Our Sacred Magic

When I went to San Francisco for the first time I found this cool wall decoration that said, “Do Not Give Up.” It’s kinda “industrial chic” décor.  Its appearance resembles a triangle traffic sign. “Do Not” being a hard underline, and underneath it “Give Up”. “Dept of Transportation” above that. At twenty-three, wide-eyed and brimming with a naivety that had only slightly been tainted: I bought it on the spot, and I’ve cherished it since. 

Do Not

GIVE UP

I moved into a new apartment over a year ago and now instead of proudly hanging on the wall… it’s buried in my utility closet. Mostly because my walls are problematic and the sign itself doesn’t play well with others. And yet...

Do Not

GIVE UP

It resonates with you, doesn’t it? 

As performers in this industry, these are words of creed. 

They are magic words.

We repeat them to overcome adversity. We silently whisper this to ourselves before going into the audition room, at 1 A.M while folding silverware at our survival job, after getting cut at a callback, being stuck in an uptown subway car during rush hour while a man relieves himself next to you — to keep pushing. To remind. Often quiet, other times loud. Sometimes filled with prayer. Sometimes with venom. 

I believe in them too, these magic words. But lately…. the magic is hard to come by.  

Sometimes I fear it’s absconded. Plucked from the heavens and gone overnight. 

I’m entering into a new era of my life where I have to leave some things behind, and I’ve been grappling with this idea… or this concept that a part of me has died and I need to bury him, in order to move on. Truth be told, it hasn’t been the first time I’ve done this. Not my first burial.  But this particular part of me I’m trying to bury is the part of me that’s kept me going all these years. The one responsible for starting it all. That part of you where your hopes, dreams and aspirations originated. A former you. The most sacrosanct of you. Pretty much the kind of you where, should you even think about laying it down to rest, you would surely and most utterly implode and cease to exist. 

So what to do when that part of you…. that you’re looking to let go, is the one who’s lead you here in the first place? And who are you without them, if not anyone? And also… if you’re not bringing them with you then where the fuck are you going without them? 

It’s time to solve the riddle and face it, instead of resisting it. Instead of conjuring an old arcanum that’s no longer working. 

Do Not

GIVE UP

Performing is my life and always has been. To the point where I’ve gotten really good at lying to myself, pretending that it’s not (it is). I know I’m not alone and I’m not being dramatic when I say that I feel closest to God, the universe, and everything when I’m on stage surrounded by really hot lights sweating my ass off in a dark room full of strangers. I still consider myself lucky enough to even be pursuing this professionally and feel grateful for what I have achieved (even if I have to convince myself I’ve actually made achievements). But even before the tragedy of COVID…. I felt stale. Burnt out. I know others feel this way and they often joke about giving up and doing something else. 

Do Not

GIVE UP

Artists fantasize about that “giving up” like it’s something they can’t have, or can’t do. Because what or who would you be without your suffering? Without the “grind?” Without everything you’ve done to get to where you are today? I didn’t really ever stop to ask myself whether or not people were merely joking.  Or if they even knew they weren’t joking and really meant it. Or if they could even do that. But most importantly, I was discovering I might be one of those people who weren’t joking. You entertain this thought for a moment. But then, of course, you say those “magic words” and fall right back in line.     

But I still found myself wanting to diverge. Joy had evaded me at every turn. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked. I started feeling like I wanted to do something else, or just needed a change, anything. But I refused to let myself do that. I refused to consider the possibility that pursuing my career wasn’t making me happy. I deceived myself into false security and at every moment my magic was failing me. I told myself that I needed to stop thinking negatively, and keep pushing. 

Push.

Push.

But for the first time, I asked myself: Why?

As in, “Why am I denying myself the true feelings I was having and trying to take steps to correct them?”

Why couldn’t I allow myself to even question what I was doing? 

I refused to give into any idea that did not perpetuate the career I envisioned for myself. I didn’t want to entertain the thought of deviating from doing what I loved, even if it was killing me and not reciprocating anything in return.

Magic is a fickle process. I do believe that as performers we subscribe to it, and we really are super-human. We make the impossible, possible. But as one of my favorite guilty pleasure TV show characters would say…. All magic comes with a price. The act of conjuring (we’re dropping the metaphor now kids) or pushing yourself to places, people, things, jobs, sacrifices that don’t serve you will result in being completely spent with not a trace of yourself left. And you’ll be left wondering whether or not you should be giving up.

But you don’t. You don’t need to give anything up.  And where you’re going hasn’t changed.

