Read an Excerpt

Speaking Shakespeare

St. Martin's Press

Foundation Craft

At the Guildhall School of Music and Drama I don't teach my students Shakespeare until their second year. The reason is pragmatic: until the body, breath, support, voice and speech muscles are thoroughly worked and tuned it is extremely hard to realise and release such physical and sensual texts.

First year work on language sensitises the students to structure, rhythm, imagery and poetry. Language must be important to them – a powerful tool. This means they have to explore how they use language and how language affects them. Many of them have to rediscover the potential of language to make concrete and transform inner and outer worlds. Within a year of language-based exercises they begin to understand how powerful and poetic their own language can be. They realise what an armoury they have at their disposal.

In the first year they learn to memorise accurately and effortlessly so that the momentum and precision of great texts is honoured. There is no substitute for learning texts fully and completely. My students learn passages from complex texts every week. They learn mediaeval, Elizabethan, Metaphysical, eighteenth-century and Romantic texts: they touch base with Chaucer, Spencer, Donne, Milton and Pope. The important part of this training is to learn accurately and to practise regularly. I want them to feel the language – the words, thought structures and images – flowing in their bloodstreams, a familiar part of them rather than something baffling, strange or difficult.

This grounding in language is particularly important for Shakespeare. The passionate exchange of ideas and feeling through words has always been the blood and oxygen of English-speaking theatre, a theatre built on heightened poetic text. In this Shakespeare is the master. His plays are highly structured works in which the forms support and the words release the action. The language is active and intense: here the action is in the word – not merely described by it, not behind it or under it. The words create the world of the play through the articulation of sound, rhythm, structure and sense. As they are spoken, they bring the world into being. They must be spoken before they can be acted.

Speaking Shakespeare requires more than simply memorising texts. It needs a profound understanding of language and how it works. Actors have to engage fully with language before it can engage an audience. They must be able to connect to, experience and imagine the words concretely. They need to understand and internalise the physical operation of certain structures in rhythm and form, and work to realise them. The language must penetrate them, filling them with its power. The production and release of the word has to be so ingrained in their bodies, voices and imaginations that they can access the play, the character, the thoughts and the story without effort. Think of an actor as a swan that is crossing a river. The webbed feet are working away underneath the waterline whilst the grace of the bird appears above it. But to do this the actor needs to prepare body, voice and speech muscles – to acquire highly developed speaking skills; skills in body work, voice production and articulation; skills that enhance the text, not block it.

These are the areas this book will explore and develop.

Much of the work is basic and to older actors – those over forty – may be so obvious as to seem patronising. But it is necessary because so many younger actors believe loose concepts or generalised emotions are enough to guide them through Shakespeare. They have no sense that the heart of the plays lies in the concrete detail of the language. They don't know – and too often don't appear to care – what an iambic pentameter is, or the difference between a verse line and a thought contained within the verse.

For actors who lack basic training such as this, any proper realisation of the plays is problematic – and this is ironic, for not only does Shakespeare write powerful and beautiful plays, but his forms are actor-friendly. It could be said that in the end, if you trust him, he is easier to speak than a screenplay. As you learn to decipher the text, you quickly discover that he is on your side. He's a great support, not a hindrance.

You will get accustomed to me using the phrases 'the evidence of the text' and 'the givens'. The evidence of a text is what there is in the text – acting and character clues. The givens are the physical forms you cannot ignore, such as the breaking of a rhythm, the line length, the thought structure, the words themselves. The givens are as indispensable as learning the text accurately. They must be acknowledged even if you choose later to deny them. There is nothing wrong with actors breaking rules – provided they know the rules exist.

I will also be using the word 'rule'. Academic rules can block creative spontaneity but these acting rules will harness energy, focus mind and heart, and finally transform the actor. They are like a safety harness that enables you to climb the mountain or a map that guides you. As children listening to stories we are reassured by certain formulas. We know that 'Once upon a time' will eventually be followed by 'And they all lived happily ever after'. Between those two phrases, the most direful adventures can occur, but because the story is framed by a familiar structure we can experience horrors in the knowledge that all will eventually be well. The same applies to rhythm, form and rhyme. They are all tools that help us go deeper into a story, and guide us through it.

