A Film Actor's Technique

By James A. Baffico

A comprehensive step-by-step how-to guide for the beginner movie actor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466905177

James A. Baffico

James A. Baffico began his professional acting career as a member of the APA-Phoenix Company and with a number of appearances in different regional theater companies. After completing a PhD in Dramatic Literature at the University of Michigan, he headed the acting and directing areas at the University of Georgia before moving on to become the head of the directing program at Carnegie-Mellon University. Subsequent opportunities in network television prompted a move to New York where Mr. Baffico then worked for many years as an actor, director, and producer of the following soap operas: Another World, The Doctors, As the World Turns, Days of Our Lives, and All My Children. This experience garnered him seven Emmy nominations and two Emmys. His acting credits include the following feature films: All the Right Moves, Dawn of the Dead, Arthur and the War of Two Worlds, It Had To Be You, The Cottonwood, Me and Him, Silver Bullet, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, Death Penalty, and George Romero’s Knightriders. He has also appeared in the television shows The Wire, Law and Order, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, Dream Street, and Spenser for Hire. Mr. Baffico taught film acting for many years at the Weist-Barron School in New York, and this book derives, in part, from that experience as well as his extensive professional stage and screen work. At present, Mr. Baffico is enjoying a relaxed retirement that allows for occasional movie auditions and the pursuit of his lifelong interest in the relationship between the Elizabethan playwrights Christopher Marlowe and Shakespeare.

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A Film Actor’s

Technique

JAMES A. BAFFICO

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© Copyright 1993, 2012 The Four Wood Co.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

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isbn: 978-1-4669-0516-0 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0518-4 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0517-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960904

Trafford rev. 01/26/2012

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Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Glossary

Bibliography

Preface

A couple of nights prior to walking into my first class as an Assistant Professor many years ago at the University of Georgia, I remember pulling out the textbook from which I was supposed to teach and scanning the first couple of chapters. Ugh! It was Fundamentals of Play Directing by Alexander Dean and Larry Carra. And I thought it was dogmatic tripe.

The Chairman of the Department at Georgia had been using this text for years. It was his Bible, and there was really no question about me using another textbook. I had seen this book a year or two earlier as a graduate student and had dismissed it as bunk then—as only an arrogant graduate student can. It was stuffy and old fashioned. It bore no relation, I was convinced, to what really transpired in the actual process of directing and mounting a theatre play.

But I wasn’t about to jeopardize my precious new job by telling the Chairman that his Bible was stuffy and old fashioned tripe. So I plowed into Chapter One: Composition, and tried to find something to which I could latch on. I figured I would just gently debunk the stuff as I went along, casually showing the natural superiority and appealing logic of my own positions. After all, Dean and Carra was strictly ‘establishment,’ it was the seventies, and we were all rebels.

What followed over the next few years was enlightening, to say the least. I discovered a lot about myself and about the process of teaching. First of all, I discovered that this arrogance that had come to bloom in my ‘higher education’ had made me into an Ass of the Highest Order. I had assumed, based on my limited experience and success, that as a young Assistant Professor and sometime professional actor and director, that I knew what was what in the theatre. Ha! I knew nothing.

My arrogance was really a kind of armor intended to protect against the reality of knowing very little. In addition to protecting me, it also prevented me from learning anything new. It stifled my ability to consider other people’s ideas objectively. That’s the first thing that I discovered: that I was an Ass. I was shocked. Really. I immediately determined to quit braying. And I did.

The second thing that I discovered was that it was really hard to know something. I mean really, honestly, profoundly know something. Know its origins, its evolution, its manifestations, its implications, its determinants, etc. Know its proofs. Know the why and the wherefore. (Not that they’re different from each other.)

As I labored mightily to debunk Dean and Carra over those first few years, quite the opposite thing happened. I came to understand the validity of most of their ideas! In trying to disprove their theories, I worked out the proofs! I came to know the why. And the wherefore, too. And, I realized that it wasn’t easy actually knowing something.

