El juez de primera instancia admitió la demanda e impuso las costas al Fisco Nacional

We want to find objectives that are active. Another kind of soft objective is, in a boy- meets-girl scene, deciding that the boy “wants her to talk to him.” Unless the actor playing the girl forgets her lines, she’s already going to talk to him! An objective that would be more likely to work might be that he “wants her to take her clothes off.”

Sometimes students are shocked when I make this suggestion. But I’m not talking about how to stage the scene but rather an interior adjustment for the actor. It doesn’t mean that he has any notion that he’s going to achieve that objective; it doesn’t mean that he is doing anything overt to achieve it. It’s his inner life, it gives him an inner point of concentration. This particular idea may give the scene a subtle undercurrent of sexual sizzle. It depends on the actor, however; for another actor that interior adjustment might make the character look depressed and anxious.

The objective is not the result. It is not a blueprint for the scene. Perhaps you were surprised earlier when I suggested that the spine for Chaplin’s little tramp might be “to stay out of trouble,” since the little tramp was always in trouble. The lines or plot contain clues to the objective, but the objective relates to what is not being said, the subworld. In the case of the little tramp, humor results from the incongruity of intention and result.

The interesting thing is that if the character was a real person and you asked him what he wanted from the young woman, he might truthfully answer “to talk to her.” His

need to be alone and unclothed with her might be deeper than his conscious intent. Which intent or need should the actor use in the scene? Whichever one works. In rehearsal, he can try them both.

“Get him to acknowledge you” is a soft objective. Try instead, “get him to look you in the eye.” Instead of “get her sympathy,” consider, “get her to put her arms around you.” It’s more physical and specific, and closer to the way these situations really feel when they are happening.

Directors (actors too), when asked what a character’s objective might be, often come up with all kinds of things the character doesn’t want (e.g., “He doesn’t want to hurt her”). This is usually a weaker use of the imagination than phrasing the objective as a positive (“He wants her to smile”).

“She wants this but she also wants that.” Human beings can’t do more than one thing at one time. If an actor tries to want two things at once, the two will cancel each other out and make the performance flat. There is always something that a person wants the most, will sacrifice the most for. It is the skill of the actor or director to unlock this mystery and find the singular playable key. “He wants X but he knows he can’t get it.” A cop-out. Knowing we can’t get something doesn’t stop us from wanting it. People want what they want, however irrational. Don’t forget that very often they do the wrong thing to get it. Sometimes, for instance, a person wants respect but constantly seems to be apologizing for his actions. Avoid the construction, “He is trying to get her to…” Instead say, “He wants her to.” The word “try” may add a strain.

The most important thing to understand about choosing an objective is not to get stuck making us believe the truth of the words spoken. If I say, “I really want you to understand this,” my intention is probably not to have you believe that I want you to understand, but to actually have you understand. “I need you to love me” comes out very differently if my intention is to make you believe that I love you, rather than if my intention or need is to be loved.

In the film “Last of the Mohicans,” Daniel Day-Lewis has a line where he tells Madeleine Stowe that he will find her. This moment was used in all the trailers, but so out of context that it sounded like a declaration of his intent, as if he were playing the intention “to get her to believe that he would find her.” It seemed to me like a cliché. Later, when I saw the movie and the line was said in context I could see that Day-Lewis, an excellent actor, had not made Hawkeye’s intent “to get her to believe that he would find her,” which would have been the hackneyed “movie” choice, stuck on the surface of the words. Although I have no inside information as to how Day-Lewis works, it looked to me as though his choice was something more visceral, perhaps “to calm” or “to soothe” or “give her courage” for the ordeal ahead.

Sometimes it is helpful for the actor to concentrate on what he is doing — the action verb — the simple task. Often it is more helpful for the actor to create for himself a strong sense of need or objective and then not think about when to change

action verbs, but rather let the changes come out of his interaction with the other actor. Some actors

prefer not to think about objective or intention at all, on the grounds that the character probably doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it.

But whether or not the actor uses this tool, the performance, in order to be believable, must have a through-line and a sense of intention. The actor doesn’t necessarily have to be aware of it or be able to label it (he may be working some other way), but it must be there. When the director monitors actors’ performances, this is one of the things he should be monitoring. If you can discern whether an actor operates out of a need, can play the verb rather than playing at it, you will have an invaluable tool for casting. If you become adept at discerning actors’ unconscious objectives, you may become known as an “actor’s director.” The caveat, as usual, is that reading about objectives, intentions, and spines is only a start. In order to understand and effectively use them, you need to practice and see them in action.