It really is both. You can be tired and unfulfilled and choose another path when you get to the next fork in the road. Or you can press on and cling to every faculty of faith you have with you, as long as it’s not killing you in the process. But the proverbial woods are the same. I really do think your destination will always be what you had envisioned, even if the paths you took or the methods you used to get there were not what you foresaw at the beginning. 

But without a shadow of a doubt, at some point, you’ll need new spells.

New magic. 

A different kind of magic. Not a headstrong magic. Not a beat the scene into a dead horse kind of magic, but a more skillful and eloquent magic. Less energy to cast it and less incantation to pull it off. 

At the beginning of my journey I made a solemn promise that I would only continue, that I would only pursue being a performer if I could remain happy. That it was more important for me as an individual to make sure I was sacrificing, struggling and persisting out of love and necessity, and not out of obligation. And when tested, and in the throws of doubt, I would reevaluate and find a way forward. Sometimes this doesn’t fit within the narrative we’re sold, that it’s either all or nothing in order to reach the end game. 

I feel as though there is this stigma about being a performer. That if you’re not “doing it” then you aren’t a performer. Or if you aren’t working professionally, then you’re not really working.  And as much as I believed I couldn’t be affected by it: here it was completely tearing me apart from the inside. Somewhere along the way I bought it.  And while I’m (maybe) comfortable admitting that I’ve fallen prey, I’m also going to say that it’s simply not true. The stigma of a non-working performer is no performer at all: is a lie, and only seeks to destroy the nature of what it means to be a storyteller. I really thought being stubborn, adamant and relying on a fabled “iron-will” would get me through almost anything, but life is a marathon and a half, isn’t it? Endurance can only get us so far. 

The idea of new magic has welcomed the possibility of new solutions, or really just dialogues with myself I wasn’t able to have before. It’s a process and I’m still figuring it out. 

I’m starting to feel like I’m in a position where I’m not restricting myself as much, or my sense of self rather. I no longer feel the need to cultivate plans laid before me that I created a long time ago, that don’t even fit who or where I am now. I’m starting to feel empowerment for creating a path in my life that works only for me. That may or may not lead me to the original thought of where I was going. And not apologizing about it. Or explaining it. Or justifying it. To anyone. 

My magic. New magic. 

There’s no benefit to live by a projected version of you that was made a long time ago, or a version of you that was created under different life circumstances. 

There’s no future in re-using magic that has become stale and old.

Our magic is sacred. We have to protect it. It’s the fire inside of us that keeps us inspired, and creative. And when it’s no longer working: we have to make new spells. Recite new incantations. 

We have to make new magic. Otherwise we’ll trick ourselves into thinking that there was never any magic in the first place. 

And we all know that’s fucking bullshit.

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Nick Imperato is an actor, writer, and storyteller. His recent escapades include running amok in Tony n Tina’s Wedding, as well as participating in New Ambassadors Theatre Company’s ongoing Play Development Labs. You may also find him in his other natural habitats, which include trying to assassinate himself at the gym, tinkering with video game consoles, and cooking a really mean risotto. https://www.nickimperato.com

 G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

A Bedroom Star Is Born

“The neighbors are complaining again about the loud talking at night.”

In the before times, I’d have been utterly humiliated if anyone had heard me speaking, much less acting out scenes from the various characters I imagine myself to be playing. The fare varies with the day – maybe it’s a classic like the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks….” Or maybe I’m feeling especially Skywalker and it’s, “I am a Jedi, like my father before me…” There are even musical interludes every now and then like, “Two Player Game” from Be More Chill. Whatever the material, though, I dive in with a wholeheartedness that would make a cosplayer at comic con jealous and when everything lines up just exactly right, I can begin to visualize the scene that’s taking place around me. Be it a Verona balcony, Death Star Emperor Chamber or Broadway stage, those are the nights that my audience, or as they call themselves, “neighbors,” get the Full Monty – the very best of my vaudevillian potpourri performances du jour. 

Why can’t they just be happy with the free entertainment? I should be charging them for tickets, and besides if you didn’t want to hear an ever-changing playlist of whatever strikes my fancy then you should close your windows. Did I mention I live in a house?

You might ask, why do I do it? Why can’t I confine my impromptu performances and ersatz awards acceptance speeches to the shower stall like a normal human being? Well, after a long period of introspection and self-examination I have discovered the cause of the issue – I am a lunatic. Or, if you prefer the archaic spelling, a-c-t-o-r.

Daniel P. Malito

Author, columnist, disability-advocate, aspiring actor and raconteur.

