-second time parameters of the tram ride to get the shot.

Don’t focus on what you can get in a scene so much that you forget all you have to give to a scene. Actively seeking the “assist” by paying full attention to your partner is valuable for several reasons. First, it heightens listening. The kind of listening required of an actor extends beyond simply hearing. It demands observing and noticing your fellow actors in a detailed manner such that they influence your behavior in the moment, which keeps things spontaneous and connected. Spontaneity adds an improvisational element in scripted scenes without straying from the script. Second, it takes your attention off yourself, alleviating you of any nerves caused by self-consciousness or fear. Third, it creates trust as actors shift the focus from themselves to making their scene partner look good. As people begin to play together, something magical happens—they become a team. This elevates the craft to the level of artistry. (And Jordan sticks his tongue out!)

To practice the “assist,” try playing Viola Spolin’s camera game and put your full focus and energy on your scene partner. Think of yourself as one large eye from head to toe. Imagine that you can see with the back of your head if you need to—like Jordan seemed to. You’ll notice partnership emerge, self-consciousness disappear, and discover new presence and spontaneity in the scene (even though you know how it ends).

The Chicago Bulls didn’t start winning championships until Jordan’s teammates earned his trust. He didn’t pass his teammates the ball until they were in the right spot on the floor and they would knock down the shot. He elevated the players. Together, they elevated the team. Pass the ball. Look for the assist. Be like Mike.

Acting With Purpose

By Rob Adler | Posted Sept. 2, 2015, 10 a.m. I saw something extraordinary last weekend. Roger Guenveur Smith and Mark Broyard’s “Inside the Creole Mafia” is a hilarious and thought-provoking examination of Louisiana culture and identity through the lens of a man doomed to an eternity of “making a living as a Hollywood actor too white to play black and too black…”

Ten years after Katrina, Guenveur Smith and Broyard revived their existential vaudevillian romp at the Bootleg Theater for a limited run.

Beginning with trumpets, Mardi Gras beads, and all the fanfare of the French quarter, followed by an hour-plus of sidesplitting transformations, audience interactions, and Godot-esque clowning, the lights went dark, and, as the actors bent at the waist, the audience stood up to applaud. But in the very moment the actors lifted from their final bow, a woman in the front row said in full voice that she lost two loved ones in Katrina and she was still grieving. Broyard and Guenveur Smith embraced her. And, as much as it could, our applause embraced them all.

I was reminded that, as actors, we are part of a powerful history of helping people through storytelling. As such, we should begin our scenes with at least a moment’s regard for the hallowed ground on which we are inviting our audience (and each other) to enter. Unfortunately, it seems that in an attempt to be lifelike, many modern actors transition from ordinary life into “rolling” without taking a moment to consider why they are doing what they are doing. While this may aid the relaxation needed to perform, it may also deprive the actor and the audience of the compassionate generosity and magical potential of our art form. Especially on camera, which can feel more isolated than the stage, a formal moment of acknowledgment, reminding us of our sense of purpose, can awaken the actor’s ability to bring people on an imaginative journey.

I recently grabbed my copy of Viola Spolin’s “Improvisation for the Theater” to read a quote to my class.

“What’s the very first thing you do when you sit down to read a story?” I asked.

They looked dumbfounded. With a twinkle in my eyes, I responded, “Open the book.”

That little action is an often overlooked but sacred ritual invitation into an imaginary world, filled with possibilities.

“Opening the book” can happen for an actor in any number of ways. At my studio we practice Spolin’s suggestion of calling “Curtain!” to begin a scene. Practiced enough, the transitionary moment of calling “curtain” is substituted on set by the director’s voice calling “action.”

Sometimes my clients will arrive on set for the blocking rehearsal and physically open an imaginary curtain before they begin as a way to remind them of the magic that they are about to create. Still, others prefer to make meaningful eye contact (or even physical contact) with their scene partner at the start. Whatever you do, remember that you are a part of an ancient tradition. Ours is a legacy of people who lead their communities, helping people to process and come to terms with the emotional complexities of everything from heartache to war. If we begin with purpose, we can be like Broyard and Guenveur Smith and elevate the audience from the humdrum doldrums of parking in Los Angeles to the dignified memorializing of a lost loved one all but forgotten or unknown by everyone around you.

As one of my students, the actor Paul Haitkin said, “If you have a broken leg, see a doctor. If you have a broken society, see an artist.”

Ask Yourself This Question After Acting

By Rob Adler | Posted July 27, 2015, 3 p.m. Last night, a very talented female actor presented a monologue in class. The acting was simple, clear, direct, and active—the hallmarks of proficiency. “How did it go?” I asked.

“Fine,” she squeezed.

“Did you do what you wanted to do?” I probed.

“No, it wasn’t true,” she responded.

