Thursday, June 25, 2009
An hour with a luvvy
On Sunday to the Ernest Jones (see 13th January 2009 above) lecture for 2009. A couple of hundred turned out bright and early on a Sunday morning to see Mr. S R Beale (a well known actor, although not to me), receive the honourary fellowship of the British Psychoanalytical Society and to hear him lecture on 'Without memory or desire' (a famous phrase it seems, from a famous psychoanalyst, one Wifrid Bion). Very good lecturer, who held our attention for an hour or more, despite starting off by more or less reading his script. On the other hand, rather as when I used to go and hear expensive management gurus perform (an activity charged to training; actually no dearer than, for example, going to be taught how to use Word. I suppose the differance was the size of audience. Expensive management gurus not cheap), after the entertainment, one wondered what one had learned.
Introducing him, the president said something about an actor coming to know a part was perhaps like an analyst coming to know a patient; something else that one should try to come to with an open mind, without memory or desire. I was hoping for something on what to me is the rather odd business of spending your working life pretending to be someone other than yourself, a matter I thought might interest a psychoanalytic audience. Does one or should one really live the part or is one in a split condition, with one's real self (whatever that might be) keeping an eye on the one being faked. I have heard it alleged that doing it for real would not do at all, it would not project. But I would have been glad to hear more.
Anyway, he started off, sticking to his title, by explaining that he tried to come to a new part without memory or desire; in so far as is possible, to come at the thing afresh. (On which point, someone remarked afterwards that this proceeding might be wasteful. One should have regard to what had been done before; what had been done which worked, and what had bee done which did not). He then launched into a series of examples of readings from Shakespeare he had come across in his time, with a good bit of time spent on Leontes from the Winter's Tale, in which he had appeared at the Old Vic the night before. Various points of interest here, certainly to a bardovice like myself, although not very psychoanalytical, at least on the face of it.
First, he reminded me that the audience was fully part of the performance. Some of the time is spent talking to audience, rather than in the actors and actresses talking to each other. Afterwards, thinking about this, I started to wonder to what extent one's daily life is a performance. Maybe not very much of what we do is straight from the heart, so maybe actors are not so odd after all.
Second, he explained that readings sometimes went wrong, that is to say that they turned out to be dead ends, and sometimes shifted as time went along. Something might emerge in performance, be used for a few outings then be put away again. A production was a live thing to this extent.
Third, he explained that at the end of a rehearsal or of a performance, one is apt to be very tired. And sometimes readings emerge out of sheer tiredness which had not emerged before. A rather tiring way of being without memory or desire. This was a point which seemed to strike a chord with a number of those there.
Fourth, he talked about pointing things up, in this case Ariel's resentment of his servitude under Prospero. The tricky bit being knowing how much of this to do; many productions irritate, for example, by the director thinking it helps to colour code his cast. In this case, he tried spitting for a few outings but then found that the point made itself well enough without and desisted. Plus the audience did not much like it. And as it happens, today I read that Racine could make a point in Phaedre by have the sense of a line strain the metre. I suspect that this would be too subtle for my ear, even supposing my aural French was up to the line in the first place. Colour coding it would have to be.
Fifth, he talked about the nature and possible extent of forgiveness. Forgiving someone for spilling his beer on you while drunk was one thing; for murdering one's wife another. How saintly could or should one be? The need for forgiveness to be an agreement between the parties in some sense. That the person being forgiven had to accept the forgiveness, and accept, along the way, that he had done wrong. Something that sapper Vodicka, on the subject of the brawl in the street in Kiralyhida in Svejk (p392, Heinemann edition of 1973) might not have understood: I suspect he would have been dreadfully insulted to have been forgiven. Reminded that I have an unfinished learned tome on the subject that I ought to get on with. Luckily it might be learned but it is also quite short. Further report in due course.
Mr. Beale closed by coming back to the beginning in a slightly forced way and then taking questions, which I felt he was too tired to do justice to. But hardly surprising given that he had presumably been at it until quite late the evening before. Or even earlier that morning, depending on what he did to wind down... That apart, he gave very little away, apart from saying that he was rather preoccupied with death. Maybe he was not keen to give too much away to a public audience of psychoanalysts, a very knowing and observant bunch.
Having got that lot of my chest, clearly time for TB. Wash away the froth with some real froth.
# posted by Jim @ 6:11 AM 