If I’m being honest, some part of me always yearned to strut my stuff.  Unfortunately, back when I was but a wee babe, lost in the forest of college and the world of “real jobs,” acting wasn’t on the list of viable choices come career day. If you asked my grandfather what he thought of the profession, well, let’s just say he was a one-man trigger warning that could make a no-mask protestor go running for a safe space. God, do I miss him… but I digress – the point is that I had convinced myself it wasn’t an option. So, in order to quell any disappointment I said to myself, “Meh, I’d probably stink at it anyway,” and it would have stayed exactly like that if not for a bitch-slap from the surprisingly soft hand of fate that forced me to re-examine just what the Hell really matters in this deceivingly short life.

Since I was young, I had suffered with rheumatoid arthritis. I know, it sounds innocuous, but it is anything but – it eats away at joints, yes, but it also affects the heart, lungs, and just about any other bit of meat that comes with the standard edition human action figure. I was working an office job like a good little drone when suddenly and without warning, my illness dropped a Wile-E-Coyote Acme-sized anvil right on my head and left me spinning. No more nine to five work. No more left shoulder. No more “normal.” Within the span of a few months my entire life was upended, and I found myself at home, no longer able to do the things I thought I was supposed to. I never could sit around doing nothing… for too long, so I started to write. And I wrote. A lot. I ended up with a book. And a podcast. And talk about developing a TV show. And a new perspective.

When your entire way of life is taken away from you virtually overnight it makes you, no, it forces you to re-examine just what’s important to you and what isn’t, especially when you only have a limited pool of energy to draw from each day. If you have to make every bit count then you either learn how to jettison the crap, and fast, or you end up with a life filled with fluff, and not the delicious marshmallow kind. The bright red boa kind that sheds all over your black sweater and people think Elmo just felt you up in a particularly frisky game of seven minutes in heaven. 

So I drilled down and decided real fast what was important to me, what I enjoyed doing more than anything, what my brain knew I desired without a moment’s conscious thought – and lo and behold it was the thing I had always known but never had the confidence to send to the front of the line. Acting. Performing. Theater. A bedroom star was born.

My sense is that many of you reading this will identify with the sentiments I’m sharing. As I said to my illustrious and wise acting teacher, “I’m screwed because it’s in me now. It’s inside and it’s gotta come out.” Maybe that means someone decides the show developed around my writing is worth producing. Or maybe that means a community theater production of Streetcar except it’s set on an alien planet and Stanley Kowalski has seven eyes and four arms. Sounds like heaven to me, and Hell for my neighbors.

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Daniel P. Malito is an author, columnist (for several prominent websites such as Creaky Joints and The Huffington Post), disability-advocate, aspiring actor and raconteur. He also writes, hosts and produces the award-nominated web series, Chronic Briefs, which highlights the poignant absurdity of living with chronic illness and disability in modern America. Over the past 15 years, Daniel has been honored for his work by The Arthritis Foundation, The Autoimmune Collective, WEGO Health, and is currently working to produce a show based on his writings.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Dead Like Me

I’m not an Opera lover, but I go.  It is a great night out, you hear wonderful music, you have a nice nap, and you get to walk out feeling pretty damn sophisticated. Provided you didn’t audibly snore.   

I know the readers of this blog are theater people and are probably aghast that someone would fall asleep during any live performance but, come on, if you’re sitting in the dress circle at the Met and the only thing illuminated is Tristan’s miniature head amidst that enormous blackened stage while the Wagnerian German verse slowly emits from the poor Tenor’s throat, you can’t help but nod off.  In fact, you almost just nodded off reading that run-on sentence. 

Long operas are not my favorite.  Nor are the real serious ones.  No Ring Cycle for me!  I like the one-acts.  A couple of arias, a love story coupled with a tragic death and boom—I’m home in my robe sipping bourbon and eating Cheez-Its right out of the box. 

One of my favorites is Gianni Schicchi.  It’s fast, it’s amusing, it has a great story and it’s Puccini.  Which means it’s fun.  When I was around 19 years old I had volunteered at a local community theater to do “follow spot” for a production of it--that’s when I learned opera could be enjoyable. 

I’m a working actor that mostly does Film, TV and Commercials.  You might have seen me.  I’m most know for a commercial for Ancestry.com that ran nationally more than 22,000 times over 4 years.  I’m the guy who traded his lederhosen for a kilt.  If you haven’t seen it, ask your parents.  It often ran during 60 Minutes, Jeopardy, the National News, and, inexplicably, Madam Secretary.

