Let's get something out of the way quickly. During silent moments on stage no actor‹at least among the three we talked with‹is fantasizing about his next meal or what bills have to be paid. In fact, our interviewees all agreed that filling silence‹justifying it‹is the most demanding acting there is. And it doesn't matter if we're talking about absurdist theatre, naturalism, or clowning.
Obviously, the genre will define the quality of silence‹from what it means to its rhythms. And then there are the character's motivations: where he's been, what he wants, and where he's going. Personality and persona play shaping roles too. No doubt, onstage, silence is tricky business.
Perhaps nowhere more so than in absurdist theatre. For starters, it has an entire set of conventions outside of realism. Yet within those stylistic parameters plausibility must be maintained. Consider Beckett's short solo piece "Krapp's Last Tape," that ran at the Irish Repertory Theatre until last Sunday. The dark, at moments sardonic, work details the mental-emotional disintegration of a man on his 69th birthday as he prepares to make his birthday tape‹it's an unhappy yearly ritual‹and replays former birthday tapes. Throughout the exercise‹which sees Krapp move from a string of compulsive activities to utter despair‹he (in this case Jerry Finnegan) comes to terms, or perhaps doesn't come to terms, with the total failure of his life. During much of the 50 minutes the actor is listening and responding without words.
"A lot of the silence is delineated by Beckett's stage directions," says Finnegan. "As a writer Beckett does not address questions of psychology. Instead he sees himself as a kind of conductor. So if the actor follows his instructions in the script, literally repeats what Beckett has written‹it's all laid out mechanically‹the actor will fill those silences. It's like a piece of music where tempo defines feeling. In the same way, the tempo helps create motivation."
Silence, of course, has a distinct meaning for Beckett in this work‹"the absence of anything and encroaching death," adds Finnegan. And while Krapp can't be knowledgeable about what it all means, the actor has to hint at that sense of terror, without spelling it out in realistic terms or, for that matter, leaning on the absurdity of it. It's a delicate balancing act, notes Finnegan.
"Silences are the icy fingers. And on some level Krapp has intimations of his own ending. For Beckett, silence puts a parenthesis around the spoken word and creates that anxiety and rhythm, which in turn feeds the emotion."
Still, Finnegan tries to find the underlying impetus for each moment, or at least section, of the work. "In the beginning Krapp is staring off into space, thinking about his childhood. Then he realizes it's time to make his tape. He goes through a series of obsessive rites‹from locating the tape to eating bananas‹as a way of avoiding the tape that he knows he has to make.
"By the end of the play, after listening to some old tapes, he's floored. And his rhythms have changed. It's his realization of waste: the horror of what he could have become but didn't. He understands how unknowable we are to ourselves: the 39-year-old and 69-year-old Krapp are unrecognizable to each other. And as he continues to listen to the tape, he grows increasingly appalled and shocked."
Seven-Minute Silence
At the opposite end of the spectrum, there's John Henry Redwood's "The Old Settler" (playing Off-Broadway, at Primary Stages). The poignant tale, evoking "The Glass Menagerie" and "The Heiress," tells the story of two black sisters living in Harlem in the 1940s, one of whom (Leslie Uggams) is an aging spinster. She falls in love with their boarder, a much younger man who seems to return her affection.
In fact, the couple is planning to go off together; marriage is hinted at. She's packed and ready to leave. In silence and alone on stage, she considers the apartment, privately saying goodbye to it for the last time. She retrieves a photo of her parents‹a souvenir of her old life to take with her on her journey. And then she sits in her rocking chair, all night, waiting for her boyfriend to come. By early dawn, she realizes he's spent the night with a 20-something floozy and their life together will never happen. It's an extraordinary, clearly defined series of wordless moments, lasting seven minutes.
"Silence either works or you're in deep trouble," says Uggams. "It's much more difficult than dialogue, although a dialogue is on-going in my head. Throughout the seven minutes, the biggest challenge was to make sure the audience was getting every moment I was trying to convey without spoken words."
Uggams adds that each moment represents conscious and unconscious choices. "The fear‹and this was consciously addressed‹was that all of it might become too long and/or self-indulgent. We did a lot of eliminating."
Another element: The action spans an entire night, the changing light on stage indicating the passage of time. The character has been up for more than 24 hours. "We talked about whether or not she'd be exhausted and how that would express itself. But we decided she's not fatigued. The fact is, she's waited for this moment her whole life and she's charged on that energy."
When it dawns on her that their romance is doomed to failure, that her life will never change, and, worst of all, that she has made a fool of herself by even entertaining the possibility, Uggam's expression registers‹through a series of subtle facial shifts‹anguish, rage, and resignation that's both desperate and resolute.
Quiet Clowning
In another galaxy‹one defined by its timeless high jinks lunacy‹clown masters Bill Irwin and David Shiner revel in anarchy, slyly transforming a logical world into an off-the-wall morass where jolly chaos reigns and order doesn't have a chance. It's "Fool Moon" (at Broadway's Brooks Atkinson Theatre), a set of skits without dialogue, full of noisy silence that is forged through "mime, commedia dell'arte, tap dancing, straight acting, vaudeville, street theatre, and improvisation," says Shiner, who plays the more mischievous of the two jesters. "We bring all those elements together to create our own style."
Conjuring up Ray Bolger, Red Skelton, and Jackie Gleason, Shiner is a dangerous comic with an uncanny ability to grasp what members of the audience are feeling‹there's plenty of audience-performer interaction in this one‹and then hold those emotions up to gentle‹and sometimes not-so-gentle‹ridicule. A raised eyebrow, twitching lips, or a fish eye fixed on some poor soul says it all. "The key is in being open and responsive to what's happening. You have to step aside and let it happen."
Although Shiner insists that "Fool Moon" is about the "fun of human weakness" and the characters are taking no journey‹surely not in the traditional narrative sense‹he and Irwin have clearly defined personae that help fashion their silent interactions with the audience and each other. "I'm a man with a beast inside of me and all my anger is projected onto the outside world. I'm the shadow in all of us that has the license to get upset and be honest about what I'm feeling." A repeated on-stage expression: Shiner flashing the most hilarious look of disgust merged with disbelief. He also mouths words from time to time, like "Stupid," "Idiot," and "You're dead."
"Bill, on the other hand, is the lighter character‹the guy who wants to make it right. He's Mr. Nice Guy, the pleaser. I'm the killer and we work off each other," Shiner continues. "That's traditional, like Carney and Gleason."
But unlike those legendary "Honeymooners," these two clowns of the '90s are speechless. "Silent acting is the most challenging because you have to use every part of yourself to make it work. But at the same time the greatest laughter comes from silent comedy."
Shiner is talking about his and Irwin's performance. Still, his observations have resonance for all those powerful silent moments onstage. "Words don't get in the way and the experience becomes more universal. Without words humanity is revealed on a deeper level." q
Pull:
"The biggest challenge was to make sure the audience was getting every moment I was trying to convey without spoken words."
‹Leslie Uggams