In the _Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson_, that humorous and human and
instructive book, there is a passage that illustrates admirably the bearing
of this same principle of economy of attention upon the actor's art. In
speaking of the joint performances of his half-brother, Charles Burke, and
the famous actor-manager, William E. Burton, Jefferson says:
It was a rare treat to see Burton and Burke in the same play:
they acted into each other's hands with the most perfect skill;
there was no striving to outdo each other. If the scene required
that for a time one should be prominent, the other would become
the background of the picture, and so strengthen the general
effect; by this method they produced a perfectly harmonious
work. For instance, Burke would remain in repose, attentively
listening while Burton was delivering some humorous speech. This
would naturally act as a spell upon the audience, who became by
this treatment absorbed in what Burton was saying, and having
got the full force of the effect, they would burst forth in
laughter or applause; then, by one accord, they became silent,
intently listening to Burke's reply, which Burton was now
strengthening by the same repose and attention. I have never
seen this element in acting carried so far, or accomplished with
such admirable results, not even upon the French stage, and I am
convinced that the importance of it in reaching the best
dramatic effects cannot be too highly estimated. It was this
characteristic feature of the acting of these two great artists
that always set the audience wondering which was the better. The
truth is there was no "better" about the matter. They were not
horses running a race, but artists painting a picture; it was
not in their minds which should win, but how they could, by
their joint efforts, produce a perfect work.
I am afraid that this excellent method of team play is more honored in the
breach than in the observance among many of our eminent actors of the
present time. When Richard Mansfield played the part of Brutus, he
destroyed the nice balance of the quarrel scene with Cassius by attracting
all of the attention of the audience to himself, whereas a right reading of
the scene would demand a constant shifting of attention from one hero to
the other. When Joseph Haworth spoke the great speech of Cassius beginning,
"Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come!", he was shrouded in the shadow of
the tent, while the lime-light fell full upon the form of Brutus. This
arrangement so distracted the audience from the true dramatic value of the
scene that neither Mansfield's heroic carriage, nor his eye like Mars to
threaten and command, nor the titanic resonance of his ventriloquial
utterance, could atone for the mischief that was done.
In an earlier paragraph, we noticed the way in which the "star system" may
be used to advantage by the dramatist to economise the attention of the
audience; but it will be observed, on the other hand, that the same system
is pernicious in its influence on the actor. A performer who is accustomed
to the centre of the stage often finds it difficult to keep himself in the
background at moments when the scene should be dominated by other, and
sometimes lesser, actors. Artistic self-denial is one of the rarest of
virtues. This is the reason why "all-star" performances are almost always
bad. A famous player is cast for a minor part; and in his effort to exploit
his talents, he violates the principle of economy of attention by
attracting undue notice to a subordinate feature of the performance. That's
villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition, as Hamlet truly says. A rare
proof of the genius of the great Coquelin was given by his performances of
Père Duval and the Baron Scarpia in support of the Camille and Tosca of
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. These parts are both subordinate; and, in playing
them, Coquelin so far succeeded in obliterating his own special talents
that he never once distracted the attention of the audience from the acting
of his fellow star. This was an artistic triumph worthy of ranking with the
same actor's sweeping and enthralling performance of Cyrano de
Bergerac,--perhaps the richest acting part in the history of the theatre.
A story is told of how Sir Henry Irving, many years ago, played the role of
Joseph Surface at a special revival of _The School for Scandal_ in which
most of the other parts were filled by actors and actresses of the older
generation, who attempted to recall for one performance the triumphs of
their youth. Joseph Surface is a hypocrite and a villain; but the youthful
grace of Mr. Irving so charmed a lady in the stalls that she said she
"could not bear to see those old unlovely people trying to get the better
of that charming young man, Mr. Joseph." Something must have been wrong
with the economy of her attention.
The chief reason why mannerisms of walk or gesture or vocal intonation are
objectionable in an actor is that they distract the attention of the
audience from the effect he is producing to his method of producing that
effect. Mansfield's peculiar manner of pumping his voice from his diaphragm
and Irving's corresponding system of ejaculating his phrases through his
nose gave to the reading of those great artists a rich metallic resonance
that was vibrant with effect; but a person hearing either of those actors
for the first time was often forced to expend so much of his attention in
adjusting his ears to the novel method of voice production that he was
unable for many minutes to fix his mind upon the more important business of
the play. An actor without mannerisms, like the late Adolf von Sonnenthal,
is able to make a more immediate appeal.