I also appear in numerous TV series and movies on channels like Amazon, Investigation Discover, the History Channel, A&E and Lifetime.  I’ve done short films, feature films, and web series.  My Commercial work includes household names like Accuweather, Canon, DeLonghi and Sotheby’s.  I even filmed 3 additional commercials for Ancestry DNA.  I work often.  Or at least I did before Covid-19. 

Actors usually play a couple of “Types”.  For example, I’m often cast as a Priest, Lawyer, Doctor, Father of the Bride, young Grandfather, Businessman, and even your local, friendly neighborhood Racist.  I get these a lot.  But I also seem to have a new type: Cadaver.  Before the pandemic hit, I was cast in three feature films shooting this summer, and I was dead in two of them.  Not the whole time, but dead nonetheless. 

Yes, my new type seems to be “Dead Body.”   

My Ancestry commercial was still running hot when I was cast in G&E Productions’ Cold Porridge playing the complicated role of Albert Jones.  I jest. The role is not complicated. The curtain opens as he dies.  Then he spends the good part of the next hour dead.  They move his body around, hiding it here and there, until he falls out of the linen closet at an inopportune moment. 

So: If I’m doing so well playing people who actually have a pulse, why would I take a gig playing a dead body? 

I’ve been asked this question more than once and I’ve pondered it a bit.  What in my genetic make-up allowed me to be proud of my performance of not moving?  In the films I had lined up this summer I was at least alive for part of the film.  But to be dead for an hour on stage?  To endure hours of rehearsal, just to lie around?  And what about research?  Don’t worry; I studied up by reading a book about cadavers.  I’m no slouch, even when I’m playing a stiff. 

A couple of things you should know. I love theater, and I wanted to be involved in this production.  I work a lot in other media, but stage has been somewhat elusive to me and I was dying to get on stage.  Cold Porridge was an opportunity to be involved in a full production.  To rub shoulders with extremely talented people. But mostly: To learn.  That was my goal.

Kyle & the cast of Cold Porridge on stage with G&E Productions

Frankly, it’s my goal in every step I take in this crazy world of acting.  I don’t go to an audition with the mindset of “I need to land this!” I go in with the mindset “I need to get something out of this audition”.  When I go to set, I watch and listen.  I soak up every bit of information that floats my way.  It makes me a better actor, it makes me a better artist, it makes me better at marketing myself, and it makes me a better person.   

I’ve taken flack for some of the roles I’ve played.  Racist “You’re portraying white people as bad” or Rice Queen “You’re making gay people seem depraved”.  Relax, people, it’s acting.  And if it disturbs you, that’s on you, not me.  Story telling is not all rainbows and unicorns.  

Some people have even launched careers playing dead.  Terry Kiser was perfectly cast in the title role in Weekend at Bernie’s, and Kevin Costner famously played a stiff in The Big Chill.  Many soap actors find out their contract isn’t being renewed when they find themselves in a coffin after a brief hospital stay.  I’m OK with it. 

But the question still remains—what would motivate me to audition for and make the extreme time commitment to play a corpse in a stage play?  The answer brings us back to…wait for it…Gianni Schicchi.  

When little 19-year-old Kyle had volunteered to work follow spot for Gianni Schicchi, he was very impressed with the actor who played Buoso Donati.  As the curtain opens--as it rises into the air and disappears--Buoso Donati almost sits up in his sickbed, seemingly following the curtain, as if to catch it.  And then he dies.  He hits the bed, dead.  And there he lies for quite a long time as the opera takes shape around him.  Eventually they hide the body, assume his identity, and rewrite his will.  I was mesmerized.   

And that’s what I saw in Albert Jones.  Curtain up: He dies.  But Albert was my link. My link to feed my life-long need to do difficult things and to learn.  My link to the stage.  My link to connecting with an audience.  My link to opera. And my link to my younger self. 

Acting is challenging on many levels, but it fulfills me.  I’m going to vigorously pursue it as long as I’m able.  I’ll continue to take on any role that suits me, no matter what people may think.  Even if that character has rigor mortis.  Because someday I really will be dead.  Until then, I’m having the time of my life.

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Kyle Merker

New York native and actor.

Kyle Merker is a New York native who studied acting at HB Studios, Studio Four and Michael Warner Studio. His most recent project was Remembering When I Used to Remember by Patrick Riviere (A Zoom Performance on 8/30/20) and next up is Coolsville (shooting 2021).  Visit him on IMDB or Actor’s Access, and follow him on Instagram @kylemerker.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.  

The Art of Seeing: Once Again Karen Huie Stumbles Into Victory

Auditioning is an actor’s job. Getting cast to perform the job is the vacation. Imperium 7, my voice over agents, gives me a wide berth of roles and genres to audition for and obviously I try to go on vacation as often as possible.

