Nikolai Demidov

Nikolai Demidov, Andrei Malaev-Babel

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781317220688
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Theatre

At the time of his death, Stanislavsky considered Nikolai Demidov to be 'his only student, who understands the System'. Demidov's incredibly forward-thinking processes not only continued his teacher's pioneering work, but also solved the problems of an actor's creativity that Stanislavsky never conquered. This book brings together Demidov's five volumes on actor training. Supplementary materials, including transcriptions of Demidov's classes, and notes and correspondence from the author make this the definitive collection on one of Russian theatre's most important figures.

1 Reasons for the Fall of the Art of the Actor

DOI: 10.4324/9781315621685-1

Enthusiasm for a Production

It must be that the path of any progress, especially the one in art, isn't a straight and simple path, but is winding, going up and down, with many possible losses and discoveries.

Let's speak about an art form that is more closely related with acting – singing.

In Greece, in Italy, there was always great singing. The climate predisposed people to it. They sang well, and they called it simply: singing – canto.

But, little by little, the maestros of vocal work came to the point when they started trying to achieve a certain kind of sound. A sound that is, put frankly, magical. A singer trained in this art would go onstage, sing a single note – some “A-a-a-a-a . . . !” and it immediately pierced the listener's very heart. It would instantly melt all the ice, unlock every secret chest or lockbox and, out of nowhere, tears would start flowing of their own volition.

The singer didn't sing about soul-rending suffering, he didn't tell an intricate tale of sorrow, longing, or happiness . . . he sang about something very simple or even less than that: he would just let out a single uncomplicated vocalization – “A” – and nobody was able not to dissolve in that sound. Nobody could hold back a flood of emotions and feelings, and the flood would come – unexpected, stormy, vivifying, and cleansing . . .

This amazing sound opened up all of the listener's depths as a result of some sort of specific resonance . . . It would give rise to delight and inspiration . . . from the depths of their souls, all of their best qualities would rise, clean, wholesome, and they would come up as tears, sighs, heightened senses, and a feeling of immense joy . . .

This sort of singing wasn't simply called canto, but bel canto – beautiful singing.

Now, when you watch old Italian operas of that time – you’re seized by bewilderment, you don't know what to think.

Here “he” comes onstage, and, as it was done back then, stands right at the proscenium, facing the audience, incessantly sings about his love for “her.” The melody is primitive, the words even more so . . . He’ll sing a little, sing some more, and leave. “She” comes out. Stands to face the audience in the exact same spot and incessantly sings the same thing about her own love for “him” . . . “He” comes out yet again, and now they sing together, but they’re still facing the audience (so that they’re heard better), and, without looking at each other, sing about their love. “I love you, you love me, we love each other. . .” etc. 30–40 pages of this unoriginal and uncomplicated outpouring of love.

The audience used to melt from delight.

But . . . take a breath before making fun of them. Let's keep investigating.

Given the power of the vocal art, the singers didn't need to concern themselves with making the melody richer or more complex, especially since any such complications didn't reflect well on what was most important: the ease and perfection of bel canto. So, singers not only didn't look for new, richer melodies, but on the contrary, met any novelty with protests.

However, as beautiful as the singing may have been, music didn't stand in one spot, it developed. Impressive composers stepped out onto the field, like Glück [1714–1787], who demanded that singers perform more complex melodies, that librettists write more complex stories. This all got in the singers’ way. Singers probably could have found a way to resolve their differences with composers and come to a consensus, but that would have taken too much effort. And what for? Their singing was still very popular and easily put bread on the table!

This is how the war between musicians and singers began. The musicians demanded that the music that they wrote be performed – the singers resisted. And if they performed new operas, then they performed them their own, more convenient, way. The war was heated and difficult for both sides. Music won. Progress won.

And bel canto, the magical bel canto, unable to keep pace with progress, was forced to cede its primacy to the new ruling force.

The fault lies not with singing itself, of course, but with the singers who were unable to adapt themselves to both art forms. And so, bel canto started to wither . . . Additionally, its masters – singers and vocal maestros – the “alchemists” of the art, were dying one by one, carrying their magical sounds with them into the grave.

Musicians weren't concerned in the least: now, singers performed all of their requests without complaints, and the music – complex, rich, sometimes genius music – ruled supreme.

