believe we should do just what the director tells us, or do you think we should insist that we play a part the way we feel inside? Weâve never talked about that as much as Iâd like to. Would you tell me what you think?
There is a problem with being in Anna: one of the producers seems to have taken a fancy to meâwhat an old-fashioned phrase!âand now he haunts the theater, wandering around backstage like a little boy set down in a strange neighborhood, pretending to ârun intoâ me, then saying, âWell, now that weâve run into each other, why donât we have dinner?â And he comes across too hearty, too anxious, when what heâs obviously trying for is a bon vivantâ casual, debonair, irresistible. Thereâs nothing really wrong with him, in fact I think heâs probably very nice, but Iâm in Anna Christie ! In New York! How can I think about anything else? Iâm so nervous I just want to be left alone. He says Iâd be better off with a companion to relax with. I suppose he could be right, but he seems so absolutely sure that it makes me suspicious. A lot of people around here are like that, always saying things like âYouâve got to do thisâ or âI will not read that lineâ or âI have the perfect person for thatâ or âI will absolutely not tolerate this lightingâ or . . . oh, you know; youâve heard it all. Wouldnât it be novel if someone, just once, said, âWell now, that seems like a prodigiously stupid idea but weâre here to experiment and learn, so why donât we give it a try?â Everyone would probably be stunned into a very uncharacteristic silence, but it certainly would lighten the atmosphere.
Luke chuckled. He read the last line again, smiling, and then it occurred to him that it was as if Jessica had been with him all day, her lively young voice cutting through sham and histrionics, sweeping away melodrama, sharing her observations with him when they were alone. He looked up from her letter and gazed across the room at a Picasso print of a dancing woman. He remembered Jessica Fontaineâs voice from the times when he had seen her on stage: a magical voice, musical and rich, with a lilt that was like the faintest trace of a foreign accent. He imagined hearing her now, her freshness and honesty, the rill of laughter that ran beneath her words, the unexpected phrases that sparked her sentences. He liked her companionship; he liked hearing her comments at the end of his day.
His fatigue had vanished. It was late, but he felt fine. Plenty of time for a few more, he thought, and, reaching into the box he pulled out a handful of letters and settled back to read.
CHAPTER 5
Jessica Fontaine in Anna Christie mesmerized an opening night audience at the Helen Hayes Theatre last night as has no one else since Constance Bernhardt played Anna almost forty years ago.
The newspaper clipping had fallen out of the letter and Luke read it first.
It is rare that an actor totally inhabits the space of a character: a past history, hints of a future, quirks and eccentricities, mannerisms, a way of moving across the stage as if it is the whole world. Great actors do this without intellectualizing it; they get âout of their head,â if you will, and into that mysterious well of the instinct that draws on some kind of inner magic and on a lifetime of experience. Jessica Fontaine is too young to have a lot of experienceâshe turned twenty-five a week before Anna Christie openedâand she is still untried in many roles, but she has that inner magic and she is wondrous to watch. I predict weâll be watching her a lot, from now on.
Dearest Constance, how wonderful you were to call last nightâopening night! I felt you beside me while I waited to go on; I was so scared I was shaking and my legs felt heavy and rubbery but I started saying over and over what youâd said on
There is a problem with being in Anna: one of the producers seems to have taken a fancy to meâwhat an old-fashioned phrase!âand now he haunts the theater, wandering around backstage like a little boy set down in a strange neighborhood, pretending to ârun intoâ me, then saying, âWell, now that weâve run into each other, why donât we have dinner?â And he comes across too hearty, too anxious, when what heâs obviously trying for is a bon vivantâ casual, debonair, irresistible. Thereâs nothing really wrong with him, in fact I think heâs probably very nice, but Iâm in Anna Christie ! In New York! How can I think about anything else? Iâm so nervous I just want to be left alone. He says Iâd be better off with a companion to relax with. I suppose he could be right, but he seems so absolutely sure that it makes me suspicious. A lot of people around here are like that, always saying things like âYouâve got to do thisâ or âI will not read that lineâ or âI have the perfect person for thatâ or âI will absolutely not tolerate this lightingâ or . . . oh, you know; youâve heard it all. Wouldnât it be novel if someone, just once, said, âWell now, that seems like a prodigiously stupid idea but weâre here to experiment and learn, so why donât we give it a try?â Everyone would probably be stunned into a very uncharacteristic silence, but it certainly would lighten the atmosphere.
Luke chuckled. He read the last line again, smiling, and then it occurred to him that it was as if Jessica had been with him all day, her lively young voice cutting through sham and histrionics, sweeping away melodrama, sharing her observations with him when they were alone. He looked up from her letter and gazed across the room at a Picasso print of a dancing woman. He remembered Jessica Fontaineâs voice from the times when he had seen her on stage: a magical voice, musical and rich, with a lilt that was like the faintest trace of a foreign accent. He imagined hearing her now, her freshness and honesty, the rill of laughter that ran beneath her words, the unexpected phrases that sparked her sentences. He liked her companionship; he liked hearing her comments at the end of his day.
His fatigue had vanished. It was late, but he felt fine. Plenty of time for a few more, he thought, and, reaching into the box he pulled out a handful of letters and settled back to read.
CHAPTER 5
Jessica Fontaine in Anna Christie mesmerized an opening night audience at the Helen Hayes Theatre last night as has no one else since Constance Bernhardt played Anna almost forty years ago.
The newspaper clipping had fallen out of the letter and Luke read it first.
It is rare that an actor totally inhabits the space of a character: a past history, hints of a future, quirks and eccentricities, mannerisms, a way of moving across the stage as if it is the whole world. Great actors do this without intellectualizing it; they get âout of their head,â if you will, and into that mysterious well of the instinct that draws on some kind of inner magic and on a lifetime of experience. Jessica Fontaine is too young to have a lot of experienceâshe turned twenty-five a week before Anna Christie openedâand she is still untried in many roles, but she has that inner magic and she is wondrous to watch. I predict weâll be watching her a lot, from now on.
Dearest Constance, how wonderful you were to call last nightâopening night! I felt you beside me while I waited to go on; I was so scared I was shaking and my legs felt heavy and rubbery but I started saying over and over what youâd said on
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