IMAGES

There are images in the text and images behind the text. By images in the text I mean every person, place, or thing that the characters mention in their dialogue. By images behind the text I mean the things the characters don’t talk about — the people, places, a n d things that inhabit their subworld. This includes not only visual images but impressions of all the senses — what we see, hear, smell, taste, and touch.

An actor when studying a script examines all the images in the text and makes sure he understands them. He puts them in the context of the facts of the script, of course, but he also makes them real to himself; that is, he relates them to his personal experience and observation and allows his imagination to weave through them and be captured by them. He does this in order to be sure he is talking about something, not just talking about words. This is an important cornerstone of a believable performance.

The content of what someone is saying is not the words themselves but the image those words evoke. Let’s say the character has a line, “There was rain today.” To give life to the image “rain,” the actor invests or endows it with sensory associations. Of course everybody knows what rain is, but an actor who works deeply with images would adopt a “beginner’s mind” and not take anything for granted. She would make a fall sensory exploration of all the images of rain that she could conjure and connect with. This would involve memories of rain, all different kinds of rain: hard, needle-like rain; soft, sweet, warm rain; cold rain; rain squishing in your shoes; being indoors in a rainstorm; the sound patterns as the wind brings the rain in gusts; the sight of rain streaming down the window; the condensation on the inside of the pane; mud; the sound of splashing; the taste of rain; the smell of rain; rain on wool; rain running down one’s collar. Besides memory, the actor might add imagined associations of rain. Even if a person has never been inside a tiny mountain cabin during rain, she can imagine it; if she has never stood naked in the rain, she can imagine it.

As soon as I let myself take some time to think about rain, I remember my New England childhood, where summer rain was usually accompanied by thunder and lightning. A warm summer shower without lightning was a special event, since it meant no danger of electrocution! My mother would let my brother and me put on our swimsuits and play outside in the rain. It takes time, but I can recreate many sensory details of that experience, and what I don’t remember, my imagination easily fills in. And what feelings it brings back!

This is all preparation. When it comes time for the actor to deliver the line “There was rain today” in front of the camera, the word “rain” has some emotional weight; there is an image behind it. The actor is not working to have the image while the camera rolls, he is not stopping the scene to remember his image; he has already done the work and the image will be there. Or maybe it won’t. If the image is not there when the actor gets to the line, that means it wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t meaningful enough, wasn’t present, private and compelling enough. Or perhaps

that it wasn’t sensory enough. If the actor has mistakenly intellectualized the idea of rain rather than connected to the

sensory experience of it, then the image won’t come unbidden when the actor arrives at the word. In that case he goes off by himself before the next take and reinvestigates it.

Dealing with images is a way to give a word emphasis and color. Michael Richards, Kramer on TV’s “Seinfeld,” will give an ordinary word some strange twist in the way he says it, and suddenly it’s a funny word. I don’t know what he does to achieve his amazing effects, but I can’t help wondering — is it possible that he prepares by riffing and free-associating in a similar way to the “rain” associations above? Could he have created some idiosyncratic imaginative stand-in for, for instance, “beta-carotene”? What I mean is that I picture him, when he says the words “beta-carotene,” imagining something other than a vitamin — maybe a person whose name is Beta Carotene, a woman, perhaps petite, with red hair, a great figure, and very firm opinions!

Images can be imaginative or they can arise from the personal experience of the actor. That is, the actor can make a substitution. In a scene in which the character is talking about her ex-husband, who is not present, whenever she has a line mentioning him, she would substitute in her own mind the image of her own ex- husband. Of course she may not have an ex-husband. She may never have been married, but she can still play the role. She can substitute for the ex-husband someone from her own life.

Substitutions do not need to be exact, but they need to be specific and strong. They need to capture the actor’s imagination, so they can be surprising, even opposite. Usually I would say that the actor in the above example, when substituting for an ex- husband, should pick somebody important in her own life, an ex-lover or ex-friend. But if the character’s ex-husband was selfish, the actor might substitute a selfish person who is not a man or an ex-lover at all; for example, she could substitute her mother if her mother was a selfish person. Or she might substitute her own ex-husband even if he wasn’t selfish. It doesn’t really matter what the substitution is, as long as it captures her and as long as she is talking about a person.

