Acting in Film

concentrate on his own bits, rather than be thrown by a less-than-perfect performance. And, in truth, few actors are as good off-camera as on; often they even fluff their lines. Don't be one of those.

    ALFIE
    Directed by Lewis Gilbert. Paramount, 1966.
    Pictured wirb Shelley Win ten.
Physical Continuity
    There is, of course, the continuity person who notes every movement, gesture, and detail of costume that occurs in the master shot, so that all of it can be duplicated in succeeding shots. But it's part of a film actor's job not to confuse the issue. I've already said how important it is to not invent fiddly business that makes it tougher on everybody, and that definitely includes smoking. Never smoke in a long shot. When the time comes for the close-up, where did you take that puff? When did you change hands? How long was the ash? Start getting complicated during the master, and the whole scene may go out the window when they come to the close-up. Time and time again you'll hear some actor who is desperate to be creative say, "I'll undo my buttons while he's talking and then I'll do this and then I'll do that." And when it's time for the close-up, the director will say, "Where exactly do you do that?" And the actor will have to say, "I don't know." Then the master will have to be shot again, and the actor will have wasted precious time and money and will definitely have reduced his chances of further employment.

Emotional Continuity
    In addition to being aware of visual continuity, the truly professional film actor has to be aware of emotional continuity. In the theatre, a play flows along in sequence, allowing each actor to feel the emotional build and creating the company's sense of the whole. In the cinema the end result may be more realistic, but the process is definitely more artificial. Films are rarely shot in sequence. They are shot in sequence whenever possible, but economics has a way of interfering with that scheme. If the whole unit is on an expensive location, all the location scenes will be shot first, no matter when they come in the script; it's just cheaper that way. If the last scene in a picture takes place outside, you can count on the fact that it will get shot first and then you will move to the studio to shoot all the scenes leading up to it. You might shoot the master in the morning, then rush out in the afternoon to shoot another scene because suddenly the sun came out. Then you have to come back some other time and continue with the morning scene, then perhaps do the medium shot and close-up a week later. The director will tell you what he wants in the close-up because that's his job. But it's your job to remember the emotional nature of the master in complete detail. This requires great concentration; you have to summon up a sense memory of the scene in wide shot. If you prepared properly in the first place-that is, married your voice and movement by moving backward while saying your line, then forward to hit the mark-it's all there in your memory, waiting to be summoned. All that initial work is worthwhile because in the close-up, you not only have to repeat what you did in the master, you've got to do it a lot better.

    DRESSED TO KILL
    Directed by Brian de Palma. Filmways, 1980.

    If during the studio scenes, there is a fight sequence and you do it brilliantly but rip your coat, continuity says, "We've got to do the fight again because you don't have a ripped coat in the scene we've already shot." You even worry about cutting your face shaving. For six weeks you can't sit in the sun on your day off because your skin color will change-no sun for you because they're wandering about with Polaroids, comparing you with the previous scene. So you sit still and try not to change.
    People say, "Isn't it boring just sitting there for hours?" Well, I don't just sit there for hours; I sit there for hours thinking about what I need to do next.
     

THE ART OF SPONTANEITY
    Movie acting is a delicate blend of careful preparation and spontaneity. The art of new-minting thoughts and dialogue comes from listening and reacting as if for the first time. When I was very young and in repertory theatre, I was given some advice by a clever director. He said:

    "What are you doing in that scene, Michael?"
    "Nothing," I said. "I haven't got anything to say."
    "That," said the director, "is a very big mistake. Of course, you have something to say. You've got wonderful things to say. But you sit there and