I had predominately acted in theatre, film, and television until voice work lured me to its den. It was a thrill to do voice work on projects such as Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens, The Incredibles 2, Moana, Onward, Scissor Seven and about 1500 other projects over my career. I had voiced characters for video games but had never played a principal role in one. That is, until Ghost of Tsushima entered my life. 

 Early in 2017, I got an audition for the role of Yuriko in a video game. I went into my recording booth with the lines they provided me and imagined the circumstances of the character. I performed each line along with a direction that they gave me: this line is directly to this character, try this one as if calling out from afar, one as if I were on horseback, for this line try saying it as if you are revealing something personal…. 

I listened to the takes on my headphones. Do I hear the character and not me? Is there life and place in each line? Tempo? I rechecked the directions. When I think I’ve got it, I set the proper gain (volume) for each line, save the file, and label it according to the precise specs. I email my audition and hope for the best. 

Some time later, I got a callback. My GPS guided me to a big complex where someone ushered me into a large room, about the size of an airplane hangar. Nate Fox, a game director at Sucker Punch Productions (who turned out to being the director for Ghost of Tsushima), stepped up and thanked me for coming down. Generous indeed. What actor doesn’t love a callback? There were props and sets. Nate explained that unlike theatre I didn’t need to be mindful of the ‘fourth wall’; the camera would follow me. For about 45 minutes, I acted scenes. I then drove an hour back home and made lunch. 

Some months later my agents sent an email informing me that I was cast. The work on the project would take me through 2018. Wait, which?  What was the name of it? When would I start? What’s MOCAP? (It’s short for motion capture by the way). A friend pointed me to a video of Benedict Cumberbatch, in MOCAP, portraying Smaug for The Hobbit films. All of life and art are in those 17 minutes of footage. It was a revelation about commitment and creating.

In June of 2017 I started working on Ghost of Tsushima. In one session they greased my hair back and sat me in what looked like a barber’s chair. About one hundred Sony cameras surrounded me. A director talked me through varying expressions and the cameras flashed with each one. Another day, a mold was made of my face. In my first voice over session, I was fitted with a skullcap with two microphones attached and a helmet over that where a camera was trained on my face. I learned how to act with what felt like a football helmet on my head while facing Daisuke Tsuji, the actor who portrays Jin Sakai, the protagonist of the game, who was also fitted with the same headgear. Sucker Punch, Amanda Wyatt (one of the game’s voice directors), Yumi Mi (our Japanese dialect coach) and Daisuke were all patient and helpful to this novice. Twenty sessions over three years came and went.

Performing in a video game is a living experience. I didn’t have a full script at the start. Ghost of Tsushima took over seven years to develop. I was cast about three years into the process. The night before a session is when I would often be given the scenes. The scenes were usually short and not necessarily sequential. I tried to memorize them so that Yuriko could truly engage with Jin in the session.

The scenes between these characters are brief, like haiku. Their game time together is also short. The words in their scenes are clues to what the writers wished to convey. Similar to haiku, a poetic form that has three lines and seventeen syllables, the world is reflected in them.

Yuriko, now an elderly woman of Tsushima, was the lead character’s caretaker. She saw Jin as a child frolic with abandon. She tested his abilities, watched him grow, and sent him off into the world. When Jin comes back years later, does Yuriko see him as a grown man or the child she remembers? Answering this question was the cornerstone for everything Yuriko does. For her, Jin is an embodiment of memories. In the story, Jin comes to Yuriko when he remembers that she has the ability to make an important poison needed to fight the Mongols. It’s been quite some time since she made such venom; she has a hard time recalling, but she nonetheless tries. We set off to accomplish an intention and come away with an experience we didn’t expect to have. And that, like a haiku, has the world reflected in it.

 In December of 2019, Daisuke Tsuji posted a trailer of Ghost of Tsushima. I watched the trailer and gasped at the sheer beauty of the game. The score was transfixing. Then, the curtain rose, revealing the orchestra on stage playing live. The camera pulled back further to reveal the audience. When the lights faded on the trailer, the logo for The Game Awards appeared to a round of thunderous applause, hoots and hollers. Whoa…this game is a huge deal! 

 In January of 2020, my work on the game was done. I resumed my life. I had four writing assignments looming. For as long as Sucker Punch had been developing Ghost of Tsushima, I had been writing a play about Akira Kurosawa. I was also writing the book for a musical about Angel Island for Pomona College and Huntington Gardens, and I am still writing an animated feature film for hire.  

