An Actor Prepares

At the beginning of class, Tortsov surprises one actor, Vassili, by asking, “With whom or what are you in communion at the moment?” (193). Vassili says that he’s in communion with no one, and Tortsov tells the class to be quiet, close their eyes and ears, and “try to find one single second when you will not be in contact with some object” (193). Kostya tries to lose himself in his thoughts. As he considers the question, he keeps coming up with thoughts of people he knows or knew. Then, Kostya focuses on a chandelier, but Tortsov points out that even inanimate objects “contain some part of the life of the artist who created it” (195). Tortsov explains, “without absorbing from others or giving of yourself to others there can be no intercourse on the stage. To give to or to receive from an object something, even briefly, constitutes a moment of spiritual intercourse” (195). Communication onstage must be continuous and unbroken. A playwright would not write characters who were all unconscious and unable or unwilling to communicate with each other, since acting and the theatre are all about communion. Tortsov adds, “If actors really mean to hold the attention of a large audience they must make every effort to maintain an uninterrupted exchange of feelings, thoughts and actions among themselves” (197).

Tortsov begins by discussing self-communion. Onstage, characters frequently talk to themselves in order to wrestle with internal conflicts. Using the Hindu concept of Prana, or life force, Tortsov prefers to center these self-communions in his chest and brain, as if they are conversing with one another. However, he adds that this is his personal preference and may not be useful to everyone. When communicating with another person, the actor must choose where to place his focus, to “seek out his soul, his inner world” (199). Tortsov tells Kostya to look at him and tell him what kind of person he sees. He does so, and then Tortsov tells him to do it again. This time, Tortsov takes on the persona of a well-known character and Kostya recognizes him immediately. Tortsov explains, “All that is necessary is for two people to come into close contact and a natural, mutual exchange takes place” (200). Grisha pipes up, arguing that exchange does not equal mutual exchange, since in this situation, they are only receiving. Tortsov counters that the exchange–the flow of communication–occurs whether or not both parties are speaking. However, “that unbroken flow is all too rare” (201), since most actors only focus on communion while speaking their part. The actor must also see and listen to his or her scene partner.

The class moves on to “communion with an imaginary, unreal, non-existent object, such as an apparition” (202). When communicating with an imaginary object onstage, an actor must still focus on his or her objective, rather than trying too hard to believe that the imaginary object is real. Often, an actor will make the mistake of learning to treat even live scene partners as if they are imaginary, imagining their responses instead of seeing and reacting. Therefore, Tortsov tells the class that they must always rehearse with a live scene partner.

Tortsov then discusses the added difficulty of communing with “a collective public” (203): the audience. The actor must learn to feed the communion with the audience, responding to their reactions, since “to act without a public is like singing in a place without resonance” (204). Some plays require the actor to commune with a collective object onstage, as in a scene with a mob of people. Tortsov describes these exchanges in terms of “the active principle underlying the process of communication” (205). They must “learn to prize that inner communion because it is one of the most important sources of action” (205). In communion, Tortsov explains, the actor must pour some of his own experience and himself into the exchange. He demonstrates, first acting without communicating with them and then performing a monologue in which he communicates constantly. The second time, Tortsov states, “I did not show you the role itself, but myself in the role and my own attributes: my form, face, gestures, poses, mannerisms, movements, walk, voice, diction, speech, intonations, temperament, technique–everything except feelings” (206-07).

Although the class found the second performance to be very effective, Tortsov explains that he was feeding too much off of their responses as if he were selling himself. Therefore, “this is a second example of how not to act” (207) although it is a very common practice. In his third demonstration, he shows them a monologue in which he focuses on external aspects of the character rather than emotion or “liv[ing] the part” (207). This performance feels “cold, impersonal, [and] […] without […] life or depth” (207). Finally, Tortsov shows the class the proper way to commune with the audience. This involves working to convey his own emotions (as adapted for the character) to his scene partner. They move on to an exercise in which Tortsov rings a bell when their communication becomes anything other than the three types he has explained: directly with an object or the audience, with the self, or with an imagined object. They are surprised that Tortsov does not ring the bell often. Tortsov tells them that the act of communicating properly is slippery and tends to be mixed, rather than clearly incorrect or clearly correct, but they must continue to work on identifying the object that they are communicating with and fight against fake objects or communions.