Structure helps define and release specific emotions. Theatrical structure is physical and as you allow the different physical structures of any of Shakespeare's plays to enter you, you will find yourself changing and transforming.

It's also true that all the basic rules I describe are broken by Shakespeare. As you learn to detect these broken rules you will see he is sending you acting notes. Look, he is saying – fragmentation is dramatic. See what happens when a line breaks half way through, or the rhythm starts to falter. It snags attention – it's like a broken heartbeat or even a broken heart. So too a shift from prose to verse, or vice versa, is dramatic, the equivalent of moving from dialogue to song in a musical or from jazz into Bach.

In all great plays the structures of the language reveal the meaning within the work. These structures are in fact organic to human communication – they have evolved from the human need to communicate in different ways: for efficiency, refinement, wit, a sense of fun. And the more we need to communicate with others, the more the form focuses us. In this way form equals content.

Characters in Shakespeare think and speak in structured thoughts. They care about speaking and it is important for them to express ideas well. In acting them you will have to think and respond very rapidly. You will speak, think and feel on the word, the thought, the line, not – as most real-life speakers do – ponder and then speak or speak and then ponder. Your existence is in the moment and on the word and thought. It fires through your mouth and is made real through the word. As you speak you will need your emotions to change as the music does. Characters in Shakespeare never get emotionally stuck, like needles on vinyl records. On the contrary, Shakespeare requires you actively to transform your emotions as you speak.

Great poetic language is only in part to do with intellect. Not for nothing do we have to learn the speeches 'by heart'. They should occupy your whole being, body and breath. You will need to feel and completely respond to the heartbeat that drives them: the iambic pentameter. This fundamental Shakespearean verse rhythm returns the energy of speaking so that if you follow it you will never fall off a word or a line, never sound uninterested or disengaged. It is a rhythm of verse and speech that requires you to be vital and energised.

In order to speak Shakespeare you will need passion, energy and courage. You will need oxygen – to fuel and sustain the long thoughts and powerful emotions without suffocating yourself or the plays in the attempt to speak them. The ability to pursue long and structured thought patterns should appear effortless. You should feel that athletic thinking and passionate discussion are a part of your world; that the progression of ideas chasing solutions is a vital part of your existence.

Vivid and metaphorical language should be made concrete and your own. You must experience every image as you speak it. Your own poetic awareness must be released and married to Shakespeare's. This will need real energy supported by the breath so that as you enter the heightened world of need, passion and insight you don't resort to pushing, shouting, generalising or denying the energy of the form and the word.

If language has entered the bloodstream, it can be readily accessed rather than hauled up into the actor's mouth or skidded over as though it is meaningless. The word is the character's way out – body, heart and mind meet in the word. Don't travel lightly over the text, or play it naturalistically. Actors who think the words are irrelevant have few options in playing Shakespeare. They trowel emotion like a varnish over the text, break it up into digestible fragments that make nonsense of the whole, or play it so naturalistically that the audience can't hear it.

You will need to be able to speak clearly and efficiently – the speech muscles have to respond to highly defined and defining language. Clarity will always be essential. Every syllable, vowel and consonant should be in your mouth, not half there or forgotten. Hardly a single character in Shakespeare mumbles. You will need a clear, uncluttered, open, flexible and expressive voice to serve these texts. The movement of the voice that is called range is merely the physical manifestation of passion in either feeling or thought. A dull, restricted voice is unreal in terms of feeling. The more passionate the idea or excited the feeling, the more flexible your voice should be.

I once worked in an acting studio in America where a huge poster on the wall proclaimed: 'The word comes last'. The opposite is true in Shakespeare – in him the word is the beginning and end. The voice serves the word and the word serves the voice. Both should be in place before you enter a rehearsal room.

The Craft

If the preparation has been thorough, work on the text will not be obstructed by the actor worrying about his or her breath, voice or speech muscles. Technically weak actors preoccupy the audience with the question 'will they make it?' The focus of any performance should be on the word, the story and the play, not whether or not an actor will make it through. Thorough preparatory technical work frees both actor and audience, and gives one the right to speak Shakespeare and the other the chance to hear it.

In the past, this kind of knowledge was part of the actor's basic repertoire. Today, it's a craft neglected in most training establishments. In repertory companies it used to be learned by osmosis, passed on by older actors to younger ones, honed by constant practice and repetition. Nowadays, by contrast, even very celebrated actors enter Shakespeare blind and craftless. Even if they understand the rules and forms of the writing, they have often not practised them enough for the work to become unconscious and available without struggle.