Gradually, the theatrical structure of opera was also perfected, and it reached the heights of psychological musical dramas and comedies.

Now, it's become the norm that everything is SUNG in opera – phone conversations, business discussions, invitations to “have a seat,” “take a walk,” “see you later, alligator!” etc.

We haven't had the good fortune to hear bel canto, but imagine that today, in the middle of our dramatic vocal performance, i.e. operas, you’d hear the singer let out this hitherto unheard (by you), delightful sound – “Stop, stop!” you’d want to yell, “Stop moving around that furniture, doing whatever it is you’re doing, and babbling on about your nonsense! I just heard something that made my heart flip . . . Do it again! Sing that sound again! It tore through the eternal darkness like a ray of light . . . Having heard it, I can't hear or see your previous gimmicks and showing off . . .”

That's what you would say.

And the ridiculous, empty librettos of old Italian operas instantly become understandable. And really, wouldn't a storyline, action, and psychological webs only take away from what's important?

Then, after you had gotten enough of this godly sound, maybe you would want to return to the best that exists in our operas today. But once you’ve heard bel canto, you can't do without it. You would want to combine that vocal wonder with today's best. But . . . it no longer exists. It is lost. A miraculous art form is lost, and can we truly find it? We probably can. We just need to apply enough willpower and know how to search.

But for now, it's gone. The trace has gone cold. The greatest support for this assertion is that you can hear “bel canto” everywhere, third-rate singing teachers tell their students about bel canto. And why not? Nobody knows the true bel canto.

Everybody uses this term simply to describe a sound that is more or less beautiful. And they say: “now this is bel canto.” Well, that's that then, time to reap laurels.

Now, let's ask ourselves a question: why isn't anyone looking for it? The Italians, after all, looked for it and found it. The answer to this question is simple: they found it because nothing was distracting them; they didn't have more interesting librettos, complex staging, all they had was singers and their singing. And the public loved the opera. And so, the restless souls that must search, must perfect everything that they touch – they accidentally started running into some specific, unprecedented, electric, calling sound – it would echo for a moment and be gone the next. What's the matter? They began experimenting, searching furiously. They observed it, overheard it from nature, and transformed it into a “technique.”

But today, you won't even think about searching for something UNPRECEDENTED. Why bother? Our age asks for something different. Today, you need for the singers to produce a musical phrase, to relay a THOUGHT, to accurately convey the psychological pattern of an aria or romance; they have to “grasp” the personality of their “character.” And, of course, they have to sing correctly and rhythmically, and possess a beautiful, strong, technically adept voice.

This is how, in search for the new, we get carried away, and lose our interest in the old, even if it's valid . . . This isn't true of everyone, of course. This “rule” only applies to average, not particularly capacious minds. It's possible that there might have been at some point a singer who was able to combine music, thought, character, and bel canto in one, but he died, and his miracle-doing died with him.

***

Now, let's get back to our own topic – dramatic theatre.

The same thing happened to it. Mochalov's brilliant flights, Yermolova's inspired acting, or Duse's boundless authenticity and depth – that is our dramatic theatrical magic. Our bel canto. It could be seen in our old theatres, and, apparently, it wasn't so rare. It was beautiful – true art, perfection of an actor's artistic powers. But everything that surrounded it was so tasteless, helpless, and detestable that there was only one way to bear it: try not to notice it. These amateur, talentless actors with whom the touring star would often have to share the stage, these extras, found on the street to play a crowd, these set pieces – three, four identical “box sets” for any show, and much, much more! . . . The audience forgave all this for the moments of delight that they got from the brilliant actors’ performance. They were used to this strange interweaving of mediocrity with greatness, a den of iniquity – and a temple of art. They couldn't imagine it any other way.

But then, the Meiningen Company¹ showed up, and it became abundantly clear that the crowd had to act, that every man in the crowd is an actor, not a dead extra; that it would be better if the stage had set design that complemented each play and each act – set design that gave the impression of the place that was assumed by the author, not the omnipresent standard “box sets” and “forest landscapes”; that it would be better if a play were organized, according to the playwright's wishes, by a single person – the director – than if it were organized on the run, by whomever had an idea at the time.

