August-Osage County

by Tracy Letts
GK Hardt Theater; 6th Street Playhouse, Santa Rosa, CA ~ 2012
Directed by Craig A. Miller
Photos by Eric Chazankin

Thumbing through some old notes from my scene study classes with Ed Hooks, an excellent acting coach with whom I studied exclusively some twenty years ago, I came across this quote from author Cormac McCarthy: “If it’s not a life and death situation, it’s not worth writing about.”

It was a segue into one of Ed’s lectures about how important it is for the actor to keep the stakes high during a scene, else the scene falls flat, or worse, the audience doesn’t buy what the actor is “selling.”

This is indicating.

It made me think about a play I saw a couple years ago (name and theater withheld out of courtesy), where at one point the lead female character is caught in a lie. Confronted by another character who demands an explanation, the actress made the choice to “indicate” fear and panic at having been found out.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the acting term “indicating,” it basically means showing the audience how the character feels (usually through gestures and facial expressions) instead of actually feeling those emotions and allowing them, the emotions, to inform the scene. It’s like: “I’m not really sad, but if I was, it’d look like this…”

I found the actress’s choice to show panic contrived and phony — mainly because to demonstrate panic when caught red handed doing something wrong is not as authentic a human tack as you might think. And even if it were, it should never be “emoted.” That’s another word for “indicating.” As is always the case when I am jolted out of the moment because of bad acting choices, I tuned out to what was going on on stage and started thinking about how I’d have directed the actress differently, had I been at the helm of this production and caught this dubious intention in rehearsal.

In this kind of situation, where a character is caught in a perilous lie or felonious act of some sort, and the stakes are high enough to warrant panic (such as being caught stealing from the mafia), the actor needs to find a way to raise those stakes in his (or in this case, her) performance and, ideally, choose something from his own life experience to serve as an emotional equivalent to those “life and death” stakes. In Method acting, I believe it’s called sense memory.

My equivalent would be the time I was caught red handed stealing money from a cash register. I’m embarrassed to admit that my distant past does, indeed, hold one (and only one) such example of being confronted by a boss who had discovered money missing and logically turned to me as the only possible suspect.

I can recall, like it was just yesterday, the way I reacted to having been confronted, seeing no apparent way out of some serious-ass trouble. I can tell you one thing, my reaction was not to uncontrollably betray my fear with facial expressions and spastic twitches. Instead, I remember that my entire body shut down — went still. At the same instant, my mind instinctively launched into auto-pilot, scouring my thoughts at lightning speed for some kind of perfectly believable excuse to use to save myself from the consequences sure to follow.

The point being, when you only have two or three seconds to come up with a convincing lie to save your ass, your body becomes ostensibly paralyzed, and your ONLY intention then becomes the dual necessity of: (1) not betraying your guilt through your eyes or body language; and (2) coming up with a story that will free you from the corner you’ve painted yourself into. During these fleeting seconds, it is common for ordinary people with absolutely no theater training to turn out acting performances worthy of a Golden Globe Award. When the stakes are high, the guilty become genius liars.

An excellent example of how to “play” being caught red handed can be seen in Jack Lemmon’s bravura performance (his best, in my opinion) as the Shel Levine in “Glengarry Glen Ross.” SPOILER ALERT. IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE, SKIP TO THE NEXT PARAGRAPH! In the final minutes of the film, when Levine is confronted by Williamson, we know he (Levine) is caught; his big mouth has finally become his undoing. It is truly enthralling to see how Jack Lemmon plays the next few moments — a man who is doing everything he can to scoff at the accusations with feigned outrage, but at the same time we see that he’s losing confidence in the ruse, we see it in his eyes. It is an utterly brilliant piece of acting and I’m astounded he did not take home an Oscar for this performance. But the point is, had Jack Lemmon taken the “emoting” route and allowed the audience to see his panic by “acting” it, the intensity of this riveting scene would have been greatly diminished.

The gal in the play essentially went into “emoting” mode during this part of her scene, possibly thinking that the audience needed to see that she was terrified and panicked at being found out, her character having been caught with her proverbial hand in the cookie jar by the other character.

And yet, maybe it was the director’s fault for not seeing this and pointing it out to her. That’s the director’s job, to defend the integrity of the scene and keep the actors true. For a nice lady such as (name withheld), the worst act of larceny she probably ever committed was to heist a cigarette from her mother’s purse or pilfer a dollar bill from the family cookie jar — a far cry, indeed, from my shameful deed that led to my own experience in the hot seat, forced to come up with an explanation — and quick! — as to how a fifty dollar bill that was in the cash register only minutes before was now nowhere to be found.