This realization has become a fundamental component of my attitude as a teacher. I basically proceed from the notion that nobody knows anything and that we have to discover and prove all truth for ourselves. In other words, accept nothing as given. And prove everything.

The end of the Dean and Carra story is that I became a convert to Fundamentals of Play Directing and later succeeded Larry Carra as the Directing Professor at Carnegie-Mellon University. He chose me over a number of others I’m sure, after grilling me on the book for a few hours. It was an exhilarating conversation for me. It was one of the few times in my young life that I actually knew what I was talking about.

The third thing I discovered back there at Georgia was that the more you taught, the more you learned. The classroom is really a kind of laboratory in which you test and re-test your ideas. And the students, especially the arrogant graduate ones, are a pretty fair and objective indicator of what works and what doesn’t. That’s because they’re always eager to show you up for the dummy that they think you are, and are ever ready to rend your ideas limb from precious limb.

After a time, my career took a different direction. I wanted more money, so I left the university business and began working in the television business. I acted, directed, produced and even wrote day time serials, or ‘soap operas.’ Still later I moved into episodic television and movies. But even though I left academic teaching behind, I continued to teach at the professional acting studios in Manhattan.

To this day, I can’t seem to give it up. The teaching of acting is fulfilling and rewarding for me. I love the contact with the actors. I love the process of discovery. I love to see the intellect and the imagination of the student ignited. Whoosh! What a rocket ride then ensues.

As was the case with my Fundamentals of Play Directing adventure, my ideas about acting have changed dramatically over the years, too. The early arrogant assumptions have all long disappeared. They’ve been replaced with new ideas that have originated in my own work as an actor, and that have been tested mercilessly in the classroom. (By the way, it’s interesting to note that the professional actor as a student is not nearly as arrogant as the university graduate student. The cold dose of reality that the business provides has a lot to recommend.)

At any rate, the more I have taught, the more I have learned. And the more I have understood the why and the wherefore of acting, the more I have grown as an actor. It’s been a wonderful journey. And I’m always excited to see and to help other actors as they begin the same odyssey.

In that regard, I am happy to pass these notes on to you. And I have provided this introduction to them in the hope that you will better understand them for what they are: a record, really, of my attempts—and the attempts of my students—to know something about acting on film.

Chapter One

On Location

You’re an actor.

You’re going to Europe, with a first stop in France, to shoot your first big film. The last few days prior to leaving are filled with details: packing, arranging phone and communication channels, trying to iron out the last of the contractual and banking details, stopping the newspapers, making sure that you understand the difference between an adapter and a converter for the French electrical outlets, trying to re-read and re-think the script and your part in it, saying goodbye to family and friends, arranging for mail, pet care, and paying your bills and credit cards so that a European emergency or extended stay doesn’t lead to problems.

Finally the bags stand packed, waiting by the door, the plants are all watered, the computer turned off, and the apartment is still. You think about pulling out the script and having a quick look when the car service arrives. Kisses and hugs and best wishes all around and you are off for the airport, a long overseas flight to Paris in the works for this evening, then Normandy, the location, tomorrow. You’ll rest the day following. You begin shooting the film the day after that. You have an important role. This could be, if not the start of something big, then certainly a big step on your path to becoming the best possible actor you can be. You’re excited. You’ve been waiting for this for some time. You’ve dreamed of it. How will you do? You worry.

The plane boards on time, but shortly after all the passengers are on, the Captain comes on the speaker to say that Maintenance has taken the plane out of service because of an oil leak in one of the engines. They don’t think it’ll make it across the Atlantic, so they are taking all the bags off this plane and bringing over another from the hangar. You have to gather up all of your things and go back into the terminal to await the re-boarding process. An omen? Should you not go? Maybe this is a sign. Will I be good in this? Will I be bad? Will I find the character? What if I’m terrible? You sit at the terminal gate and wait and think.