However, the Meiningen Company made one grave mistake. Paying such great significance to the set, props, costumes, makeup, they turned the actors into . . . things. Necessary, important things, but still just things. For the director Chronegk, an actor was simply a medium, an executor of his will. For every actor, Chronegk and his assistants thought everything through to such an extent that the actors didn't have anything left to do – just go according to the director's plan and vision. Willingly or not, they gave themselves completely over to the director's will. Meanwhile, he, enthused by his new idea, trained and drilled them until they performed their roles exactly as he told them. In this manner, they turned into a mass of obedient marionettes. Creative freedom, live, spontaneous moments, explosions of passion that we’ve grown used to in our own actors – this was all out of the question.

The progressive aspects of the Meiningen Company's art could not leave our directors uninterested, and a new stream poured into theatre. The directors’ new main concern became the creation of a harmonious show.

The Meiningen Company brought with them something entirely new: the ensemble. Complete coordination between the actors.

Although, not all ensembles are made equal.

Having understood the value of an ensemble, our innovating directors couldn't fail to notice the Meiningen Company’ main weakness: the mechanical style of their acting and its soullessness. In order to avoid making the same mistake, they started treating their actors differently. Together with the actors, they not only thought through every scene, every moment and every line of their role, or searched for and found the truest and most expressive actions. They also wanted the actor to be full of truth, so that he not only understood every moment of his role, but felt it too. So that he was as natural as in life. Special techniques were developed to this end. A whole system of techniques.

It seemed that everything was progressing along properly: both sides of the show and the roles, external and internal, were reaching the necessary heights. But the director's chief concern was still the creation of a show. And this concern (possibly subconsciously) created a hard line of action: everything was done for the show. The actor was only a single part of the show. Regardless of however much the directors helped him, how they supported him – in the end, he was still shut in and denied artistic freedom.

This sort of directorial custody, and more importantly: the compulsive fixation of anything that was found during rehearsals – however collaboratively – led to the actors’ freedom being shackled. This killed their spontaneity. Everything is thought-through and pre-decided; all you have to do is repeat your actions and words in exactly the same way (with once and for all established intonations). What kind of spontaneity and involuntariness, i.e. what sort of truth is there to even speak of? To make everything seem like the truth – create the impression of the truth – that's possible. But that's it. That is, not the truth, but the appearance of truth. And that's what happened.

As for freedom of creativity and any sort of onstage “improvisations” on the part of the actor – that became not only unnecessary, but detrimental and dangerous. These improvisations might, accidently, coincide with the director's pattern of the scene, but what if they don't? What if they break it? What will your partner do then? “Improvise” too? Where will that lead the show? And why did we have the tens and hundreds of rehearsals, then? Why did we have the hundreds and thousands of great ideas?

Even if actors were to act on inspiration, like Mochalov or Yermolova, little good would come of it – the higher they would rise, the more they’d ruin the show's structure with their flight.

This is how completely new demands began to arise for the actor, gradually and unnoticeably. And with them, came a new school. It demanded not the truth from the actor, not freedom, not inspiration, but the ability to accurately and believably perform actions that were found in rehearsals beneath the watchful gaze of the director's vision; actions, blocking, a.k.a. mise-en-scenes, and even intonations.

And if we call the Meiningen Company’ ensemble an ensemble of marionettes, then our ensemble became an ensemble of verisimilar actors.

What is this? Is this progress? Of course it's progress, without a doubt. The most important thing in the theatre should be the show – a holistic performance, not random, individual parts. In this respect, everything was developing correctly. At the same time, is it right to sit and watch the actors lose all their freedom to create in front of the audience; inspiration lose its place in theatre; authenticity and truth be replaced by verisimilitude; the actor forced to second and then third place with regards to importance, and turned into an executor of the director's will?

If this is how things will progress going forward, then it isn't long before our dramatic wonderworking sinks into oblivion, just like the magical Italian bel canto.

But how do we combine the harmonious, unified production with artistic freedom, even improvisation onstage?

The Director: His Excessive Power and Ignorance

There have been theatrical collectives that have successfully been formed by very strong actors who did not need the help of a director: they grasped the play and the roles very well on their own; additionally, they helped each other out with advice, and everything worked out. The director took on the roles of rehearsal administrator and general organizer.