Tortsov moves on to an exercise in which the actors will pair up and start fights with each other in order to test “their external equipment for intercommunication” (210). Kostya chooses Grisha, believing that the argumentative student will be easy to pick a fight with. As they fight, Tortsov sees that Kostya uses his hands a lot to communicate, so he binds them to show Kostya “how often we fail to appreciate our tools” (210). Without his hands (and under the direction to avoid raising his voice), Kostya begins to compensate with his face and the rest of his body. Tortsov keeps binding these parts of his body until he is completely tied to his chair with his mouth and face bandaged, unable to communicate. Tortsov offers to return “one organ of communication” (210), and Kostya becomes angry trying to choose, exclaiming, “An actor cannot be crippled! He has to have all his organs!” (211). Tortsov compliments him for discovering the importance of his body as “creative equipment” that the actor owes his body as much regard and care as “a violinist does to his beloved Stradivarius or Amati” (211).

In the next class, Tortsov recognizes that they have been discussing external processes of communication but need to talk about the part that is “inner, invisible, and spiritual” (211). He describes a silent communication between Hamlet and Ophelia, asking the class to remember a moment “when something streamed out of [them], some current from [their] eyes, from the ends of [their] fingers or out through [their] pores” (212). Tortsov refers to these beams of communication as “rays” (212), which become heightened in highly emotional moments. He talks about a moment he witnessed in which a couple was fighting. Without speaking, gesturing, or using facial expressions, the man attempted to “transmit the current of his feelings to her” (213). Tortsov refers to this as “direct, immediate communion in its purest form” (213). With their partners once again, the class attempts this form of communion. Tortsov interrupts Kostya and Grisha as they are trying to force communication. He orders them to relax and look, rather than merely staring at each other. Tortsov describes the rays as “an underground river, which flows continuously under the surface of both words and silences and forms an invisible bond between subject and object” (214). The actor cannot forcefully transmit a message, but he can convey something he is feeling. Kostya becomes frustrated. Tortsov likens it to moments when he is bored in a crowd and attempts to hypnotize someone else, such as an appealing woman, to feel his attraction. They try it again, and Tortsov begins to be able to comprehend what Kostya is transmitting.

Kostya and Tortsov switch so that Tortsov is transmitting; after a while, Tortsov points to the bond that materialized between them, adding, “If you can establish a long, coherent chain of such feelings it will eventually become so powerful that you will have achieved what we call grasp” (217), which is like a dog seizing something in his teeth. He identifies grasp as an inner activity, rather than a muscular or external one. Next, Tortsov talks about capturing this feeling on command. Kostya practices by choosing “an object, with its appropriate, imaginative basis, and to transmit it to Tortsov” (219). After a while, Kostya manages to accomplish this. Then, Tortsov tells Kostya to do it again “in a purely mechanical, physical way” (220), but to avoid utilizing emotion. Kostya finds that he cannot do it without having some kind of motivation underneath. This time, Kostya conveys his frustration in the moment, fueling the mechanical version of the exercise. Tortsov explains that this process is easier onstage because while acting, they will have fleshed out their given circumstances and objectives, rather than working on the fly, as they were in class. In these exercises, they first learned to focus on a feeling and transmit it to someone else and what it feels like to receive, and second, learned to recognize the physical processes involved. Tortsov reiterates that they must always practice this with a willing partner and under supervision. 

Tortsov gives one of the students, Vanya, a scenario in which he wants to leave class early and needs to convince them all to allow him to do it. Kostya suggests that Vanya pretend to be distressed or sick, and Vanya agrees happily before suddenly twisting his ankle. The class responds with concern, unsure at first if he is acting or not, and once they help him off the stage, Vanya does a dance, showing that it was a ruse. Tortsov calls this an adaptation, “the inner and outer human means that people use in adjusting themselves to one another in a variety of relationships and also as an aid in effecting an object” (224). One must find the right adaptation to reach a specific person or group. Adaptation involves communing and sending rays in order to transmit what cannot be said.

Tortsov tells Kostya to imagine that he has the power to offer help that Tortsov, a stranger, needs badly. The purpose of adaptation is “to express our states of mind and heart in higher relief” (225). Sometimes adaptation may be used to hide one’s real emotions or objectives. Every actor is different and has specific qualities to aid in this venture. As in life, the actor needs a broad range of adaptability tactics. Tortsov tells them to stage the scene in which they burn the money, but Sonya is reluctant. In a moment of uncomfortable silence, Sonya tries to find the words, finally admitting that they are all tired of this scene and want something new. Tortsov applauds her, agreeing and pointing out that she has already demonstrated adaptation, adding, “You must learn to adapt yourselves to circumstances, to time, and to each individual person” (228), and that Sonya’s adaptation worked on this particular group in this situation.

Tortsov directs Vanya to repeat the exercise, but this time, Tortsov whispers to the class, “Watch me draw him out!” (229), and repeatedly ignores Vanya’s attempts to convince him to allow him to leave class. As Tortsov refuses to acknowledge him, Vanya’s tactics become more and more exaggerated, eliciting laughter from the class. Finally, Tortsov points out that he has changed his objective from convincing Tortsov to entertaining the crowd. The actor must remain focused on objective, rather than clowning for attention. Having a single objective can become monotonous. Therefore, an actor tries many different adjustments.