You’ve been working on the script and the character for two weeks. You feel like you’ve made progress. But not that much progress. The movie is a G rated kids’ movie with lots of animation. A child’s imaginary world come to life. It all goes a little berserkers in the story with all kinds of improbable action. You play the town Sheriff who’s trying to restore and keep order. There’s plenty of room for failure. You’re still very uncomfortable with many of the scenes. After all, what’s real in this? Not much. It’s such a child like reality that it will be difficult to create it in a creditable way. You wonder. You worry. You think and re-think.

After a two hour delay and a couple of phone calls, you are under way. The seats appear to be very comfortable, reclining to almost level. With sleep mask and ear plugs you are ready for a quiet night. You close your eyes thinking of the set: what it will be like, how fast the work, how good the work, how good the other actors, how demanding the director, how you will adapt. All sorts of worries and concerns, which all melt into the buzzing, gently rocking and restless night aboard your plane.

Mid way, you discover that almost level isn’t level and instead of sleeping you keep sliding down the seat toward the foot rest. The constant repositioning takes its toll. Your body aches, tiredness overwhelms you, the cursed seat becomes an object of keen disappointment and angry thoughts. Every passing hour brings slightly more discomfort. By the time of arrival, you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. You’ll need days to recover.

Then, touchdown. The airport looks like most other airports. The conga line march off the plane is familiar and the passageway to Customs long. It feels good to walk again. Passport is checked. Luggage arrives. The luggage carts are free and plentiful and you load up and head out the doors looking for your name on a small piece of paper held by your driver. There he is. A young man. All the people who work on films are young. Young, bright, personable, clever and eager to please. (It’s hard work and the more experienced hands have decided they don’t need it.) Before you know it, you’re on your way to the location in Normandy, a mere two hour drive from the airport. You slump in the seat and doze.

You dream. You’re an actor. You’re starting a wonderful job. Will you be any good? You regret the lack of time you had to prepare. You hope that what little you’ve done will pay dividends. You project yourself in the role, then stop quickly as you realize you’re becoming too attached to some of the ideas you’ve discovered. There’s a danger there. The danger of setting bits and phrases in concrete and not adapting to what actually happens between you and the other actors in front of the camera. You’ll look like you’re acting the character instead of just being the character. You start to worry again. ‘Oh, no. I’m going to do stupid things. I can already feel myself clutching on to these little ideas I’ve discovered in my explorations. Will my technique let me down? Will it hold up?’ So far, not so good. You’re worried. It nags at you.

The car turns off the country road and into the location lot. A dozen energetic people bound here and there, all busy with the work of making the film. You feel listless, wilted, you probably look like a mess. You’re figuratively miles behind everyone else. Jet lag. In spades.

You meet a few of the P.A.’s, they have your sides, your schedule, your per diem. Dinner here, workout there, pool over yonder, bikes available, wi-fi works best around the actors’ lounge, and not, unfortunately, in your room. They ask if there’s anything they can do for you. You are shown to your room. It’s nice. ‘You’re okay then?’ A nod, and you’re alone. It’s quiet. The bed invites. You lie down. Ah, relief. You try to sleep. But can’t get the thought out of your head: ‘Will I be any good?’

And so it goes for the next day and a half. You meet people, you exchange pleasantries, you talk about the film, the actors, other actors, productions you’ve been in, productions you’ve seen, the weather, the schedule. Every now and then you retreat to your room and study the sides. Each time you go to them they look more and more like Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard: bare. Barren. Empty. Devoid of material, ideas, feelings, interaction, action, reaction. What will you do? Will you find it? Can you make it work? What if you’re really bad? What if the other actors are really good and you look stupid? Will they tell you to go home? ‘All right, stop! Let’s not get infantile about this,’ you have to remind yourself.

The costume fitting does not go especially well. They’ve made your clothes and they are just a little tight. They have to be let out. You wonder: should you skip dinner? Is anything going to go right?

