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Table of contents
This is professional theater at its best. Ka-bu-ki means song-dance-drama. To picture it, let the sparse words trigger your imagination with music, color, dance, action - simple or not - from a flutter of fabric on a bare stage to the sensory feast of Grand Kabuki, any sort of performance can tell these stories. The directions suggest one staging among the many an imaginative reader can conjure.
Though originally commissioned for professional American actors working in a Japanese tradition, thereafter ordinary college, high school, even grade school students have taken exuberant delight with their audiences in creating their own versions of Kabuki plays I've written. Five such plays have been commissioned by four different producers.
Kabuki Othello and Kabuki Lady Macbeth are published and available from: www. Considering these three stories together yields the sad conclusion that "killing entertains us". While we may lament that in our contemporary media entertainment killing is commonplace, have we noticed how few of our classics have no killing? Killing for power, in particular, ranks high.
Now, it could be that cavemen entertained themselves with stories of killing for survival instead of for power, and it could be the 21st century will eventually embrace more wholesome entertainment, but for now Macbeth's story is familiar, and Kabuki Macbeth holds to that story, merely simplifying, and viewing it through an Eastern prism.
Richard's Kabuki story is more "played with," and here's why: If you track the labyrinthine blood-trail that history calls The Wars of the Roses, you may smile at Shakespeare's litany of enemy Queens in his Act IV "until a Richard kill'd him" which seems to say "Figure this out if you want; but I'm telling my story. Shakespeare makes Richard III the embodiment of evil because he was the last king killed in those wars, and killed by a Tudor who was Elizabeth I's grandfather. And so we do. What emerged to a stunning degree was the hidden family drama that was always lurking there.
Old Britain could make the Borgias blush.
Spectacular Kabuki helped, as did the Chorus, and audiences from west to east seemed pleased. Achilles' premiere was uniquely cross-cultural: in the ancient Greek amphitheater at Kourion in Cyprus an American acting company performed a Greek legend in the style of Japanese Kabuki. Kabuki Richard III was commissioned by Actor's Theatre of Louisville, but subsequent budget constraints prevented their planned production. This drama with dance, based on The Iliad and related myths, was presented Kabuki-style.
You could calI these plays "the song and dance of" Macbeth, Richard, Achilles; they resemble our musical theater. Performing Kabuki, the actors exaggerate and extend their voice tones, so the words must be simple, like lyrics, to facilitate clarity and foster an easy rapport with the audience. In Kabuki performance, black-clad "Koken" are employed to change sets, manipulate props, perform any back-stage task in full view of the audience, scurrying as though invisible.
He briefly flirted with directing, he has been a formidable spokesman for LGBT rights, he has been close to power. But acting is what his life has been all about, and he has done it in an astonishing multiplicity of ways, on stages large and small, metropolitan and regional, in the great companies and in the commercial theatre, at the centre of a large cast and on his own. Like Maggie Smith, he is, in the end, the great actor he is because it matters so much to him. Not the event or even the play but the fact that he is more fully alive, more fully himself on stage than anywhere else.
It is his real life. Crucial to his art is that the audience is in it with him. And in life, when he is not on the stage, he is in the wings — always ready, as actors are in the wings, to share a joke or to become fascinated by some fresh thought, while all the while waiting and ready for the heightened life under the once they step into the light. His audiences have loved him for it, though few of the characters he has played have been lovable.
It is another McKellenish paradox that relatively late in his career, and on film, he should at last have found himself playing a character who has been universally loved, in a semi-Christian fantasy filled with elaborate pseudo-profundities of the sort that would normally be anathema to him. To say that Marlon Brando is one of the greatest screen actors is uncontroversial. What can safely be said is that he was one of the most original actors ever to come before a camera, and one of the most creative.
When it is present, the screen becomes a truly great art form. Most of the many books that have been written about Brando take his work as a starting point. His story is far more interesting, valuable and relevant that way. This approach has its advantages. He uses a wide range of sources, including, perhaps most illuminatingly, the transcripts of the many hours of interviews conducted by the journalist Robert Lindsey in preparation for Songs My Mother Taught Me , the autobiography finally released in , which, though long, omitted a great deal of remarkably candid material.