And then, of course, Covid-19 happened. Actors suddenly found themselves out of work. The quarantine gave me time to focus and complete my writing assignments. As a matter of fact, in the fall, The Blank Theatre will be doing a workshop of my Kurosawa play, 11 Seconds. And on the acting side of things, because I’ve had a home studio for fourteen years, I have gotten calls to record jobs from home. 

When Ghost of Tsushima launched in July, I received texts from friends and family. One of my brothers has texted me more times because of this game than ever before. I was showered with praise about the game, my character, and her quests.  

Ghost of Tsushima was now the highest rated game, selling 2.4 million copies in the first three days. It was selling out even in Japan! Gamers had been waiting for this game for six years. I didn’t have a PS4 so friends sent me links where I watched walkthroughs. I followed along in amazement while a gamer played one of Yuriko’s quests, entitled The Art of Seeing. I was even privy to his reactions. A surreal experience indeed. 

I’m touched Yuriko’s side quests have reached so many people. I’m also delighted to see how they relate my character; gamers have publicly shared their deepest love for their grandmothers, mothers, and nannies and I think this speaks to the depth of their relationships. In a society that puts its focus on the young and nubile, it’s comforting to know how much they care about their elders. At a time when there are rampant assaults on Asians and Asian Americans, my hope is restored by how much gamers love Yuriko. I’m proud to have contributed to the humanizing of her. Thank you to everyone at Imperium-7, Sucker Punch, and Sony. Thank you to the gamers who immerse themselves in this world. 

I was invited on The Everything Talk Show to talk about my work on the game. I told Paul Kwo I thought my job ended when the game launched. He said that was just the end of the first chapter. My friends and people like my brother think I’ll go to Comic-Con when it comes back. They seem to think gamers might cosplay my character and want my autograph. Apparently I might get invited to go to Japan, maybe an animated series and possibly a film based on the game.  It was a crash course on gaming--what a subculture. It was truly The Art of Seeing.

I don't know the genesis of the game, but it’s fascinating to imagine how Sucker Punch, Nate Fox, Jason Connell, Ian Ryan, and Patrick Downs were all inspired by Kurosawa films. I relearned Twitter so I could find the writers to thank them for realizing this rich and historical world for people to explore. It starts with the writer, who then gets input from the most brilliant and creative minds in every department before it reaches us actors who add our performances to only then go to the animators who implement and bring to life the vision. It is a multi-faceted accomplishment. The fact that it goes through all these channels while everyone is getting notes, making adjustments, considering alternate ideas, negotiating caveats and many other unforeseen obstacles over so many days, weeks, months, and years until the launch and still survives with such an impact on the gaming audience is nothing short of miraculous. Sometimes there are so many revisions on a project, the heart gets written out of it. Audiences watch and wonder why it was ever made. When you know how much an idea has to go through, you appreciate how remarkable it is that something succeeds and resonates the way Ghost of Tsushima does. 

For the Japanese to embrace and sell out the game is confirming. It’s a game based on Japanese history created by Americans. But cultural admiration is not new. Akira Kurosawa loved the American westerns of John Ford and samurai films were his version of them. In turn, Americans were inspired by Seven Samuraiand made The Magnificent Seven and A Bug’s Life. The Last Man Standing was Walter Hill’s Yojimbo, which inspired Italians to make Spaghetti Westerns like A Fistful of Dollars. Even Star Wars was inspired by The Hidden Fortress, right down to R2-D2 and C-3PO.

I’m gobsmacked. I did a voiceover audition and performed a character now revered in the biggest game trending right now. I’m so very proud to be part of it all. If auditions are the job and acting the vacation, this has to be a launch to the Moon. 

Once, reluctantly, I filled in for someone to play mahjong with three gamblers. I got a full house hand and one gambler threw his tiles in. 

“Give me a break! That‘s disgusting! Once again, Karen Huie stumbles into victory!” he said.

And born on that day, was the theme to my quest. 

See you in Ghost of Tsushima!

---

Karen Huie

Karen Huie acts and performs voice overs in theatre, film, television, radio and video games.

Karen Huie was a rebellious, scrappy kid from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She hung out with a gang, ran away from home, dropped out of school several times, was the lead singer of a band, modeled, wrote poetry, and went to HB Studio to study theatre all before moving to LA. She currently acts and performs voice overs in theatre, film, television, radio and videogames. 

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.  

Directors Need to Take More Responsibility for Bad Acting

We’ve all seen what we deem to be bad acting in films and onstage. And while the measurement for good acting can be as subjective as art itself, we can often feel a blatant unbelievability or hollowness in a performance. 

