Acting Without the Drama

October 25, 2008.  My family went to a church event tonight.  It’s the annual Trunk-or-Treat and chili cook-off.  We all park our cars in the parking lot, and the kids go from one car trunk to the next, asking for candy.  My oldest son dressed up as a vampire.  My middle child was a ninja.  My daughter was Dorothy.

I was Pippi Longstocking.  At least on the inside.  Deep down, I was an eccentric red-headed girl in pigtails.  Eating chili.

My wife won the award for the best chili this year.  Last year she didn’t manage to take home the prize.  That may have been because her chili was gone by the time the judges got around to their tasting.

We were talking about it on the way home.  She made the recipe up, because after spending time trolling the web for the best recipes, she got a little frustrated.  There were so many ingredients in most of the recipes.  So many herbs and spices and whatnot.  My wife’s recipe?  Garlic, onion, chili powder, tomatoes, a bit of brown sugar, of course the beans and meat, and one secret ingredient.  Chocolate.

I know.  Crazy, right?  But it was magnificent!

Simplicity and specificity.  It seems like it’s pretty much always a winning combination.

Anyone who knows about my approach to acting knows that what I teach is relatively simple.  I can teach the basic tenents of my style of training within one lesson.  From there, it’s all pretty much fine-tuning.  Fine-tuning and learning to get specific.

The crazy touches that can only come from us are so vital to making our performances vibrant.  The uniqueness of who we are is more important to our art than any amount of technical skill.  However, learning the technique allows for our uniqueness to be transmitted so much more clearly.  Technique, when used properly, lowers the amount of random static in our performances.  But without the specificity that comes solely from ourselves, it may be clear, but it’s ultimately empty.

Not my wife’s chili.  That beautiful concoction was pure poetry.  Form married to function.  It was gone before I could go back for seconds.

Ah, well.  There’s always next year.  Next year maybe I’ll go as Batman.  Again, on the inside.  Multi-millionare by day, dark and brooding hero by night.

And I’ll convince my wife to make a double-batch of her chili.  And maybe some cornbread.

Ahhhhh, the cornbread.  Don’t get me started. 

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