Shooting Begins

Finally, the first shoot day arrives. You’ve awakened early. Read over the scene while staying in bed. Showered. Dressed. Breakfasted. Returned to your room and looked over the material again. You’ve prepared in all the right ways. And then the P.A. is at your door. Your call time is now.

They drive you to Costumes where you dress. It would be quicker to walk, but they want you in their sight the whole time, so they drive you. They’ve made adjustments to the costume. It still needs a little work, you think, but it’ll do for today. Then to make-up for a simple once over. You sit in the chair, close your eyes and concentrate on breathing deeply and evenly as the makeup artist applies her skills, chattering all the while with the others in the makeup trailer. Just about the time that you start to feel relaxed, you’re done.

Now, the Hair Artist looks at your hair, debates with a co-worker, trims, styles, trims, styles and blow dries and voila! You’re finished and it’s time to go. They are all smiles as they put you in a golf cart and whisk you to the set.

There’s not much time to waste hanging around there because they are ready for your first scene. It’s one page, almost all action and you thank your lucky stars, not much dialogue, only one line for you. The director greets you, Good morning! Then, giving you a little ‘turn around and let me see’ gesture, he says, Oh, that looks great! You look great! You’re not so sure yourself, but smile anyway. Okay, here’s what we’re doing! It’s so simple, it doesn’t require a lot of explanation. You start next to your cop car, slam the door, bolt for the entrance to the Station, fire a line at a functionary seated at his desk as you enter, See who’s on call today, Douglas, I need four volunteers, go to your desk, find the keys to the gun rack, go to the gun rank and unlock it, distribute three shotguns to the rapidly appearing volunteers, grab two more for yourself and your partner and head back for the front door where you slam his gun into your partner’s hand just after he’s said, It was really huge.

It’s a simple scene, but you shoot it over and over again, in this, the first set up (camera next to Douglas looking at the front door and water cooler), because the timing of the action is critical. In between your entrance line and your exit, your partner has to meet his buddy at the water cooler and tell him of the encounter that has caused the commotion. The shotgun slamming into his hand acts as a big punctuation mark signaling the end of the scene and suggesting a what the heck is going on? kind of reaction from everybody else.

After a couple of takes, the director asks you to slow down a little upon entering, pausing slightly before your first line, in order to set up a slightly more controlled rhythm for the water cooler dialogue. You understand immediately and remember that on the first take or two, you felt the character was rushing and out of control when he entered. You think for a second. If this were really happening to you, you might try to remind yourself to ‘Stay calm, work fast, but without panic, be a leader in this moment of crisis.’

Being in control will have the effect of not arousing much concern or suspicion in the Station. And that’s a good thing. That’s the way the Chief would want it. You understand this. It makes good sense. The moment when you might have that realization happens just as you approach the open Station House door outside. Stay calm, you might think.

So the action now begins to take a shape: you slam the car door and head for the open door of the Station. The physical nature of that movement generates a real excitement in you. You know what has to come next: Stay calm. You feel it. And it becomes a nice little reality in the scene for you. Your line comes freely from the thought and the feeling.

In the following takes, this one moment of inner truth leads to a whole series of nice moments and truthful realities. They culminate at the gun rack where just before grabbing the last two shotguns, you pause slightly as if to say to yourself, Okay, I have to do this!

Meanwhile, the takes come so fast that it unnerves you a little. You expected that you’d have time to prepare for each take. At least a few moments, anyway. But you don’t. It’s action, action, action. Bang, bang, bang, one take after the other. As you quickly adjust to this method of shooting you begin to realize that the reason for many of the takes is not your performance or lack thereof, but rather an alteration in the background action that the director wants to make. He’s looking at the whole picture while you, naturally, are concentrating on your own. Again, the director says. And many times he says that instead of cut. The camera keeps rolling and then his Action cue follows quickly: Again… and… Action!

Later, as you think about how fast you’ve been working, you will