Very often, we criticize the actor individually. Of course we do; that person did not bring what they should have to the table. The job of the actor is literally to effectively communicate the character they are portraying to an audience using their voice, actions, reactions, and their physical instruments. If they fail to authentically communicate a character, they did not properly do their job. Another way to say that is that they did not do their job at all. 

Now, despite common perception, giving a great performance, a believable performance, is not an easy job to do whatsoever. It takes more work and dedication than anyone outside the industry usually understands.  In all honesty, my two years in graduate school studying acting was far more demanding than the previous six years I had studying education on the undergraduate and graduate level combined.  Hands down. No comparison. 

I am an actor. A professional actor (whatever the means – I don’t know at what point one becomes professional as an actor but that’s a different discussion altogether).

I am also a director. I have directed both theatre and film and I believe these combined experiences have provided me with some interesting insights into the mechanics of how things work.

Greg teaching his "Acting like a Teacher" workshop for Education students at Pace University.

One such insight is this: directors need to take more responsibility for the bad acting in their projects. 

To me, it sounds obvious. But rarely do we hear a viewer say, “Wow. That performance was awful. I guess the director couldn’t get that actor to where they needed to be.”

I think we need to be saying this more. And here’s why:

As a director, the buck stops with you. It is your responsibility for everything that happens creatively and artistically. That is why you are hired. This obviously includes performances.  

You hire good actors so they bring the most believable performances. But that doesn’t mean your job is now necessarily a hands-off experience where you can sit back, relax, and watch the magic happen. It is still your vision. Actors must coordinate themselves to your vision. Sometimes this requires a hands-on technique. 

And it is not incidental that I use the word technique. A director who does not speak the actor’s language will find it far more difficult to get an actor where they need to be.  

This brings me to a related point. A director absolutely needs to speak the language of the actor. They need to know technique. Whether it’s Stanislavsky, Meisner, Method, etc., a director should have an approach to infiltrate a lacking performance. They should have an awareness of all of these techniques and dare I say, know what their cast is trained in. That way they can talk the lingo and engage in the process to reach each actor in a constructive manner. 

Bad directors tell actors what to do and what to feel. Good directors guide actors towards their vision of a character. Great directors manipulate actors to think they reached a revelation organically when it was the director the entire time leading them to that desired destination. What makes this director great is simple; they recognize that when actors come up with something themselves, it is far more real to them and thus easier to access and thus more believable. And that’s the name of the game. 

Directors need not be technicians. Every other crewmember on set is an artistic technician of sorts. A director needs to be focused on story, imagery, and performance. The truth of a scene.  Directors hire their crew to specifically take care of the more technical issues so that they need not worry about them. Meetings happen within the months of pre-production so that the crew understands the vision and plans are made to enforce said vision. 

This leaves time for a director to handle the most important aspects of filmmaking while actually shooting– the acting itself.  

As an actor, I found directors who were great at the mechanics of filmmaking but lacked the ability to communicate effectively with actors the worst kind of directors. I found this particularly true, unfortunately, of recent college graduates. It was as if their training program neglected to enroll them in an acting class. All directors should take an acting class. 

Not doing so is self-sabotage as far as I’m concerned. 

Being a director who takes a more hands-on approach with actors can be complicated. There are times when an actor is so prepared you just let that actor do their thing. There are times when you have the opportunity (and hopefully ability) to help them step their game up. But an audience member will never know if it’s a great performance solely because of the actor or because you stepped in and worked your magic. But, in a way, it doesn’t matter. It’s all part of the wizardry.  

Conversely, if a performance is extremely poor and you, the actor, and everyone on the planet knows it, the director needs to share in the blame, for neither the actor nor the director did their job. 

If an actor’s job is to effectively communicate the character they are portraying to an audience as mentioned before, it is one of the many jobs of the director to make sure actors effectively communicate the characters they are portraying to that audience. 

Now, let’s be real. A director has a million-and-one jobs. We are constantly being asked questions about the production. Our heads are pretty much in a whirlwind state the entire time. But that’s the job. 

We are the last line of defense on the day. Everything is ultimately our responsibility – even when it’s out of our control. 

I once directed a play where the set to our production was in a U-Haul truck. A U-Haul truck that was stuck in a snowstorm. We ended up performing opening night with no set, as the truck didn’t arrive until the middle of the performance. Was I driving the truck? Nope. Did I control the weather? Nope. Did I plan correctly leaving hours upon hours for the truck to arrive on time? Yup. The festival had a strict load in schedule and so I couldn’t bring the set to the theatre any earlier than that afternoon.