Most fascinating is his membership, after 3 years of on-off small-time success in the theatre, of the American League for a Free Palestine, performing agit-prop plays by night, giving impassioned lectures by day on the rights of the Jewish people to a homeland of their own.
Sometimes he leaves something and never returns to it, but the weaving is remarkably deftly done. So different, especially, from his mother. He had needed to get away from her. He had needed to find a world where women were not fragile, blue-eyed blondes, liable to shatter when he held them too hard.
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The young Brando — Bud, as he was known — took her part against his father, who regarded him as stupid, lazy and worthless. He was sent to military academy, where he failed and from which he was finally dismissed. While there he discovered his sexual attractiveness to his fellow students; sex with both men and women would always be a way of numbing his rage and sense of powerlessness.
His teachers and fellow students were astounded: he had found a way of engaging his imagination at the deepest possible level, giving himself over completely to the inner life of the character. How we all wish that it were. He fought fiercely and constantly to take his work beyond the competent, the intelligent, the attractive.
He approached acting as an artist, striving to create images of human destiny, unforgettable visons of character. I play the role; now he exists. He is my creation. And it cost him dear. Easier to dismiss it as silly than to wage the unrelenting war with oneself which takes acting to the plane of art.
But about the central activity in his life, it is fundamentally wrong. So yet another book on Brando is still to be written. Atria Books. Here, as there, he fleshes out characters and events often very lightly sketched in the original.
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His most startling and creative conception is the title character. The language employed by that disquisition is so archaic as to be very nearly Anglo-Frisian, and the logic wielded in its coils would mystify a scholar of the Talmud. The numbers sing to him, and he listens with an open heart. I have seen him become 10 different men before 10 different people.
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Scrooge immediately vows to do just that. But that love is not, of course, to be.
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Scrooge chains himself ever more firmly to his desk in his quest to cleanse the firm of its taint. It is Marley — corrupt, murderous and ultimately diseased Marley — who becomes human, kind and loving. When Orson Welles went into self-imposed exile in Europe, he first found stardom with The Third Man and then immersed himself in challenging films, television, theatre and bullfighting. I hear the sharpening of knives among our present day self-appointed Committee of Public Safety, every bit as ardent as their French Revolutionary forbears; click click go the knitting needles of the grim-faced tricoteuses as they call for the head of Johannson, who has already been issued with a caution.
Johannson is certainly in good company. Earlier this year, a disabled actor complained bitterly that the great, glorious but able-bodied Bryan Cranston had been cast as a disabled character in the film The Upside. There are many disabled actors, the argument went, who need the work, and who would have given a much more authentic performance than Cranston. The distinguished journalist Melanie Reid, who is herself confined to a wheelchair, briskly dealt with the issues:.
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Firstly, Cranston is a star and the film would not have been made without him or someone of equal box office heft. Secondly, he is a very good actor, capable of showing in as powerful a way as possible the complexities of the character and his relationship to his own disability. All inarguable, and forcefully put. However, as everyone quickly understood, this local confrontation raises other, bigger issues. From time immemorial, disabled people have been horribly misrepresented, mocked, pilloried and demonised — not least by the theatrical profession.
But those days are long gone. Day Lewis, needless to say, does not suffer from cerebral palsy. Instead, he is bestowed with imagination, keen powers of observation and extraordinary physical discipline. He also has a passion for telling the truth. In other words he is an actor. What is acting?
As actors, we give ourselves over to other lives. We stop being ourselves and start to think the thoughts of other human beings. It takes skill and practice to do this sensitively. Even personality actors show us how one kind of human behaves in a thousand fascinating ways - while character actors like myself morph from one person to another. That calls for serious observation. And imagination. He was an actor, someone who converts their observations and experiences into a credible and — most importantly — memorable human being.