items on the list relevant to acting are ‘fear of failure,’ ‘fear of rejection,’ ‘fear of commitment,’ and ‘fear of intimacy.’”
“Coincidentally,” Jack says, “they are all the exact reasons Holt doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Holt shoots him a glare. “Running into a burning building takes a hell of a lot more courage than getting rejected or being intimate.”
Erika looks at him like a spider studying a fly. “More courage, you say?”
He nods, not realizing he’s about to get eaten.
“I think it’s more accurate to say that it’s a different type of courage, and that the choices you make decide the depth of that courage.”
Holt doesn’t look convinced. Erika studies him again. “Hmmmm.”
He rolls his eyes. He hates that contemplative sound.
Erika walks to the front of the room and writes words on the whiteboard.
“Mr. Holt?” she says and gestures for him to stand next to her. He unfolds himself from his seat and does as she asks.
“Could you kindly read the two words on the board?”
“‘I’m sorry.’”
“Okay,” says Erika. “I’m the playwright. Those are my words. What’s my intention?”
Holt shrugs. “You tell me.”
“No, Mr. Holt, that’s not my job. As a playwright, it’s my job to give you words. As an actor, it’s your job to interpret them. So…”
She gestures at him to repeat his line reading.
He puts his hand to his ear and pretends he didn’t hear her. “‘I’m sorry?’”
She nods. “See? You made a choice. A very safe, boring choice, but a choice nonetheless.”
“But it’s not always up to the actor to make the choice,” he argues.
“True,” Erika says. “Directors often push actors to make bolder, riskier choices, so let’s explore that.” She walks to the other side of him and crosses her arms. “This time I want you to say it like you’re speaking to someone important to you. A family member or lover.”
A dark shadow passes over Holt’s face. “What am I supposed to be apologizing for?”
“You tell me,” Erika says with a smile.
He exhales and rubs his hand over his face. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“No, that’s not how it works. Your job is to create something—an idea, an emotion—within the parameters I give you. The parameters are those two words being said to someone who means something to you. You have your instructions. What are you going to do with them?”
He looks around the room, restless and uncomfortable.
“Mr. Holt?”
“I’m thinking,” he snaps.
“About what?”
“Who I’m apologizing to.”
“Who’s it going to be?”
He glances at me briefly before saying, “A friend.”
“And what are you apologizing for?”
He stops fidgeting. “Why do you have to know that? Does it matter?”
She shakes her head and gestures for him to begin. “Not at all. Whenever you’re ready.”
He closes his eyes and draws in a huge lungful of air before releasing it in a long, steady exhale. There’s a sense of expectation in the room.
When he opens his eyes, he picks a point at the back of the room and focuses on it. His face changes. It’s softer. Contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but it’s still not sincere.
“Not good enough,” Erika says. “Try again.”
He stays focused on the same point as his face twitches.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, but he’s resisting the emotion.
“Dig deeper, Mr. Holt,” Erika urges. “You’re capable of more. Give it to me.”
He blinks and shakes his head, and his eyes are getting glassier by the second. “I’m sorry!”
His voice is getting louder, but he’s still protecting himself. Spark without flame.
“That’s not enough, Ethan!” Erika says, her voice rising with his. “Stop fighting the emotion. Let us see it. All of it. No matter how messy it is.”
He swallows and clenches his jaw. His hands curl into fists as he moves from one foot to the other.
He stays silent.
“Mr. Holt?”
He
“Coincidentally,” Jack says, “they are all the exact reasons Holt doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Holt shoots him a glare. “Running into a burning building takes a hell of a lot more courage than getting rejected or being intimate.”
Erika looks at him like a spider studying a fly. “More courage, you say?”
He nods, not realizing he’s about to get eaten.
“I think it’s more accurate to say that it’s a different type of courage, and that the choices you make decide the depth of that courage.”
Holt doesn’t look convinced. Erika studies him again. “Hmmmm.”
He rolls his eyes. He hates that contemplative sound.
Erika walks to the front of the room and writes words on the whiteboard.
“Mr. Holt?” she says and gestures for him to stand next to her. He unfolds himself from his seat and does as she asks.
“Could you kindly read the two words on the board?”
“‘I’m sorry.’”
“Okay,” says Erika. “I’m the playwright. Those are my words. What’s my intention?”
Holt shrugs. “You tell me.”
“No, Mr. Holt, that’s not my job. As a playwright, it’s my job to give you words. As an actor, it’s your job to interpret them. So…”
She gestures at him to repeat his line reading.
He puts his hand to his ear and pretends he didn’t hear her. “‘I’m sorry?’”
She nods. “See? You made a choice. A very safe, boring choice, but a choice nonetheless.”
“But it’s not always up to the actor to make the choice,” he argues.
“True,” Erika says. “Directors often push actors to make bolder, riskier choices, so let’s explore that.” She walks to the other side of him and crosses her arms. “This time I want you to say it like you’re speaking to someone important to you. A family member or lover.”
A dark shadow passes over Holt’s face. “What am I supposed to be apologizing for?”
“You tell me,” Erika says with a smile.
He exhales and rubs his hand over his face. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“No, that’s not how it works. Your job is to create something—an idea, an emotion—within the parameters I give you. The parameters are those two words being said to someone who means something to you. You have your instructions. What are you going to do with them?”
He looks around the room, restless and uncomfortable.
“Mr. Holt?”
“I’m thinking,” he snaps.
“About what?”
“Who I’m apologizing to.”
“Who’s it going to be?”
He glances at me briefly before saying, “A friend.”
“And what are you apologizing for?”
He stops fidgeting. “Why do you have to know that? Does it matter?”
She shakes her head and gestures for him to begin. “Not at all. Whenever you’re ready.”
He closes his eyes and draws in a huge lungful of air before releasing it in a long, steady exhale. There’s a sense of expectation in the room.
When he opens his eyes, he picks a point at the back of the room and focuses on it. His face changes. It’s softer. Contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but it’s still not sincere.
“Not good enough,” Erika says. “Try again.”
He stays focused on the same point as his face twitches.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, but he’s resisting the emotion.
“Dig deeper, Mr. Holt,” Erika urges. “You’re capable of more. Give it to me.”
He blinks and shakes his head, and his eyes are getting glassier by the second. “I’m sorry!”
His voice is getting louder, but he’s still protecting himself. Spark without flame.
“That’s not enough, Ethan!” Erika says, her voice rising with his. “Stop fighting the emotion. Let us see it. All of it. No matter how messy it is.”
He swallows and clenches his jaw. His hands curl into fists as he moves from one foot to the other.
He stays silent.
“Mr. Holt?”
He
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