What I Learned About Acting From “The Wizard of Oz”
by David Fairhurst
The Scarecrow
Yes, we’ve all heard the “dumb actor” jokes. And though the best actors I know are often the smartest actors I know, we can all cite examples of successful performers with nothing but straw between their ears.
So the Scarecrow’s lack of gray matter does not automatically disqualify him from a life on the stage. But if he wants to be an actor, there’s another reason the Scarecrow is going to need that brain: not for intelligence, but to store information.
Somebody once asked me for the best advice I could give a new actor arriving in New York, and here it is: Get a one-year internship working in the office of an agent, manager, or casting director. Because at the end of that year, you will know more about how show business works than 99 percent of the actors in this city.
Knowledge is power, and nowhere more than in an industry that often seems determined to make actors feel powerless (thus undermining their self-confidence), so knowing the business from both sides of the audition table gives you an invaluable edge.
The Tin Man
Somebody else once asked my opinion on the one quality that all good actors have in common. I thought about it for a long time and decided that it’s not any particular personality type, because for every actor who fits the self-absorbed, attention-starved diva cliché, there’s another who fits that other cliché—the shy, sensitive soul for whom acting is a means of self-expression.
Nor is it any particular artistic ability, such as imagination—a powerful tool for an actor to have, of course, but not absolutely essential, since strong text-analysis skills and the capacity to keenly observe and embody others’ behavior can often compensate when imagination fails.
No, the one thing that all good actors have in common is what the Tin Man was looking for: a heart. Call it empathy: the power to put yourself in another person’s shoes, to think what he’s thinking, and to feel what he’s feeling. That, I think, is the essential quality that no actor can live without.
The Cowardly Lion
Colleen Dewhurst once summed up the paradoxical nature of the acting life as the need to be completely vulnerable onstage and completely invulnerable offstage. And each of them—the willingness to be emotionally naked in front of strangers and the psychological armor necessary to suffer the industry’s slings and arrows—requires just what the Cowardly Lion was looking for: courage.
But don’t mistake mere confidence for courage. Often an actor will feel confident simply because he’s not taking any risks—and good acting is always about taking risks. Confidence is no substitute for fearlessness. And facing rejection every day—a very personal rejection, since you are the product you’re selling—and coming back for more is the actor’s job.
When I was auditioning for graduate acting programs, an interviewer asked me this final question: “What will you do if we don’t accept you?” I thought about it for a moment, screwed up my courage, and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to dedicate the rest of my career to proving you wrong.” His smile let me know that was the right answer.
Have courage. Take risks. Never give up. And if you do give up, then you were never really an actor in the first place.
Dorothy
Home is what Dorothy was looking for—“the place where,” as Robert Frost wrote, “when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
The life of a theatrical gypsy has been romanticized over the years—often by the theatre community itself—but there’s rarely anything romantic about it. Nobody needs to be told that this can be a brutal business, and a home base is essential to the well-being of any actor.
Whether an ongoing class, a workshop, a studio, a theatre company—you need someplace you can return to whenever you have to recharge your batteries, replenish your courage, remind yourself why you do this, stretch your talent, take some risks, fail miserably, make a fool of yourself, and trust that nobody will laugh at you and nobody will kick you out.
And Him, Too
When Judy Garland, Ray Bolger, Jack Haley, and Bert Lahr are skipping down the Yellow Brick Road, which performer most consistently draws your eye?
That’s right—Toto. Admit it: No matter what may be happening in Munchkinland, at least part of your attention is always seeking out that little ball of fur at the bottom of the screen. There’s a good reason W.C. Fields warned actors against working with children and animals: Because they can steal a scene out from under the feet of even the most accomplished performer or four.
So how does a mere dog manage to draw an audience’s eye away from a quartet of consummate triple threats—and do it without even trying? And as an actor, wouldn’t you give your right arm to be able to do the same thing?
I think there are two explanations. First, the dog isn’t acting. He may be following the prompts of his offscreen trainer (his “script,” so to speak), but he’s not playing a character. That’s really him up there—relaxed, natural, and unselfconscious.
And second, the audience is never entirely sure what he’s going to do. Even well-trained animals don’t do what you expect them to 100 percent of the time. There’s always an element of danger involved (and even if you’ve seen the movie a hundred times, oddly enough, that element doesn’t go away). His behavior is unpredictable, and as Marlon Brando knew, that unpredictability is what rivets an audience’s attention.
Two final lessons in acting from Oz: Be natural. And be unpredictable.