I’ll tell you where it was, it was in my front pocket. The terror of possibly being asked to empty my pockets is something that I’d as soon die than to have to ever endure again. And yet I remember it all very clearly, as if it was just yesterday, and as despicable it is to be guilty of embezzling money from someone who likes and trusts you, the fact remains I can use the vivid memory of the experience to better my performance art. I guess that’s okay.

As it turned out, the muse was my co-conspirator that day. Assigned the task of coming up with a fabrication to save my life, it came through like a super hero. The ingenious explanation that suddenly presented itself and turned out to be my salvation is something that I probably could not have come up if I had the luxury of time to ponder it. In the space of a moment, the perfect fib was there. The boss believed me, and to this day I do not think he ever doubted my story. But it was not my finest hour, and I shall not dignify common thievery with any kind of back patting for original thinking. Suffice to say, the memory of my dishonorable act has served me well for sense memory purposes (if you’ll forgive my citing the Method again), and I wish I could have been in a position to steer this actress to a better acting choice before the curtain went up on her first show, even if, in the end, I had to recount my story, revealing to her that at one time in my life I was a true piece of shit.

LITERARY SEAL OF APPROVAL: The word “awesome” was not used once in this essay.

Chris Schloemp, who plays the part of Bill in the 6th Street Playhouse (Santa Rosa, CA) production of “August-Osage County” says he subscribes to Lawrence Olivier’s approach when it comes to creating a villain for stage or screen: “You have to love the character…”

Ron Smith, who plays Charlie offers the sage opinion that one key factor in breathing life

David Tice Allison, Saskia Baur and Beth Woodruff in a scene from “August-Osage County.” Directed by Craig Miller and produced at the 6th Street Playhouse, Santa Rosa, CA, October 2012
Photo by Erik Chazankin

into a bad guy is to recognize bad guys (and bad girls) emanate from a place of damage.  And I’m not sure who piped up with this next contribution to our conversation in the “Man Side” of the dressing room, but I’m guessing it was David Yen who offered up the quote from Aristotle: “No man willingly chooses evil, he’s just mistaken about what is good.”

Aristotle’s quote pretty much reflects my foundation theory on what it takes to create a believable villain, but it’s not exactly revelatory. In fact, this is something you can learn from any self-respecting acting class: a bad guy doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong. The clarion call of Steve Heidebrecht in his final scene in the play is nothing, if not a testimony, to this basic rule of acting. He shouts, “I didn’t do anything wrong!” And the way I approached this character from the onset was exactly in that fashion: Steve doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong.

I don’t wish to imply this is anything more than a possible starting place for the actor when he or she begins preparation for the role of a scoundrel; many powerful performances have been derived from actors choosing to make their characters well aware of the fact they’re reprobates, bastards, creeps or killers. Barry Martin’s chilling portrayal of Jim Jones in the Napa Valley College Performing Arts Center production of  “The People’s Temple,” as well as his work as Lord Hardwicke in “Kite’s Book,” where I had the pleasure of acting opposite Barry in several scenes (me having been cast as a villain, too, the thug Jack Wyld), are two prime examples of how allowing one’s character full awareness of his malfeasance is helpful in delivering the best possible performance. None of this is meant to imply that such is always the case in real life. Indeed, one could hardly believe James Eagan Holmes, the sole suspect in the Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting didn’t believe he was doing anything wrong when he gunned down innocent people in their seats — he was dressed as the Joker, after all. But when the day comes they make a cable movie out of the story, it will be up to the actor who plays Holmes to decide whether he knows he is doing evil, or if he just thinks he’s misunderstood.

“When I did Jim Jones I had a progression in my mind – that he started out thinking he was doing people good, but later knew he was a sick fuck but just kept on with it because
he loved the power.”

Barry Martin

To this I would add, that in order to play a villain whose iniquities are on a magnitude exceeding that of simple cads and bounders the actor must be willing to go the distance with the character and then some. He molds the character’s dignity and humor as well as his depravity and danger. I say, “and then some” because the actor will want to deliver something extra in rehearsal, to push the boundaries (sometimes the boundaries of good taste) so that the director can pull him back if need be.

You need to develop villains slowly, from the ground up, but once they have achieved momentum and are in full gallop, it is important the actor’s morality doesn’t pipe up with pious objections. Indeed, this is where the actor should bravely declare, “Damn the torpedoes! I’ll deal with the embarrassment!” If you don’t do this, you risk introducing a weak villain to the stage or screen, one the audience doesn’t buy. It is your job to draw from the audience that rarest strain of empathy: “I don’t like you, Mr. Villain, but I understand you!”