There are examples of brilliant touring actor-directors. Like, for example, Ira Aldridge, who travelled across most of Russia's provinces [in the late 1850s and early 1860s], performing his roles alongside both professional Russian actors and amateurs. And the plays were such that they needed a director: Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet, etc. He staged the shows himself, directed them, taught, patiently explained everything, and didn't give up. This was necessary for him, at least because, otherwise, the incompetent amateurs and actors would have gotten in his way onstage. Additionally, he knew, unders...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• List of Figures
• Acknowledgements
• A Note on the Text
• NIKOLAI DEMIDOV: A CREATIVE BIOGRAPHY (From the Editors)
• BOOK ONE: THE ART OF THE ACTOR – ITS PRESENT AND FUTURE
• 1 Reasons for the Fall of the Art of the Actor
• 2 Truth
• 3 Truth, As It Is Commonly Understood (Pseudoexperiencing)
• 4 The Intangibility of Truth
• 5 On Artistry and the Artist
• 6 The Artist: His Chief Qualities
• 7 The Path of the Artist
• 8 The Path to Becoming an Artist
• BOOK TWO: ACTOR TYPES
• BOOK THREE: THE ART OF LIVING ONSTAGE – FROM A THEATRE TEACHER’S LABORATORY
• PART I The Significance of the Actor’s Creative Experiencing: Paths Leading Toward It
• 1 Initial Steps Toward Mastering the Art of the Actor’s Experiencing
• 2 New Paths
• 3 On Freedom and Involuntariness in the Process of Creative Experiencing
• PART II The Path of Spontaneous Reaction
• 4 Mistakes of the Past and Glimpses of the New
• 5 freedom and involuntariness
• 6 Actors’ Fantasy
• 7 Students’ First Steps “Onstage”
• 8 Some Thoughts on Pedagogy
• 9 Weakness of the Actors’ Creative Ties
• 10 On the Beginning
• 11 On the Theatrical and Non-Theatrical
• 12 On the Text
• 13 Incoherence
• 14 What Do We Gain from these Etudes?
• PART III Some Basic Principles and Techniques
• 15 The Threshold of Creative Experiencing
• 16 Solidifying an Actor in the Creative State (“Support”)
• 17 The Role of Automatic Movements in Cultivating Freedom and Spontaneity
• 18 Don’t Interfere with Living
• 19 Carelessness
• 20 Take Your Time!
• 21 Play-Acting
• 22 Perception
• 23 Free Reaction (“Green-Lighting”)
• 24 Braking
• 25 Stepping on It
• 26 Physiology
• 27 Assignment
• PART IV Guiding Freedom and Involuntariness
• 28 Circumstances
• 29 Forgetting
• 30 Concreteness as a Path to Authentic Perception
• 31 The Ambiguity of the Given Circumstances as a Motivating, Driving Force in the Actor’s Art
• 32 The Character
• 33 Types of Characters
• 34 The Appearance, Strengthening, and Development of a Character
• PART V Conclusion
• 35 Practical Advice for Teachers
• 36 On the Way Forward
• Additional Materials
• BOOK FOUR: THE ARTIST’S CREATIVE PROCESS ONSTAGE
• Introduction
• 1 On the Difference of Acting Techniques
• 2 Calling and Abilities
• 3 The Actor and Life
• 4 The Actor and the Author
• 5 The Actor and the Director
• 6 The Actor and Form
• 7 A Few Critical Thoughts on Some Methods and Terms of the Ruling Theatre Schools
• 8 The Embryo
• 9 Synthesis and Grasp
• 10 Character: Transformation
• 11 Transformation
• 12 On Several Principles of the Psycho-Technique
• 13 On the Few Principles of Theatre Pedagogy
• 14 On Preparing Yourself for Rehearsals and Performance
• 15 Repetition
• Addendum
• BOOK FIVE: PSYCHO-TECHNIQUE OF THE AFFECTIVE ACTOR
• 1 Creativity
• 2 Emotionally Synthesizing Thinking (Projecting?) (Meta-Logical)
• 3 Primitive Sensations and Biologism
• 4 Doubled Consciousness
• 5 Unity
• 6 The Subconscious Nature of Creativity
• 7 Automatisms
• 8 Will
• 9 “Activity” or “Passivity”?
• 10 The Culture of “Calm”
• 11 The Threshold and After-the-Threshold
• 12 On Breathing
• 13 The Actor and the Audience
• 14 Advice for Future Researchers of the Actor’s Creative Technique
• Conclusion
• Glossary of Terms and Exercises
• Bibliography
• Index