There are seven basic plots.

I know this.  Because I read it in a book.

(That’s a variation on joke that probably didn’t go over too well – you know, Do you believe everything you read?…Anyway, moving on.)

Each kind of story and every kind of story fits into one of these seven categories or some combination of these categories.  And each kind of story has its own specific qualities as to the hero’s or heroine’s journey, the obstacles and accomplishments encountered and achieved, the lessons learned and the personal truths that can only be revealed by the adventure.

I know.  Who cares?

But we should.

That’s the thing about working on a script, a role, a production.  It really is a collaborative pursuit.  (This is probably true of most things in life. There are very few things that aren’t collaborative. )  And I don’t mean in the touchy-feely sense.  For me, collaboration is a somewhat violent experience.  The clash of opinions, of wills, of insecurities and ignorance. Oftentimes, I find myself arguing or resisting opinion because I don’t understand my role in the production and my purpose in the story.  I’ve failed to ask myself, How do I serve the writer here?  Why is my character necessary to the story?  I fail to recognize that the story isn’t about me. That I am a part serving the whole. Perhaps most actors don’t encounter this flaw in their creative character, but more often than I care to admit I have to remind myself to ask the question:  What do I need to do so that my partner can play her part and do her work to the best of her ability so that the story achieves its full power and impact upon the audience?  (Truth be told, I don’t think in the heat of rehearsal I’ve asked myself such a long-winded and awkwardly phrased question.  It’s more like, Dude, you gotta get better ‘cuz right now you suck.)

The more I fully understand storytelling, the better I serve the story.  And the more I
serve the story’s needs, the more I meet the needs of the cast, the director, the playwright and the audience.

You’re at the audience forum after the show.  The patron in the second row aisle seat house left raises his hand emphatically as he looks directly at you with a piercingly eager gaze full of admiration.  The moderator of the event says to the patron with the piercingly eager gaze, “Do you have a question?”  And he says (as he stares piercingly, eagerly, admiringly at you), “Yes.  My question is for the actor who just gave that fantastic performance.”  His voice goes up a little at the end of the phrase as if he’s asking permission from you to continue on with his quest for the knowledge that only you possess (as demonstrated by your fantastic performance).  With a quick, brave intake of air, he steadies himself and asks you his question:  “How did you memorize all those lines?”……But, really, when you think about it, it’s a good question.  With all that is going on backstage, on stage, up in the booth, out in the audience — cell phones ringing and vibrating, text messages and tweets sent hither and yon, candies and cough drops with the largest and most intricate packaging ever getting unwrapped and seemingly re-wrapped — it’s amazing that actors can keep their focus and carry on with the play.  But all actors get thrown off balance at some point.  Go up on a line or two.  Or three or four (you know who you are).  It happens.  And it happens most often to me when I become suddenly self-aware.  Suddenly self-conscious.  And just as suddenly I’ve stopped paying attention to my partner on stage.  I’ve stopped listening. Stopped caring actually about what’s going on Over There (to borrow a phrase from Sanford Meisner).  That’s the strange thing about learning lines, getting off-book, building a performance.  The more I study what my scene partners are saying, the better off I am.  I then know what I’m responding to and why I say what I say.  And then I find myself guided by the things they are telling me rather than some meticulously memorized version of my own text that I carefully crafted in my car stuck in traffic or late the night before.  The thing of it is, if I’m not paying attention to what my partners are telling me on stage, if I haven’t a fully developed point of view about the things they say, if that point of view doesn’t stimulate in me a strong response, then I’m not really listening. I’m not really responding. I’m not really acting.

I was recently working with an actor on an upcoming role, and she voiced the terror that I think afflicts all actors at some point:  Am I good enough to do the part?  Truth be told, we never want to be good enough.  Good enough sucks.  We want to be great.  We want our performances, every single one of them, to blow away the audience and kick the critics in their collective ass.  It’s an impossible goal and a fool’s mission, but it’s an occupational hazard for the actor.  So what does the actor do?  How does the actor get good enough to do the role, any role?  Start from who you are.  I am not certain if such advice was first offered by Harold Clurman or Lee Strasberg or some other luminary of the American theatre, but it always serves the actor to remember that you are not stuck with the character, the character is stuck with you.  The character consists of words on the page.  No matter how powerful those words and the circumstances created by the playwright, the character on the page needs your body, spirit, soul, and imagination to come to life on the stage.  It’s a thrill and a privilege to witness an actor trust this – in class, in rehearsal, or in performance — and prove that she is more than good enough.