David Tice Allison

I am happy to reassure anyone who saw the production of “August-Osage County” at the 6th Street Playhouse and may have been disturbed by my particular take on the Steve Heidebrecht character, that there is nothing in my personality or life experience that even comes close to reflecting his sick, sociopathic mind.  I like to tell people that Tice Allison is the guy who rescues insects from the swimming pool. But in the spirit of full disclosure I do have some experience dating women infinitely too young for me, and at the risk of raising a few eyebrows I can tell you there was a time not so long ago when I was dating a girl (who I’ll call Natalie) a full six weeks before I was able to legally buy her a Margarita. She is the “sense memory” upon which I have founded the initial attraction Steve has for Jean, and I am helpless but to applaud the skill with which Beth Woodruff, playing the 14-year old Jean, participates in the final, and most disturbing scene with Steve.  A lesser actress might have resisted the demands of the moment and played it safe, but Beth’s dedication to showing the scene instead of suggesting the scene stands testament to the fact that bravery always delivers the goods.

I was doubly lucky to have been paired with the venerable Saskia Baur, who plays Steve’s fiancé, Karen. Worse than needing to contrive an attraction for someone who just “doesn’t do it for you” is having to kindle believable stage affection for someone you don’t like, or who does not like you. I’m pretty sure I am able to speak for Saskia when I say it was simply a breeze finding the physical attraction and adoration our characters share for one another in the story — this because Saskia and I genuinely like each other as friends, and consequently we fit like gloves while in each others’ arms on stage. She and I have worked together before but this is the first time such a high level of physicality was required of us. I must say, it has been like wrapping myself in a warm blanket every time I step on stage with this charming lady.

One of the more enjoyable challenges at first (disgusting though it may seem) was in developing Steve’s “game” for attracting underage girls and, ultimately, Jean. I say “at first” because shortly after our first week of rehearsal I was treated to a veritable splash of ice water in the face and was forced to rethink this avenue of preparation. Though I adore kids, I am not a daddy, and basically have no idea what a 14-year old girl is all about. Ask me to name ten things that teenage girls are interested in and all I can come up with is Johnny Depp. The odd fact is, I realize these middle school youngsters exist, I’ve seen them shopping in the grocery store and milling about in giggling girl herds at the mall, but ask me to describe the facial features of an average 14-year old girl and I’m stumped: “I dunno, pimples?”

One day, on the way to rehearsal for August-Osage County, I happened to notice a group of girls standing outside the dance studio that shares space with the building housing the 6th Street Playhouse. I figured they were waiting for their parents to come pick them up. Here, I thought, was the perfect opportunity to catch a glance at 14-year old kids close up, to look at their smiling faces and derive a working idea as to what Jean might look like were she an actual girl of the same age. What I noticed was something that startled me, and I count myself lucky I am not so eccentric as to be one who verbalizes his every first impression, because it probably would have alarmed these young people. I thought, “My God. You’re children!”

In that instant, I realized that presenting Steve Heidebrecht to the audience in an honest fashion was going to be ten times more the challenge than I had first considered. On the one hand, I had to figure out how (as I mentioned earlier) Steve would deliver his “game” to Jean (the same he would have used on the other fictional victims in the backstory I had developed for him) and on the other hand, it appeared I now had to investigate how it could be possible for a full grown man to be physically attracted to a 9th grade school girl.

And it is here, dear friends, that I confess I did not explore this oozing black area one step further. The work I had done with Craig Miller at the helm of this magnificent show had been quite enough; I was portraying Steve as a deranged Lothario just fine, thank you very much. The audience would be no more the wiser.

Was this a cop-out or a smart decision? I claim the latter. I believe my performance reached a nominal depth of “disturbia” and perhaps a bit more, but to have gone rappelling much further down the reeking septic tank that is the mind of a child rapist, I would have risked delivering something that might have robbed the audience of the fun they have in loving to hate villains — villains played believably and yet not too believably.  One of the best testimonies to the fact I was correct in choosing to merely sample the mud of perversion came from Jill Zimmerman, who played Barbara in the play, and who is married to film director Mark Illsley (“Happy Texas”). Mark relayed his opinion that by introducing humor into the character of Steve I made him easier to take than were I to have played him as a brute with dead eyes. High praise, indeed, but truth be known, I couldn’t help but uncover the humorous — yes, even likable — side of Steve Heidebrecht, partly because humor is my strong suit and it always finds its way into my characters, and partly because I’d like to imagine my soul may have struck a deal with me on the subconscious level. “Tell you what,” it says. “Don’t climb down any further and I’ll see what I can do about getting you  some laughs in this show.”

David Tice Allison  © October 29, 2012