Method Acting

It was around the moment she put my fingers in her mouth that I began to realize we weren’t acting anymore. Do you know about this stuff? The secret lives of actors? The only citizens on God’s green earth blessed with the birthright of overindulgence? Let me rephrase…overindulgence without the consequences…ah, there’s the rub.

German theatre director Max Reinhardt delivered the mandate for actors when he made them responsible for the revelation of truth. But we all know truth is not relegated to chastity, nobility and responsibility. In fact, wouldn’t say…the 7 deadly sins (and all their deadly sub-sins) fall under the same heading. They’re all manifestations of the self same truth - let’s be honest here.

The land of stage and screen is a truly magical place. Where else can one sleep with both his wife’s sisters, steal a trillion dollars, or kill a man just for snoring without paying a single price? There is no price. Only the price of admission - which we pay - gladly, even - to watch these “actors” behave in sexy and morally abhorrent ways, knowing good and well they are off to have pizza and beer after the shoot or after the show, and no one - I MEAN NO ONE - will have to answer to their conscience - or to God - or to country - or to anyone! It’s really just a free-for-all.

It was a Thursday evening. Mid-summer. I met Karen at her apartment to “rehearse our scene” for an upcoming class. This was a very important method acting class, taught by a very important former actor, who had, indeed, in his former life, partaken of the devil’s theatrical buffet many times, and was eager to divulge his proven methods for sucking down the turtle cheesecake of life and never, ever having to feel a tinge of guilt about it. (As long as there was a stage or a camera involved).

Karen and I had been doing this from some time, obviously. We were professionals. The supremely high caliber of our acting class was an indication of that. So I really didn’t give it a second thought when she suggested we rehearse in her home - not the most neutral place to explore the emotionally intimate world of playwright Lanford Wilson.

From the bathroom to her front door, she yelled for me to come in - I did- and have a seat on the couch - I did. She was finishing off a shower, having gone for an unexpected afternoon run. When she finally came out of the bathroom - offering me a beer on the way - I knew I was in trouble. But maybe not. After all, it was only acting.

You see, I was sort of attracted to Karen. And from every indication so far, she was attracted to me. And now she was moving into the kitchen to fetch me an intoxicating beverage - her hair tussled and wet - her tan skin still glistening from the shower - smelling like passion fruit and tucked neatly into a tiny, pink sundress - knowing damn well that the blocking (that’s stage directions for you amateurs) for this particular scene required me to take off my pants. Now I know what most of you are thinking…acting is a tough job. Well…that’s what I was thinking too. She told me all she had was Bud - as she poured 2 cans of that foul yellow horse piss into 2 clean glasses and sat on the couch next to me. That’s okay - the beer was just a prop anyway. And I was a professional.

Well, you know the rest. Somewhere in between me stripping into my boxers and Karen sucking on my digits, there was a little loss of perspective. All of Lanford Wilson’s great lines were reduced to mere sounds, and in an epic moment of vulnerability, I became a true ACTOR. Of course, right after that, her boyfriend called and said he was coming over. Rehearsal was cut short for the evening. I put my pants back on and thanked Karen for her creative hospitality.

In the short trip back home, a sweet calm came over me. I had engaged in questionable liberties with another man’s beloved, but my conscience was clear. Besides, we had to rehearse again before class next week. Maybe she could meet me at my place.