Method acting is a term I don’t really understand; there is a method to everybody’s acting. At least I hope there is. Once the Pandora’s box of these technical terms has been opened, a veritable whirlwind of incomprehensible dramaturgical jargon is unleashed, from which there is no respite. As a general principle when directing, I try to avoid using or even thinking in terms of this argot because it makes everything far too clinically precise and scientific. Precision and scientific accuracy are hardly desirable qualities when creating drama, which should be an entirely free and natural process.
If forced to choose, the dramatic ‘method’ that I identify with the most is probably the Stanislavski method, which sounds rather like a particularly painful orthodontic procedure. In reality it simply refers to a technique through which an actor analyses both his own and his character’s motivations to arrive at an ‘inner truth’ that is a confluence between the two.
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I think that’s probably enough directorial pseudo-intellectualism for now. The second week of Brideshead rehearsals has now rolled by and, from what I’ve seen in rehearsals so far, I will be very surprised if you leave the theatre unmoved. At odd moments in the day, certain phrases from the rehearsals echo back to me: ‘I was looking for love in those days’. The words seem to breathe the heady scent of summer and hope, faintly tinged with bitterness and regret. We have taken to rehearsing outside, on the lush, verdant lawns of Corpus – ostensibly to improve vocal clarity – but, in reality, so we can soak up the Brideshead-esque atmosphere, as if we need an excuse. The tortured struggle of the protagonists is rendered especially tragic when contrasted with the absurdly beautiful background of their lives. It seems that unrequited love, guilt and regret know no bounds, social or otherwise.
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Perhaps the Brideshead purists – they’re quite easy to spot really, just look for someone wearing a white linen suit at Park End who is accompanied by a large teddy bear – will demand my head on a plate, but I have taken the odd liberty when adapting the novel. The transposition of that heart-rending scene in Morocco to a quasi-reality sequence at Brideshead is one of them, which, for a start, allows us to dispense with having to fill the stage with sand and the odd moth-eaten fez.
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During rehearsals, the same question keeps on recurring. Who is Charles actually in love with? Sebastian? Julia? Brideshead itself? My opinion this week, although doubtlessly I will change my mind before long, is that though Charles would never admit it to himself, he is actually in love with the aristocratic world of decadence and aestheticism that Sebastian and Julia represent and reflect in their own personal beauty.
But also: How should Charles stroke Sebastian’s hair? It’s the small things that get us in a muddle at the moment, but we can only live in hope.
