The Greatest Showman #1124 - Return to the Original Intention
Acting, at its core, is an incredibly vulnerable and often embarrassing endeavor. Actors must stand before strangers, immersed in their own world, experiencing joy and sorrow, highs and lows. They might embody a character entirely unlike themselves, rolling on the streets, or one eerily similar, exposing their inner emotions. They might even reenact historical moments, using outdated language and expressions that feel awkward and out of place.
On a West End stage, stripping away all pretenses and embracing the role of a madman or poet feels natural—the environment justifies the performance. But what happens when the same scene is placed before a camera? Or in front of a group of strangers? Or, even more dauntingly, in the middle of a bustling street? The disconnect between performance and reality can be jarring, making actors feel exposed and out of place.
Even seasoned performers must adjust their mindset each time they step into a role. For newcomers, the challenge is even greater.
Thus, the first acting lesson teaches students to dismantle their defenses, shed their inhibitions, and embrace their vulnerability. They must ignore judgment, immerse themselves in the moment, and step away from reality to fully inhabit their roles.
To "let go" may carry a negative connotation in everyday life, but for actors, it is a mark of mastery. This is why people often say actors are, in some ways, insane—because they must relinquish reason and self-consciousness to fully commit to their craft.
This is the first step in learning to act.
Many acting classes begin with an exercise that seems ridiculous—imitating animals. Some start with simple creatures like lions or puppies, while others attempt more complex choices like red-crowned cranes or cicadas.
To outsiders, this might seem foolish, even humiliating. Adults crawling on the floor, mimicking animal movements and sounds, can feel absurd. There appears to be no technical merit, and many students, trapped in embarrassment, become frustrated, dismissing the exercise as nonsense.
But in reality, even the most prestigious acting schools include this as a foundational practice.
Imitation is the first step in performance. Every actor begins by emulating before developing their own style. More importantly, animal exercises teach students to strip away self-consciousness and find their natural instincts. It forces them to abandon their pride and discover uninhibited expression.
Renly vividly remembers the first week of his acting class. Students were divided into groups and sent to perform assigned scenarios in public places. The first student's task? "A rattlesnake in the mud / begging / happy."
It didn't matter whether the scene made sense logically—the goal was for the student to embrace the challenge and commit to the performance. As the instructor read the prompt, the class exchanged nervous glances, each contemplating how they might execute such an unusual request.
Every task was a test of vulnerability. No one was exempt. The first student merely set the precedent.
Renly's first assignment? "An angry ostrich on a snowy field."
Just reading the title was perplexing. But that was the essence of beginner training.
And this wasn't the most difficult challenge. After a month of lessons, they had another field exercise. This time, Renly drew the prompt: "Meg Ryan's restaurant scene in 'When Harry Met Sally.'"
As the instructor handed him the card, they smirked. "This is actually one of the simpler tasks, but since a man pulled it, Renly, you've won the jackpot."
The scene? Meg Ryan faking an orgasm in a crowded restaurant.
For a woman, performing this in public was daunting. For a man, it was even more so.
From initial panic to calm analysis to committed performance, each stage of the process was essential. If Renly were given the same prompt today, he'd no longer simply mimic Meg Ryan—he'd reinterpret the scene in his own way.
At the time, the challenge felt insurmountable. But looking back, it was one of the best times of his life.
Everything was new, filled with curiosity and excitement. Each exercise, no matter how clumsy or awkward, was a step forward. Even when performances were terrible, they were uniquely formative.
This is the initiation every actor must undergo.
Over time, Renly progressed from a novice to a veteran, from a veteran to a professional. With each step, his performances gained depth and nuance. The foundational skills he once struggled with became second nature, seamlessly woven into his craft.
Today was special.
In the scene they had just tested, the performance revolved around a stress response—an ordinary person's reflexes in a crisis. In such a scenario, control was less important than raw instinct. The presence of the IRIS robotic arm further amplified the urgency. With the camera moving rapidly, the actor's stillness became even more pronounced.
Everything circled back to the fundamentals: exaggerated physicality, instinctive reactions—rolling, falling, flailing.
For most films, such an approach would be crude. But for "Gravity," it was perfect. It aligned seamlessly with Alfonso Cuarón's visual storytelling.
For a moment, Renly felt as though he had returned to his earliest acting days—imitating animals, shedding layers of self-consciousness, and letting go of all pretense. Bit by bit, he rediscovered that initial freedom, that uninhibited embrace of performance.
After years of refining controlled, nuanced performances, suddenly being asked to abandon restraint felt foreign. He had grown so accustomed to precision that he now struggled to let loose.
The result? A performance that was awkward and exaggerated. Clearly, Renly needed to recalibrate.
Reflecting on it, he couldn't help but laugh.
Since "The Pacific," he had consistently advanced in his craft, steadily building confidence amidst praise. Yet today, in a simple test scene, he had stumbled—just like a rookie who didn't know how to act.
And yet, that raw, unfiltered energy was exhilarating. It took him back to where it all began—the passion, the curiosity, the unbridled excitement.
People always long to return to their original dreams, to recapture the spark of their early aspirations. But growth changes us. The past quietly reshapes who we are, making it impossible to truly return.
But today, Renly was lucky. "Gravity" had rekindled his love for acting, and this scene had reignited his purest, most unfiltered joy for performance.
Perhaps that's the magic of being an actor. They wear countless masks, yet one always remains—their first.
Most people try to forget their younger selves, burying those awkward beginnings. But Renly longed to reconnect with that part of himself, to embrace his younger, bolder spirit once more.
Because that, too, was him.
He laughed freely, unburdened, fully present in the moment.
Seeing Renly's lighthearted energy, Rooney's eyes sparkled with excitement. She could sense the shift in him and felt an irresistible urge to experience it herself.
"Emmanuel, can I try performing under the IRIS robotic arm?" she asked eagerly.
Renly immediately jumped in. "I haven't finished my test yet! I want to go again."
The two actors playfully argued like children, each eager to step into the scene once more.