She could even substitute for the ex-husband a person she met in a store yesterday; that would give the relationship less emotional investment, and thus a different attitude. This would create an adjustment that she’s gotten over the relationship, or that it was never very substantial to begin with, or that she is in denial about her true feelings. The substitution is an emotional parallel to the character’s relationship. The parallel need not be exact if it is done honestly and simply and with fall commitment. The audience will believe the relationship because they will believe that there is some relationship, and they will suspend disbelief and fill in the blanks.

The purpose of substitution is honesty in a performance. If at all times the actor is talking about something real, then the audience can hear that in the words. They don’t know what the substitution is; that is, they don’t know what truth is being spoken, but they hear truth being spoken. Lines spoken as lines in a script, without images connected to the words, have little effect on an audience. So, paradoxically,

when the actor is substituting — that is, in his mind he is speaking about something other than the words of the script — the audience can hear and believe the words better.

A few years ago I performed a demanding lead role in a stage production in which my character had long monologues on the subject of ironing her husband’s shirts. (She was not ironing on stage; she was actually in a police station, but she was talking about ironing.) Although my mother ironed my father’s shirts and taught me how, I had never, as an adult, ironed men’s shirts. In early rehearsals I tried my best to focus on images of ironing shirts during those long monologues, but they did not carry the emotional weight for me personally that the writing clearly meant them to carry. I was dry. So I made a wholesale substitution and as I spoke the images of the monologue, which had to do with the steaming ironing board, the texture and colors of the cotton shirts, I focused instead on a sensory experience of wrapping a present for someone I loved. (It was my choice about the character that to her the ironing was an act of love.) I made my images very specific: a specific gift, a certain person the gift was for, the wrapping paper, the tape, etc. I quit worrying about getting the right image, and instead gave myself completely to the substitution I had found. And eventually, the ironing image did kick in! The steam from the iron and the crispness of the cotton began to take hold of my imagination. During many performances, I could feel the steam on my face and in my nostrils. I did not try to make the audience believe that I felt the steam, it was just there. The substitution gives the actor a springboard into the imaginative realm — the “magic as if.”

The actor also makes sure that there is an image in place for the facts or events he is speaking about. In the 1995 version of “Cry, the Beloved Country,” one of the characters has a line “I am a cynical and selfish man. But God put his hand on me.” In order to make this strange and powerful line his own, the actor must be sure that he is not speaking in generalities, but is speaking specifically of something in the character’s past that might cause him to say such a thing. The work of the actor is not to decide whether to say this line piously or defiantly or sarcastically, but rather to determine what specific events of this character’s life make him call himself cynical and selfish. Perhaps it is something he did that he knew was wrong but escaped punishment for. What is it?

There are no further clues in the script as to what this event might be, so the actor goes to his own imagination, and also to his own life and the lives of people he has known. I happen to know someone who went to jail for manslaughter. Meeting this person made a tremendous impression on me. Perhaps I would borrow his experience and substitute it as my own when it came time for me to say this line. I would not need to do that of course. I could recall the time when I was nineteen and lied to my parents that I couldn’t meet them for dinner because I was sick. In fact I wanted to see my boyfriend, of whom they disapproved. That evening we were in a serious motorcycle accident. In the Bellevue emergency room there was a kind nurse. Recalling her face and eyes might well start me on the road to creating a reality behind that line.

Besides substituting the things he is talking about the actor can make a substitution of the person he is talking to. If the character is talking to a person who has betrayed

him, instead of working himself up into a phony, actorish rage against the other actor in the scene, the actor can substitute for his scene partner a person from his own life who has

betrayed him. The substitution gives him a truthful need to speak, and the results may be surprising. The words may not come out with rage at all; they may come out with sadness, or even perhaps with very little emotion.

When a character has a telephone conversation, the actor needs to create the image (a sound image as well as visual image) of a voice on the other end that he is responding to. When the actor has a close-up or eye-line that prevents him from eye contact with the actor he is playing the scene with, even though they are supposedly face-to-face, the actor creates an image of the face he is in dialogue with. These images can come from his imagination or from his own life. In either case, the more specific and sensory (the wrinkles around her eyes, texture of her skin, her fragrance, etc.), the better.

Even if there’s only one character in the scene, the actor is always talking to someone. Under what circumstances do people talk when nobody else is around? Take the “Twilight Zone” episode in which Burgess Meredith, wearing thick glasses and the only survivor of nuclear war, finds himself in the ruins of the public library. The whole script