Big Bad Boo
07-March-2008, 09:17 AM
(Ha, I love my acting class. :D It's so enlightening.)
I'm in front of my Monologue class at John Robert Powers, nervously fiddling with the worn and torn paper that had my lines on it. Having just received it about fifteen minutes previously, the words and scribbled notes glared angrily and unforgiving up at me.
I look around at the class, consisting of people anywhere from 12 to 32 years old with a measure of talent that had an equally large range. I was the last one to go up, and as I reviewed the previous performances and their critiques I figured I was in for an earful; I have no talent for cold reads, and Jason was a harsh critic. It was always body language, facial expression, sincerity- all the good stuff that seems to always elude an actor when one needs to have them. It's always you have body language and tone perfected, but your face has less facial expression than a stone. Or you react beautifully, but your voice is a toneless and inexpressive mess.
"Your best friend died! Cry for pity's sake!"
"You just got a date with the best looking guy in the school after puking all over him! Be excited and embarrassed, not mildly bored!"
"It's "rendez vous!" not "rahndezz voose!"
Jason coughed in an agitated manner, obviously having enough of my stalling.
Sighing and taking a big breath, I tried to slate. My name came out, but for the life of me I couldn't remember my age. Suddenly realizing I was seventeen, I stuttered, and feeling like a fool, repeated my name with my age flying out of my mouth before I humiliated myself any more.
But when I started reading my lines, the room dissolved around me. The flickering florescent lights turned into the soft shimmers of a crystal chandelier. The people in front of me evaporated into a long and elaborate dining table, with Mama sitting at the other end, delicately eating her dinner after having dismissed my announcement of incredible despair as an overreaction to some trivial matter.
Papa wasn't home; he was in Richmond doing business with the other plantation owners, probably complaining about how the businessmen up north were strangling the smaller tobacco farmers in an attempt to get more money out of them, even though the war had ravaged the South and all was needed for repair.
Mama's quick dismissal of my feelings led me to my outburst. I threw my chair back, my petticoats rippling around my feet as I launched myself up. Her shocked and horrified look led me to voice what has been welling up inside me for a long time. I screamed and cried and accused her of continuing a vicious cycle that had to be stopped. It had to be stopped, somehow and somewhere.
But as I finished my lines the room once again dissolved, transforming back into the classroom.
My classmates simply stared as I straightened myself, trying to look nonchalant rather than deeply embarrassed. Once glance at the mirror on the wall told me I wasn't succeeding in that particular endeavor.
My gaze slowly moved to my teacher. His expression was of a sort of bemused one. He probably thought I was only unskilled at first, but this performance must've made him realize that I was truly horrible and was shocked to see that I had even gotten into the school.
I bit my lip as he seemed to carefully chose how has was going to start his onslaught of criticism.
It felt like I was standing there for eternity, waiting for his response. Finally, he spoke.
"Powerful." Was all he said, and clapped. The class soon woke from it's stupor and began clapping as well, which wasn't normally permitted because we weren't supposed to encourage our competition.
I was flabbergasted. Teacher say what?
"There has to be something I could work on." I stated. Jason smirked.
"Powerful. You know what you need to do. Take your seat."
Nine o'clock came a minute later, signaling the end of class.
I was a mix of extremely happy and extremely disappointed. Every actor needs some sort of improvement, some sort of critique somewhere. Everyone else got a detailed analysis of what they needed to work on; all I got was the ominous words "You know what you need to do." With those words echoing in my head, I trudged out of the room, trying to figure out if I had won or was simply not seeing something.
I'm in front of my Monologue class at John Robert Powers, nervously fiddling with the worn and torn paper that had my lines on it. Having just received it about fifteen minutes previously, the words and scribbled notes glared angrily and unforgiving up at me.
I look around at the class, consisting of people anywhere from 12 to 32 years old with a measure of talent that had an equally large range. I was the last one to go up, and as I reviewed the previous performances and their critiques I figured I was in for an earful; I have no talent for cold reads, and Jason was a harsh critic. It was always body language, facial expression, sincerity- all the good stuff that seems to always elude an actor when one needs to have them. It's always you have body language and tone perfected, but your face has less facial expression than a stone. Or you react beautifully, but your voice is a toneless and inexpressive mess.
"Your best friend died! Cry for pity's sake!"
"You just got a date with the best looking guy in the school after puking all over him! Be excited and embarrassed, not mildly bored!"
"It's "rendez vous!" not "rahndezz voose!"
Jason coughed in an agitated manner, obviously having enough of my stalling.
Sighing and taking a big breath, I tried to slate. My name came out, but for the life of me I couldn't remember my age. Suddenly realizing I was seventeen, I stuttered, and feeling like a fool, repeated my name with my age flying out of my mouth before I humiliated myself any more.
But when I started reading my lines, the room dissolved around me. The flickering florescent lights turned into the soft shimmers of a crystal chandelier. The people in front of me evaporated into a long and elaborate dining table, with Mama sitting at the other end, delicately eating her dinner after having dismissed my announcement of incredible despair as an overreaction to some trivial matter.
Papa wasn't home; he was in Richmond doing business with the other plantation owners, probably complaining about how the businessmen up north were strangling the smaller tobacco farmers in an attempt to get more money out of them, even though the war had ravaged the South and all was needed for repair.
Mama's quick dismissal of my feelings led me to my outburst. I threw my chair back, my petticoats rippling around my feet as I launched myself up. Her shocked and horrified look led me to voice what has been welling up inside me for a long time. I screamed and cried and accused her of continuing a vicious cycle that had to be stopped. It had to be stopped, somehow and somewhere.
But as I finished my lines the room once again dissolved, transforming back into the classroom.
My classmates simply stared as I straightened myself, trying to look nonchalant rather than deeply embarrassed. Once glance at the mirror on the wall told me I wasn't succeeding in that particular endeavor.
My gaze slowly moved to my teacher. His expression was of a sort of bemused one. He probably thought I was only unskilled at first, but this performance must've made him realize that I was truly horrible and was shocked to see that I had even gotten into the school.
I bit my lip as he seemed to carefully chose how has was going to start his onslaught of criticism.
It felt like I was standing there for eternity, waiting for his response. Finally, he spoke.
"Powerful." Was all he said, and clapped. The class soon woke from it's stupor and began clapping as well, which wasn't normally permitted because we weren't supposed to encourage our competition.
I was flabbergasted. Teacher say what?
"There has to be something I could work on." I stated. Jason smirked.
"Powerful. You know what you need to do. Take your seat."
Nine o'clock came a minute later, signaling the end of class.
I was a mix of extremely happy and extremely disappointed. Every actor needs some sort of improvement, some sort of critique somewhere. Everyone else got a detailed analysis of what they needed to work on; all I got was the ominous words "You know what you need to do." With those words echoing in my head, I trudged out of the room, trying to figure out if I had won or was simply not seeing something.