After an improvisational acting exercise, she did a second take. My USC colleague Jack Rowe is often quick to note when an actor’s performance changes the air in the room. This was one of those moments. My gut seized and breath shortened as she spoke each syllable. A new kind of quiet filled the studio. With each move she made and each word she uttered, she seemed to be embarking upon a hero’s struggle, defying the gods for her sense of justice and peace. I felt a connection to the actors seated behind me and sensed I wasn’t the only one with tears in my eyes. The actor performing was not crying.

There was a long silence when she finished the monologue. The moment transformed and she looked at me. “How did it go?” I queried.

“Fine,” she said. I was surprised by her response, so I used her barometer from earlier and asked, “Was it true?”

She responded, “I don’t know. It was true for me but I don’t know if some guy on the street would think it was true!” The actor, who had succeeded at the highest levels of the art form—reaching her audience, moving them, making them feel—was deferring to a stranger on the street to measure her success.

From the moment we’re born, we’re labeled good or bad—by our parents and other adults, our teachers, our bosses, our spouses. It cycles, first validated or rejected by others, and then, as a result, seeking validation or rejection from others. Viola Spolin called this the Approval/Disapproval Syndrome, and it leads to creative paralysis.

An actor’s value is constantly billboarded as synonymous with red carpets, expensive minimalist clothing, and pharmaceutical endorsements. Even in training, you perform a scene in the typical acting class and then receive the teacher’s critique about what was good or not. Regardless of the teacher’s talent, they can perpetuate the approval/disapproval cycle that promotes dependency and prevents creative freedom. Choice is the province of the artist and the trained actor must be able to answer for themselves if they did what they wanted to do.

Henri Matisse, the famous painter, was painting a model. A guest in his studio looked at the model, looked at the painting, then looked at Matisse and said, “You got her arm wrong.” Matisse looked at the model, smiled, and then gestured to the canvas and responded, “You see my friend, this, is a painting.”

The knowledge of whether the artist did what they wanted to do is vital for the kind of collaboration required on film sets because it allows for a degree of objectivity. I once watched a generous director ask an actor if he was good with the last take and ready to move on. The actor thought for a moment and said, “No, I wanna try something. Do we have time for one more take?”

Without the ability to answer the question, “Did I do what I wanted to do?” the actor would’ve been the equivalent of a deferential child waiting for the director’s approval to move on instead of a collaborator who was part of the whole, free and willing to take risks to capture just the right brush stroke.

If an actor is able to set specific goals in a scene, then they can measure them. If you decide in a scene to work on subtext, for example, then ask yourself afterward, “Did I do what I wanted to do, work on the subtext?” Then you may evaluate your focus on the inner life of the scene and assess if the inner action colored the text in a way that is beautiful and true (or if you lost concentration and became distracted by something else).

Regardless of the answer, you will have a qualitative measurement about the relationship of subtext to the scene (or your own ability to concentrate). Most importantly, you will be breaking the cycle of reading the reviews to determine how good you are, and instead possess the freedom to paint the world truly, as you see it.

Improve Your Commercial Technique

By Rob Adler | Posted June 25, 2015, 3 p.m. Kevin McCorkle has appeared in more than 300 commercials from Gatorade and Taco Bell to Blue Cross and Lipitor. He also has worked in big-budget films, indie films, had recurring roles on television series, and has been in dozens of plays, short films, and Web series.

Having long escaped a starving artist mentality, McCorkle makes money so that he can make art, and commercials are his means. “Commercials give me the freedom of time and money, allowing me to pursue every aspect of an acting career,” he says.

While commercial work can be a great way to pay the bills, you’ll need more than beginner-level acting skills.

“The pressure, urgency, and need to tell a story in less than 30 seconds, combined with creating an emotional connection to a service, product or idea often with a script that is full of carefully crafted legal and expositional wording can be daunting,” McCorkle adds.

Commercials come in many forms, but they often feature characters with a problem, and the product provides a solution. The moment where the solution is offered, characters typically jump emotions, from misery to joy or discomfort to relief.

To practice making the product the commercial’s hero and the required emotional switches seamless, we use Viola Spolin’s “Jump Emotion” game. Here’s how it works:

Write down a character, location, and activity (a dad on a baseball field playing catch with his son or a son playing Xbox with his buddies in the basement, for example). Now pick two emotional categories, like fear and bravery or frustration and joy. Do the activity as the character in the location, while physicalizing the first emotion. Using the scenario above for example, you might tap the controller buttons nervously, thumb the joystick fearfully, then pull the trigger buttons in terror.

As you continue the activity, stay focused on finding a moment to instantaneously switch emotions. Try not to pre-plan when, but the moment you sense it, jump completely to the new emotion. You can heighten the game by writing emotions, who’s, what’s and where’s, on slips of paper and randomly drawing one from each category as a way to exercise the same acting muscle in different circumstances.