Take this exchange, for instance:

Me: If you can stand up straight when you address the audience and not shuffle, you will have more authority as Romeo and look less modern.

Actor: I know – my teacher at school told me that, but I can't do it and act.

This is a case where the work has not been sufficiently embedded in the body. Repetition is needed to filter the head knowledge into the whole being. The teacher probably didn't have the hours needed to transform the actor. A good four-year stint in rep would equally solve the problem. Doing the work would free the actor.

Or another example:

Me: You are pulling off the iambic rhythm, so the sense is being blocked.

Actor: I'm always getting that note. I can only act in my rhythm.

Again, the actor has not spent enough time living in the iambic pentameter. It feels alien. It's nothing that work couldn't rectify.

The fact is that there are no short cuts in this work. Craft takes time and diligence. It's like the practice an athlete does to perfect a move and develop muscle memory: application, precision and repetition are required. Acting is more complex than a sport – it involves the complete engagement of a human being.

The work has to be done on a daily basis until eventually it becomes so internalised as to be virtually unconscious. This might mean you have to spend hours practising on your own in order to catch up with those actors who can access their voice and language with ease. You don't want to be one of those actors who drag a scene down and stop the emotional flow of the others because they can't speak or think accurately or quickly enough. Such 'back-footed' actors halt the energetic thrust of a scene. They can kill the performances of others and destroy scenes they might only have one line in. What they are doing is pretending to play Shakespeare; they are not actually doing it.

Of course, working alone is hard. Actors are social animals who often find working alone depressing and difficult. Musicians, by contrast, are used to working on their technique in isolation. They establish a daily routine of practice – which is exactly what the actor needs. It requires real discipline, but it is worth it. The sooner you do the work, the freer you will be. Talent is a commodity that needs focus through craft. No amount of talent will help you speak clearly if your speech muscles have not been worked and trained.

I once worked with a screen actress who was returning to the stage after a long break. She had to fill a theatre, and she said to me she thought it was all to do with intention. 'No,' I replied. 'I might have the intention of being a pole vaulter. I might see myself flying over that pole – but I couldn't do it unless I'd worked certain muscles.' Intention may be the start and even the end of the process, but in the middle there is work!

Communication

Many of our habits today are about non-communication. Perhaps we don't trust what we say or believe that others are listening. We're often frightened of committing to any powerful idea or passionate feeling. Our communication grows indirect, surrounded by an aura of studied casualness; we hesitate and mumble; we rely more and more on glibness, cynicism or denial.

This is not the energy at the heart of Shakespeare's world.

The world Shakespeare creates is full of inquisitive speakers and attentive listeners. His characters use their language to connect to the world, not to hide from it. They use it to survive, to probe, to explore, to quest. They are not afraid of profound expression. If they mock, it is direct and to the point, not under their breath. His is a world where everything appears new and interesting; where people enjoy speaking; where passion is attractive as opposed to faintly absurd. His characters' ears are twitching; their eyes are wide open, not glazed. It is in their best interests to be alert. They have to listen very carefully if they are to negotiate and survive the scenarios he puts them in.

In preparation for this whole directness in Shakespeare I encourage my students to own what they think and say. So, 'I'm quite scared' or 'I'm quite shocked' has to be shifted into 'I am scared' or 'I am shocked'. Equally, 'I feel, like, sad' and 'I feel, like, happy' will be more connected and direct when the 'like' is dropped.

It's important to understand that social habits of verbal, emotional and intellectual imprecision have real technical consequences for the actor today. On the most basic level, non-communication and inattention lead to underdeveloped muscles of voice and speech, flabby thinking and passion crusted over with rust. They lead to mumbled sentences and swallowed words, to inaudibility and the destruction of the iambic. They're matched by a physical coolness or shuffling: a completely unreal stance for anyone trying to engage with real curiosity and feeling. They're compensated for by a forced intensity where the actor whispers and hold the word inside, bottling and constipating the language – or alternatively by shouting in the attempt to manufacture passion.

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Excerpted from Speaking Shakespeare by Patsy Rodenburg. Copyright © 2002 Patsy Rodenburg. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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