Lance Arthur Smith's Blog
May 7, 2017
TEXT DOODLE
In the old days…
I remember watching my action-adventure program on my Aunt’s 10-inch black and white television. In the old days, if you had a VCR with a timer you could tape your favorite show. If you didn’t, you were at the mercy of the TV Guide accurately telling you your show’s airtime. In the old days, you didn’t have VCRs, you didn’t have TV Guide, you tuned in when the network told you the program aired. You trusted the network, your pal, your confidant. In the old days, you listened to the Shadow thwart the bad guys on your radio. In the old days, you got your news from a tangible source- the newspaper, delivered to your home daily. Your fingers blackened from the ink, if you read it long enough, filled out the crosswords with vigor, and braved the drizzle outside to liberate the truth. If you had the money. In the old days, you got your pape from the newsboys, hawking the headlines for a deuce a read. In the old days, you disseminated information by oral history, word-of-mouth, by a long-lost art of opening your maw and spinning a tale only you could tell. In the old days you drew on cave walls with the blood of the ancients in your tribe, or the juice of the berries you were fortunate enough to forage. In the old days.
November 5, 2013
Ego is (kinda sorta) a good thing
Despite my love of the groom and bride-to-be, I faced this past weekend’s wedding with a modicum of apprehension. Scottie was the flower girl, and wrangling her at any event is a Herculean effort. Adding in a baby was something for which I’d been formulating a battle strategy all week. But this was for one of Scottie’s primary babysitters and her super-cool guy, and we’d persevere. As it turns out, it was… still a hell of a lot of work. But the wedding was grand, and the girls were gems. This isn’t a story about the wedding, however; nor is it about Scottie’s meltdown and quick recovery when she expected everyone to clear the dance floor for her “Michael Jackson show.” It’s about the value of a performance, at any and all levels.
You, theatre practitioner. What you do is important to a global community, and don’t believe anyone (yourself especially) who says differently. I mention theatre, but it of course extends to all artistic disciplines, both in front of and behind the scenes. Mesmerizing dancers, melodic singers, focused assistant stage managers who accomplish miracle after miracle- this pertains to you. But for this particular musing let’s stick to theatre and, specifically, actors.
Actors have the stigma of being ego-driven, and of believing our own hype. It’s an apt stigma in my estimation, looking at it in black and white terms. It feels good to be on stage, to share, to connect, and yes it’s self-serving, no matter what you might think to the contrary. Too often indulgence literally takes center stage, and the piece (the connection) becomes muddled. Your character becomes an extension of self and you begin to engage in the fantasy. Praise is confused for worth in post-show functions and reviews, and even audience members can buy into the mystique of it all. Not the world of the play, mind you, and not the theatrical experience itself, but the allure of a “mythic” figure. This feeds the ego. But like booze, in moderation it’s not a horrible thing. I think it’s actually quite helpful when tempered with an understanding of your value. Just know that I will definitely make with the stinkface should your ego level rise above acceptable parameters.
I despise ego (it runs rampant, and too often unchecked, in this field), but a healthy dose of it is necessary to understand that the service we provide is:
1) Appreciated
2) Priceless
3) Essential
Too often, I’ve heard self-deprecating comments like “acting isn’t brain surgery”, “we don’t need theatre like we need food or shelter” or even the ludicrous “what I do doesn’t amount to much in this world; I’m just trying to make a few people happy for a few hours”. I’ve had it with minimizing the impact of the arts. You don’t need to undervalue your craft to justify it; your audience doesn’t do that. I truly believe it. Did you connect with someone, anyone, in the audience? Then you hit all 3 points in one shot.
We’re conditioned to undervalue what we do by evaluating our plateaus and needing to be successful (my dreaded ‘S’ word). Film stars need to win an Oscar. TV stars need to be film stars. Broadway actors need to book a TV gig. Regional and touring actors are hoping to nab a stint on Broadway. Stock and local actors want the stability (and ego service) of a tour. Community players audition for professional paid gigs. The accountant down the street hopes to get a speaking part in her local community production, despite the long hours and lack of pay, all so her friends and family can come out and witness her board treading.
Ambition is fine, but actors constantly apologize for where they are by focusing on where they want to (or in their minds, should) be. “I’m only doing this kids’ birthday party for now. I actually just auditioned for David E. Kelley.” That’s fine, but dismissing whatever gig you currently have as “some little thing” or “just for now” dismisses everything of value about this profession. Don’t apologize. Not to yourself. Not to your fellow actor (who is just as insecure as you). And guess what? This is a damn noble profession. Acknowledge that, and don’t spit on it by undervaluing its impact.
Think of your performing “ego” as that of Freud’s structural model. It’s the rational mediator between the self-centered id and guilty hyper-critical superego. A good middle ground for which to shoot, and a healthy ego to adopt when it comes to acting.
At that wedding, Scottie rounded a corner, drenched in sweat from boogieing to Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Dancing in September”. She stopped, unable to move a joint. Her mouth moved to form words, but she could only muster sub-verbal “uhs”. Through sheer will, she forced her limbs to flag me down, and I handed off our nine-month old to my wife before making my way over to Scottie.
“Daddy,” she intoned. “Do NOT look, but right over there are Frog and Toad.” I looked, of course, and her little fingers curled into my cheek fat. “Do NOT look, Daddy.” I noticed two young men sitting at a table inside, laughing and enjoying the company of some theatre kids. Yep. There was Frog and there was Toad. Colleen had directed A YEAR WITH FROG AND TOAD last fall for a local youth theatre, and these two gentlemen played the title characters. Scottie was star struck, despite attending every rehearsal and performance with her Mum. They’d made an impact on her, beyond just being celebrities.
“Remember when Ryan was Toad and they sang about how he looked funny in a bathing suit? And when Tyler was his friend Frog and helped him grow a flower? But then there was a storm, and I was scared, and so was Toad, but it was all okay. They helped each other.” And they helped her. They mattered to her.
A pal of mine (he plays Genie in the Aladdin show) was at an event and met one of the actors on Aaron Sorkin’s THE NEWSROOM. This actor has one line or so an episode, but he’s working with Sorkin. My pal was starstruck. This actor’s son had seen my pal’s show, and Genie was the end all be all to him. I’m sure it registered that his father was on tv, but it was far cooler to be the guy in blue. I want to be on a Sorkin show, badly, but I’m glad to be doing what I do. I’m constantly attempting to temper my ego, but I also need to curb the self-deprecation a bit.
You’re an artist. You have tremendous value. You matter.
Lance Arthur Smith is the author of the new non-fiction book PRINCESS GEEK, available now from Amazing Showcase #154 Pubs and Amazon.com.