Play it a few times and you’ll notice that you go on a real journey as you play in the first emotional category, exploring and heightening the physicality until the switch comes.

This preparation tool isn’t reserved for just big national commercials and dialogue heavy spots though. Even auditions for parts requiring the smallest of gestures can benefit using this technique.

“While there are spots where you just open a door or wave to someone, if you look at the performances carefully, you will see years of improv training behind what looks like a simple gesture,” says McCorkle, who knows that it takes more than good luck to defy the odds.

“Musicians train, athletes train, dancers train, singers train. Actors need to train, too,” he adds. “They can’t just show up and expect the magic to happen. More commercials are improv-heavy, telling the story without words, so one of the tools in the commercial actor’s toolbox is confidence in their improv ability.”

Dustin Hoffman famously noted that acting is very difficult to practice by yourself. This game is a simple, fun way to strengthen a vital muscle so you’ll be in good shape for commercial (and all) auditions when they give you the given circumstances—with or without a script.

Now get to the gym.

Playing Formidable Foes

By Rob Adler | Posted May 19, 2015, 3 p.m. I was recently coaching an actor for a new role on a hit cable series when he ran into a common actor challenge. As he was researching the role, he found it difficult to identify with and personify a character some presidents might describe as an “evildoer.” Regardless of your politics, the character was indeed a villain.

Before we discussed how to personalize the character, I reminded him it doesn’t matter if actors are really feeling the character’s emotions. This runs counter to some acting teachers’ opinions, but most people don’t go to the movies or watch television for the actor’s benefit. People go to the movies so they can feel something themselves. The actor’s inner life is only relevant insofar as they truthfully communicate the story so the audience has an emotional experience. What character gives the audience this gift better than the villain? Great actors relish the opportunity to play the villain because they are almost always smart, creative, passionate, plotting, and absolutely essential to a good story.

Villains fall into a few major categories. “The Sociopath” is a passionless killer, like Dexter or Dahmer, who seeks a junkie-like relief from their treachery. These villains hide in plain sight, the kind the neighbors say, “seemed so normal.” “The Anarchist” loves to create chaos. Usually highly intelligent and cynical, “the Anarchist” laughs in defiance at the rules of an ordered world, like Malcolm McDowell in Kubrick’s “A Clockwork Orange.”

My client was struggling to relate to a villainous character I call “the Zealot.” This character does things many of us would consider unconscionable, but believes it is the only way to serve a greater good. My client was struggling, in part, because someone once told him, “Don’t judge the character.” Here’s the problem with this advice: Trying to play a negative (not-do something), is a little like saying, “Don’t think of pink elephants.” It creates the opposite effect. We all make judgements. An actor’s passionate subjectivity is one of their primary assets and a well-written script will elicit your emotions about every character. My client needed a practical tool for relating with a character he judged as immoral. He needed willingness.

Since the actor related to the show’s hero, he came to understand that for the audience to root for the hero, his character needed to be a formidable foe. Most great villains have strong similarities to the hero, which is the case on this show. Both the hero and villain are passionate about their beliefs, pained by injustice as they see it, and willing to go to great lengths to win. But the hero is unwilling to cross a line.

My USC colleague Joe Hacker teaches a course on playing the villain. In his brilliant book, “Auditioning on Camera,” he suggests actors playing “the Zealot,” “try to see the villain…as a would-be hero who stands for something.” We all experience rage, jealousy, and greed in our everyday lives and do our best to stop short of acting upon them. But there are times when we can imagine how it would feel to justifiably cross the line for something we believe in. The key to personalization here is relating to the willingness to cross the line.

In working with him on the role, we found further personalization unnecessary. We heightened the work we’d done by using a physicalization tool called Explosion Tag, in which the actor suddenly, physically expands and extends themselves like they’re exploding. This creates some vital muscle memory for beats filled with rage. The result was a character that was volatile, righteous, and terrifying—just the kind to make you root for the hero.

Use Your Whole Self!

By Rob Adler | Posted April 22, 2015, 3 p.m. Everyone who performs at a high level understands there are critical differences between training and performing. Boxers don’t jog because they’ll jog in a fight. They do it because it builds stamina. Ballet dancers stretch so their bodies move fluidly and land safely on the day. Many actors spend 80 percent of class time sitting in the audience watching other actors and another 10 percent listening to a teacher talk and still expect themselves to perform at a high level on set or in auditions. An actor’s instrument is their whole self—mind, body, and intuition—and they should train accordingly.

The 21st century has brought with it an epidemic of incomplete concentration—short attention spans that mock mental rigor as passé. The ability to focus one’s inner energy, memorize, occlude distractions, and explore for details are primary skills for an actor. There are many ways to go about sharpening the mind, all of which begin with putting down your “smart” phone. Read a book, go to a museum, or study a foreign language. All of these will help strengthen the mental muscle.

