A Zak Barnett Studios long-time student and enthusiast of all things acting and self-discovery, Ava Marilyn seeks to capture the essence of the studio in her writing through her weekly personal experiences and epiphanies and her findings about the deeper self and others. Through these diary entry-type updates from someone actively studying and working through the industry, she hopes to provide an insider’s look into the studio itself, its practices, and its impact.
Oh, the transformative discoveries one makes when going for the most daring choice as an actor—meshing the fabric of identity with the character’s experiences.
The lines blur between the two. It’s a slippery slope, albeit a beautiful one.
No actor’s performance is more powerful than when they exude a brave willingness to risk, to surrender to complete presence (we’ll talk about this later) in the moment of the story, with the scene partners, in the actual setting, the time, the place.
That moment is when they almost forget where they are and what they are doing, and thus they lie in full submission to the character and the story.
Joaquin Phoenix in The Joker
Viola Davis in Fences
Vivian Lee in Streetcar Named Desire
The list goes on and on. And on.
It is electrifying, both as the actor and for the audience to see the character so distinctly, that two people don’t exist—only one.
I live for those moments.
I love seeing that skill in actors as I watch movies, and I love that feeling myself when I’m the actor—enmeshed in the alternate world displayed on screen.
If life is broken down into a series of moments, this is that time and space, reminding me why I love the art form so much and why it’s the only pursuit worthy of my whole life.
The structural integrity of the character and story come together so profoundly that legions of people flock to the theater to see and feel for themselves—to escape, to be inspired to change.
There’s a rub here.
The story isn’t the real life of the actor.
Eventually, she has to come back to whom and where she actually is.
She has to step away from the story and hop in her car, maybe get some gas, grab a Starbucks, pay a bill, go to a party, sleep… eventually.
Two giant worlds clashing.
But how is this done emotionally and safely?
Where do the lines get drawn between the actor and the character?
How does one compartmentalize and do the script justice while also protecting oneself emotionally?
How are these boundaries drawn?
“The best actors commit; they’ll do anything for the character.” But what if, in your commitment to the moment, the gray area between you and the character becomes pitch black and you can’t find yourself anymore—you can’t find your motivations, your purpose, your own mental fortitude? What if it just gets too scary—too much?
I’m not sure I really have an answer or an exact moment to reference, but this is something that gives me pause as an actor.
I see it as a warning, a call to maintain a strong sense of self, even as I also give myself fully to the character. Holding both extremes in balance is complicated, to say the least.
Something I have observed in class is that though we’re only in a Zoom, or maybe sharing space at the studios, actors will deliver the most captivating, vulnerable performances, leaving everyone in a state of awe and admiration, and at the same time it hurts to see them hurting, so we want to provide real-life relief.
It’s in these moments we’re glad the story isn’t real and that the character isn’t really them.
But this exercise of alternating back and forth between both reality and story is a worthy, mind-bending, life-stretching one.
It’s an invitation to grow the deepest as a human soul.
And when we’re at our “deepest,” giving ourselves fully to the art form, isn’t this the best kind of art? The kind people will pay money over and over to see and experience.
I’m currently working on a project that features a character processing enormous grief. And as I personally peruse through my own grief, some of it I wouldn’t wish on anyone, there has been a lot of really beautiful and beneficial overlap. However, there are other moments where I get so lost in the work that I have to break… walk outside, jump in a lake, scroll Instagram, and come back to the center, the present moment.
I’m not talking about method acting; I’m talking about being brutally honest with the audience and myself and understanding a character well enough to commit to their story, to empathize with them, to care about them, to challenge myself to go so deeply into another’s human experience that I expand at the soul level in a way that only this kind of work can provide…
And in this expansion, this self-sacrifice can provide a piece of art that truly moves humanity deeper and forward.
