By Tamara Yeshurun, Staff Writer
The first artistic skill that we develop in life is the ability to act. Before we could even speak, we were already mimicking our parents at the wheel, clutching a baby doll to our chest, toddling in superhero gear, cooing and babbling a world of characters into existence. The further into childhood you got, the more seasoned an actor you became. While you played house or airplane or evil-dentist-with-magic-powers in the schoolyard, your collection of roles, castmates, techniques, stunts and plot devices grew. Yes, you are an actor.
But there are a million differences between playing pretend and acting – for one, the audience, or lack thereof. That is what makes acting so daunting, and pretending so liberating. Second of all, acting is, well, an act. “Pertend” (yes, that is the official pronunciation), on the other hand, is a product of your own imagination. You say things as if you truly feel them because, at some level, you do feel that way. In addition, the lack of predictability in make-believe allows reactions to be genuine, whereas on the stage – ideally – you know exactly what everybody will do and say next.
Then surely, acting for the stage and playing pretend are near opposites. What could drain the spontaneous creativity of make-believe more than treating a story like a well-oiled machine? Is there anything further from using your imagination than donning the speech, clothing, mannerisms and motivations of a character invented by somebody else? Not only that, but doing so while acutely aware of the orchestrations of a director whom you half-hope the audience will forget exists?
Fair as these points are, I would like to offer an alternate perspective. As a long-time musical theatre performer and current actor with the Stern College Dramatics Society (SCDS), I have had many opportunities to reflect on what it means to act. Of course, there are many different approaches to acting, but I will share with you what my own experience and tools have taught me.
What is “acting,” exactly? Imitating somebody realistically enough to provoke an emotional response from the viewer, but fictionally enough that they don’t actually think that any of it is real? How can one possibly cultivate a skill which seems to rely so heavily on outside perception?
The above depiction suggests that acting is like wearing an old Purim costume that you did not design. It is several sizes too big, not your style in the least and probably smells funny from being worn by dozens before you. You examine it with a mix of fascination and faint revulsion, and tut at the small holes here and there. Putting it on, you rush to see your reflection, assuring yourself that it will only be for a few hours, and never for a moment believing that it is anyone but yourself looking back at you.
But the best actors, in my experience, rarely focus on how they appear to others. Instead, they generate a genuine internal experience. It is not an exercise of, “How would I feel if that happened to me?” But rather, “My character is feeling this way; I will be their vessel.”
In last year’s SCDS show, The Anastasia Trials in the Court of Women, I truly felt crazed, hardened and defensive. This year in The Man Who Came to Dinner, my heart rose with panic as my hopes wilted. I recall those feelings as if they were my own. If this sounds cliche, blame my inner theater kid. But I find it to be true of every role that I have played – whether reenacting “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” with my sister on Shabbat afternoons (hypothetically), or as Scar in my high school’s performance of The Lion King, or in the shows I have been privileged to perform in with SCDS. The emotions weren’t a mask I put on. Perfect memorization did not free up my mind to entertain my “real” preoccupations or my “actual” feelings while on stage. During my scenes those things simply faded away.
This is why acting is fundamentally akin to “pertend.” As much as the plot, the words on the page and the vision of the director mold the performance, it is your imagination and your decisions that bring the role to life. Your character is something internal that you draw out into the light through conscious choices. You select their posture, accent, tics, backstory, fears, thoughts, facial reactions and way of filling a space. For me, the point of entry is the voice; for a friend of mine it is body language. By the time you step into your role, your mind should be populated with your character’s concerns, motivations, attachments, doubts and perhaps even their memories. This is how a line can retain its freshness even after eighty-seven days. It starts with memorization, then you activate what is latent in the words.
Your role is not pre-wrapped, dictated to you or clumsily velcroed on. Let me prove it to you. Before every rehearsal, Leah Gottfried, the director of the annual SCDS production, leads the cast in a simple exercise. She has us walk around the room, unfettered, wordless, free. Then she asks us, “Does your character walk fast or slow?” We consider, and duly adjust our paces. “Do they walk directly or indirectly?” We heighten or lessen our intentionality. “Do they walk heavily or lightly? Do they have any other quirks?” Someone puts a bounce in their step, another shuffles meekly to the left. Slowly but surely, we add layers to our stride.
By the end of the exercise the cast is not walking around the room; the characters are. Then, we are ready to begin.
Photo Caption: Aliza Billet (SCW ‘26, left) and Yeshurun (SCW ‘26) performing in SCDS’s production of “The Man Who Came to Dinner.”
Photo Credit: Yeshiva University