Research suggests playing games might be the fastest way for actors to enhance concentration, memory, and intellectual acuity all at once. Sociologist Neva Boyd noted, “Playing a game is psychologically different in degree but not in kind from dramatic acting. The ability to create a situation imaginatively and to play a role in it is a tremendous experience…We observe that this psychological freedom creates a condition in which strain and conflict are dissolved and potentialities are released in the spontaneous effort to meet the demands of the situation.” Or as Shaun White put it “Skateboarding is training, but I don’t think of it as training. It’s fun.”

Here’s a news flash: You don’t need a six pack to be a movie star. An actor’s skill is measured in part by their talent to communicate physically, non-verbally, the life of a character in a scene. Transformation is enabled by the ability to hold the body in ways that are true to the character. So much of Eddie Redmayne’s Academy Award-winning performance in “The Theory of Everything,” for example, was communicated by adjusting his physical life. Watch Kevin Spacey’s Oscar-winning work in “American Beauty” for a subtler example. Hidden beneath the detailed physicality of the award winners is a secret tool of great actors: Being in your body helps you get out of your head.

When the mind is focused and the body engaged, keen and quick insights leap from within us and creativity is liberated. It is these stunningly intuitive discoveries that allow actors to express the most beautiful truths: a pensive glance out the window, a pep talk in the mirror, even a preemptive laser-gun shot under the table. Although intuition is often viewed as mystical, using a system of games can make accessing it a trained skill.

Viola Spolin’s Singing Dialogue is part of the sequence of games I use in my scene study classes. The focus is singing with your whole body, from the tips of your toes to the back of your knees to the top of your head. Aside from heightening vocal action, it playfully coaxes the actor to further explore what they are saying and how it affects their partner. Amidst the joy of play, the mind is exercised, physicality is heightened, and new discoveries are made.

Training is not acting. Training is preparation for the job. Good training should engage every fiber of your being. Now sing with your feet.

3 Differences Between Acting on Stage and Screen

By Rob Adler | Posted March 26, 2015, 3 p.m. When the cast of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” first saw the film, many of them were shocked. In post-production, Director John Hughes and Editor Paul Hirsch decided to tell a very different story than what was filmed in production. The original Ferris was a darker character. Ferris was a cigarette smoker and they filmed many scenes with him smoking. They cut all of that out in post. In the original draft, Ferris even delivered a monologue about smoking pot from a submarine and in production they ran out of time before they could film the scene with Cameron and Ferris at a strip club. No wonder the cast was so surprised.

In film and on TV, actors don’t create their own performances, editors and directors do. That’s one major difference between stage and screen acting. In the rehearsal process for the theater, it is not uncommon for an actor who is in control of their performance to sense something has gone “wrong,” stop, go back, and fix it to get it “right.” On a film set that’s someone else’s job. Actors don’t call cut.

Well-prepared actors may find themselves filming a scene when they forget a line or something happens that changes the direction of how they thought the scene should go. This could send them into their head and stop the take. But the director might have liked what they were seeing or had a vision for how the footage could be used elsewhere in the storytelling. In transitioning from stage to screen, actors need to practice letting go of control. This doesn’t mean letting go of preparation. Far from it. Rather, when they arrive on set, actors must have the ability to trust the other artists they are working with as collaborators, and play along. Being fully prepared and simultaneously able to stay relaxed and in the moment is a vital skill for film and television acting.

Preparation for the lens is different than the stage. In film, there often is no rehearsal and sometimes you don’t meet the rest of the cast until shortly before filming. Furthermore, because of camera angles or scheduling, your scene partner might not even be there to respond to, but you are still responsible for making each take look as though it is alive in the moment and for the first time. Great scripted acting looks improvised (and great improvisation looks scripted).

Camera actors must have the ability to think actively. So much is communicated physically and vocally on the stage that could be communicated with a closeup in a film. One tool I use when coaching to help actors achieve this is to choose a specific point of concentration to follow during the take. There are many that we teach at the studio, but one we frequently use comes from Viola Spolin’s Preoccupation games: While doing an activity, be totally preoccupied with an off-screen event and follow your flights of thought from it, using your inner energy to springboard from one thought to the next, irrespective of the scene’s text. Think of how rich Cameron and Ferris are because we see Ferris fantasizing about driving the Ferrari and Cameron obsessing about getting caught:

Cameron My father spent three years restoring this car. It is his love, it is his passion.

Ferris It is his fault he didn’t lock the garage.

Michael Caine offered great advice: “Be like a duck—calm on the surface, but always paddling like the dickens underneath.” Of course, planning your thoughts could lead to the most controlled, unspontaneous performances (talk about being in your head). In life, thoughts happen and life is improvised, so actors must find a way to remain in in the frame and stay moving on the inside. When you get stuck in your head remember what Ferris said, “You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do.”