The mistake Vanya made was to begin focusing on the adaptations, rather than the objective. Tortsov gives the example of a man who is attempting to woo a woman who lives across the street. He must vary his tactics depending on distance, on whether or not she is alone, or whom she is with. Often, someone will speak to the person next to them as if they are on the other side of the room. Grisha objects that they must be large and loud enough to reach the person in the back of the auditorium, but Tortsov asserts, “Your first duty […] is to adapt yourself to your partner” (232). Through diction and clarity of action, what they are doing can be visible to the person in the back. But exaggerated or unmotivated action will become boring to the audience.

At the beginning of the next class, Tortsov explains, “Adaptations are made consciously and unconsciously” (233). Adaptations that are unconscious cannot be created through technique. They simply arise “through intuition and the subconscious” (234). Often, what makes these adaptations so powerful is when they are unexpected. For instance, reacting calmly to a chaotic or tragic situation, or suddenly speaking more quietly will surprise the audience. In unconscious adaptation, “the most powerful, vivid and convincing adaptations are the product of that wonder-working artist–nature” (234).

Tortsov tells the students to sit in silence for five minutes and then asks each of them what they were thinking about. They each share things that seem random and unconnected, and Tortsov explains, “All of these things come out of the subconscious. They are like shooting stars” (236). Things that occur in the subconscious constantly inform the way the actor makes adaptations. Tortsov goes on to explain that some actors employ conscious adjustments that he refers to as “stencils” or “rubber stamps” (237), based on suggestions by others, and warns them that they must take those stencils and adapt them to the needs of the character. Tortsov tells the class that there are also “mechanical or motor adjustments” (238), which are the types of adaptations that humans tend to employ automatically. While these might be oft-repeated, they are also organic, unlike stencil adaptations.

Next, Tortsov talks about “the technical means we can employ to stimulate adaptations” (239). Since a subconscious adaptation is, by definition, unapproachable by conscious means, the actor must manipulate circumstances and imagination in order to spur them. Tortsov goes on to discuss semi-conscious adjustments, which is both deliberate and autonomous in nature. For instance, when Sonya asked Tortsov to give them a different scene, she used various adjustments. Tortsov directs the class to do the same thing, using “fresh [adjustments], conscious or unconscious” since the old ones “have lost their effectiveness” (239). The students have trouble coming up with new adaptations, so Tortsov gives them a list of moods and tells them to choose one. First, they practice “benignity” (240), which Leo uses particularly effectively. Then, Grisha uses “quarrelsomeness” (240), which he naturally does very well. At the end of the lesson, they see six signs on the wall, listing: “inner tempo-rhythm,” “inner characterization,” “control and finish,” “inner ethics and discipline,” “dramatic charm,” and “logic and coherence” (241). Tortsov tells them that these are all very important aspects of the creative process, but they will have to go into them in more depth as they move forward.

The class is moving on from inner technique, and Tortsov asks what constitutes the tools, or masters, by which they create a sense of self in acting. The students call out guesses. Tortsov agrees with Vanya’s suggestion that feelings are the most essential element, exclaiming, “Feel your part and instantly all your inner chords will harmonize, our whole bodily apparatus of expression will begin to function” (244). Next is the mind, as it “initiates and directs creativeness” (245) and guides the imagination. The students consider other possible masters, such as attention and imagination, but Tortsov demonstrates that the mind controls these aspects. Tortsov asks for a third master. They consider truth, communion, adaptation, and units/objectives, but Tortsov explains that these are all aspects of the will, which he identifies as the third master. Grisha complains that they haven’t addressed the mind or the will at all, and Tortsov replies, “Since these three forces form a triumvirate, inexplicably bound up together, what you say of the one necessarily concerns the other two” (247). Tortsov admits, however, that he does tend to favor emotion because actors often forget to consider feelings. But all three masters work together at the same time.

When one of these three forces isn’t functioning effectively, the actor can address one of the others. When feelings aren’t being aroused, the actor can approach the character intellectually–or whichever aspect gives the strongest reaction. However, Tortsov continues, this is getting ahead of themselves. Instead, he wants to emphasize “arousing the will to creative action” (250). No “direct stimulus” will “influence the will” (250), unlike the mind or the feelings. Sometimes, an interesting objective can arouse the will to create art. While one of the three elements may be strongest in the way an actor approaches a role, the actor must not “allow any one of the three elements to crush out either of the others and thereby upset the balance and necessary harmony” (251). Tortsov concludes the lesson by stating, “Now you are wealthy. You have at your disposal a great number of elements to use in creating the life of a human soul in a part” (251).