The words, or as one of Britain’s finest old thespians told me when I asked for his wisdom on the subject, “The wordies. Learn the wordies.”
At the time, I had a sneaking suspicion he could be pulling my leg. Yet why would he? I was an avid young actor, starting out, in my second term at drama school. No. He was an admired actor, revered by many. It was a stroke of luck to catch him on the Metropolitan Line of London’s Underground.
When I had initially engaged him, he had paused. It was a long pause, interminable, it had seemed to me at the time. Then came the response, in his strange, unique delivery. Once heard, never forgotten. “The wordies, learn the wordies.” The pause had been significant, the opposite of my mental insecurities. His advice had contained unspoken wisdom. But at the same time, it was wisdom I could grasp and practice, allowing the best in me to come forth. Wilfrid Lawson was his name, and he was a prince among actors.
Learning the words was always tough for me. Most actors have difficulties, but mine seemed doubly tough. It meant revisiting my formal schooling. Overcoming the mental barriers I had erected to prevent the sensation of being hemmed in, squashed. The learning-by-rote system of education has a lot to answer for in my book.
I hadn’t boosted my spontaneity by alcohol or drugs so I knew my central nervous system was in pretty good shape. My emotional canvas was what I needed to address. I needed to have easier access to my feelings when I was under the cosh between action and cut.
Then one of those intuitive leaps happened. I had come across a magazine someone had left on one of London’s beautiful Routemasters. (One of Britain’s greatest functional designs, scrapped by some heathen of a mayor who claimed anyone who got rid of them would have to be an idiot—which he did when elected. Sound familiar?) It concerned a young man whose right hemisphere in his brain had been irreparably damaged. As the two hemispheres have different functions, the result was conclusively marked. With sight, for example, the right hemisphere only sees the whole picture, the left, only particulars. The damaged young man, after his accident, could only see someone’s nose or mouth or eye. Not the whole face.
I had been born very left handed. I hadn’t been compelled to use my right hand at all, but found myself in a very right handed world. Scissors, learning to tie my shoelaces, had presented me with all kinds of difficulties. Learning to read had been an ongoing nightmare. Aged 14 and already fashion conscious, tying a double Windsor knot in my school tie had taken an age to master.
My continuing failure to learn from the detail up had serious ramifications on my progress in academia. When I sat the dreaded Scholarship or Eleven Plus, I felt as if I had only just learned to read. I considered my entry in the local grammar school was by Divine Intervention.
Even early forays in drama had been laced with trauma. Aged 15, when I should have been preparing for the GCE, I was cast in the role of a 55-year-old in a play by Somerset Maughan: The Sacred Flame. Whilst it was an amateur production, my failure to master the seemingly endless dialogue had ensured a terrifying opening night at the local Town Hall, packed, needless to say.
My intuitive leap informed me that if I mindfully started to use my right hand and feature it in my daily life, this would entail my left hemisphere being brought more into play.
Slowly, slowly catchy monkey, I made an easy, non-threatening start. Combing my hair, brushing my teeth with both hands. When I became proficient, I moved onto something new.
By the time I made the western Blue (my future ex-wife’s favoured film of mine) I was faster at drawing my six-shooter with my right hand.
During my second term at the Webber Douglas Academy, however, I was cast as Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello. I somehow felt this was no ordinary event, and figured if I were to pull it off I would have to know the lines almost before rehearsals were underway. I compelled myself to memorise a page of Iago every day. Whenever I had one page down, I would begin my day by facing myself in a corner and reciting out loud whatever I had learned. If I dried somewhere I would go back over the lines to ensure I had them before embarking on the new page. It was a slog. I copied out difficult soliloquies five or six times, marking out where I would need a breath.
The system at Webber was different from other drama schools. We were in four different productions per term with only a single production of each.
When the curtain went up, I began what I later realised was the first spontaneous performance of my new career. My lines and cues had almost become second nature. Alongside the functioning of the breath, diaphragm, vocal chords, and everything else involved in everyday speech (which is perfect example of spontaneity) I had been able to add learned lines and regimented breathing, and still leave enough space for impromptu emotions and their intonations previously hidden in text, by the Bard himself, and enlivened by the breath in the dynamic of performance. I can liken it to learning to drive. No automatic cars in my youth. How difficult it had been to even change gears: foot off the accelerator, down with the clutch, glance in the rear view mirror, control the steering, manipulate the gear stick, the accelerator pedal depressed as the clutch pedal is released. Yet, after a few days, all taken care of by the intelligence of the body, allowing me to speed around the Formula One circuit when the curtain goes up or the clapper board snaps down.
It doesn’t get easier. If my outings are anything to go by, it gets more demanding. Don’t be taken in by the flesh coloured earphones that allow an off-stage assistant to read the lines directly into the ear piece. Your returns are usually related to your investment.
I should mention at this point that most of my friends consider me barking. Barking mad, that is. As I have usually done things the opposite way to everybody else; but the fact is that the path that I have been taken along is as unique as yours. You don’t have to go to India, become a vegetarian, study Tai Chi or whirl like a dervish. All you have to do is wake up in the morning and appreciate that this moment is yours. Yours alone. It won’t be repeated. You will never pass this way again. Give it your best shot. Everything you need is in this moment.