 Yet I stood in front of my cast and I apologized. It was on me. I was in charge. And we had no set. 

I suppose part of my point is that directors need to be more vocal about accountability. Directors are leaders; sometimes it’s appropriate to take it for the team. To accept that responsibility whether or not you are directly to blame. 

To be fair, however, there are scenarios where a director is truly hogtied. Sometimes a producer forces a director to hire an actor that should not be hired. Sometimes the creative vision between a director and a producer is not aligning – if this happens seriously consider leaving the project, albeit on good terms; producers are putting up the money – it’s their movie too after all – two separate visions never end well. If you need to do it for the money, and it’s no longer about the art, execute the producer’s vision. If this makes you sick to your stomach leave amicably and respectfully due to creative differences. 

It is also worth noting that a bad editor, or bad decisions in the editing room in general, can downgrade an actor’s performance from what that actor provided during filming.

It is a cinematic leap of faith for any actor to let go of their performance and leave it in the hands of others; that, of course, is the collaborative nature of film and a reminder that making a great film is hard. All the pieces, the artistic cogs in the wheel of production, need to be firing on all cylinders. That’s two car references in one sentence. I’ve never felt so masculine. 

There are also times, unfortunately, that the actors you hire, who perhaps you know have the potential to bring it, just don’t. No matter how hard you try you just cannot get them there. Sometimes it is no ones fault; it just doesn’t happen. It’s the reason this article is worded directors need to take more responsibility and not all. Sometimes the blame is shared and that’s okay. 

But how does one avoid such a fate?

In theatre, it is obviously common practice that we rehearse for months before opening. In film, we often come to set as actors and get our lines re-written while in the makeup chair. 

That is why it is imperative, as directors, that we hold rehearsals for cinematic performances as well. This doesn’t necessarily have to be as formal and traditional as a theatrical rehearsal. Read-throughs are great but they’re not really rehearsals. Get in a space, act it out, allow actors to have a playground to experiment because once on set such exploration is limited. Call your actors on the phone – have deep discussions about their characters and their objectives, conflicts, and actions. Make sure they build a backstory and know their character inside out. Improvise scenarios. Discuss tactics and motivations. Direct them.  Rehearsing for a film should be more about an actor truly knowing their character (meaning the director has to truly know each character as well) than the specific lines that might very well change soon. This allows an actor to have a seamless transition when minor changes are made with the script. 

 Your project will flourish as a result. I promise. 

I believe this change in outlook and practice will have two effects on our industry. The obvious one being an increase in the quality of acting. The other being, I postulate, an increase in the quantity of good actors. Right now, perhaps on a subconscious level, many great actors are great because they have developed a specific skill: they can take a director’s vague and unhelpful comment and justify it. These actors understand what the director is trying to say, what the director really should be saying, and they step back, search within, do the required work, come back out and present exactly what the director sought. 

 Actors who are unable to do this often give performances that could have been better as they never truly grasped what the hazy and esoteric comments the director made meant. One such way a dedicated actor combats this is by hiring an acting coach, an interceder that has the skillset to understand what needs to be done and can translate a director’s desires for you in a way that is better understood; in other words, the coach speaks the actor’s language. 

But the reality is many actors on the verge of greatness, whose career or lack thereof is teeter tottering, can’t afford an acting coach to be on set with them constantly. And they shouldn’t have to.   

What happens to many of these actors? They never make it. Their talents are categorized as sub-par, sometimes they are deemed difficult to work with because they ask so many questions to better understand. To me, this is a tragedy. A waste of artistic talent. 

It is often said that great actors can take a script and upgrade it one letter grade by giving a believable performance. So they take a C script and make it seem like a B script. 

Russell Crowe famously told screenwriter William Nicholson on the set of Gladiator,

"Your lines are garbage, but I'm the greatest actor in the world, and I can make even garbage sound good".

Harsh much?

This idea also works conversely, although perhaps with a more steep decline – bad acting can take an A script all the way down to, well, an F. 

I think something akin can happen between directors and actors. A great director should be able to take a B actor and raise their game one letter to an A performance. And of course, this too works conversely as bad direction can and will lower the grade of a performance. 

Let’s work on raising the grades. 

By taking on more responsibility for bad acting, directors will be, by nature, more inclined to push and push the boundaries of a performance. They will be more than auteurs. They will be creative educators that help usher in the next great generation of actors and portrayals.  

I think it a worthwhile endeavor. 

Onwards and Upwards, Always - G