Fake Crying, Fake Laughing

We watched the last episode of Shogun last night. The show ended, incidentally, in an enjoyable, Shogun-like way–which means there was more than a dash of mystery and confusion and misdirection to season a good storyline.

The episode required Cosmo Jarvis, who was quite good as Blackthorne in the series, to cry on cue at the loss of Mariko. It’s a tough assignment, perhaps the toughest assignment in acting. Jarvis gave it the old college try and did a credible job, but the cry didn’t quite reach the believability threshold. It made me think about how rarely you see a really authentic-looking cry on screen. When you see the genuine article, the entire face and upper body contribute to the cry, from the hunched, heaving shoulders to the quivering chin and mouth up to the sad, crying eyes. A true crying person is unmistakably crying. A single tear rolling down the cheek of an otherwise stolid face isn’t really a believable substitute.

Laughing also involves the complex interaction of lots of parts of the face, but usually laughter on cue is a lot more credible than crying. It is probably easier for actors than crying because they can summon up the memory of a good joke or a funny experience and use it get into the laughing mood. It’s harder to do that with crying, although some actors try. My mother told me once that when Shirley Temple was a child star and needed to cry on cue, one of the people on set would tell her her dog had died–which doesn’t seem like a solution you reasonably use more than once.

Anger, sadness, romantic interest, and surprise are emotions that any decent actor can reasonably convey, but fake crying is the gold standard. Find an actor who can do a believable cry on cue and you’ve identified a true “master thespian.”

Definitive Characters

I was saddened to read yesterday of the death of Carl Weathers. A talented actor whose long and successful career spanned decades, Weathers died in his sleep at age 76. 

Actors who work in action movies and comedies don’t seem to get their just due in their profession; actors who participate in what are viewed as more “serious” films tend to get the respect and the award nominations. But whether the vehicle is an action movie, a comedy, or a “serious” drama, an actor’s challenge is always to create a multi-dimensional character who takes the script and elevates it to a different level. Carl Weathers had a definite knack for doing that, and defined some truly memorable characters along the way.

Consider two of my favorite Weathers creations: Apollo Creed in the Rocky movies and Chubbs Peterson in Happy Gilmore. Apollo Creed could easily have been a loud-mouthed, cardboard cutout bad guy, but Weathers gave him a depth that many actors would not have found–and of course, he was terrific and entirely believable as a professional boxer in the fight scenes. One testament to Weathers’ acting skill is that, even in the first film before he befriended Rocky Balboa, I found myself liking Apollo Creed and rooting for him not to lose. 

Happy Gilmore showed that Carl Weathers wasn’t a typecast action film guy. Chubbs Peterson was a professional golfer who lost his hand to an alligator and sported perhaps the world’s worst prosthetic limb. Many actors would have portrayed Chubbs as an over-the-top, ridiculous character, but Weathers really played him straight, with a gentleness, sense of humor, and respect for the game of golf that made him memorable. Any golfer who has faced a key putt has probably heard Chubbs’ voice in his head, softly urging “just tap it in, tap it in” (followed by a frustrated Happy saying “just give it the old tippy-tap, the old tap-tap-taparoo”). Happy Gilmore is a silly movie, of course, but you have to credit Weathers’ deft practice of his craft.

The Academy Awards judges obviously think actors portraying sullen lords and ladies in 1830s England are more deserving of recognition than actors who bring to life a character with a comically bad fake hand, or a heavyweight champ with a flair for showmanship. But you’ve probably forgotten most of those “serious” roles that harvested the Oscars, while there aren’t many big-screen creations that are more memorable than Apollo Creed and Chubbs Peterson. That’s a pretty compelling legacy for actor Carl Weathers. 

The Kominsky Method

Sometimes actors tend to play to type.  From movie to movie, their characters seem to operate within pretty much the same emotional range and have the same basic reactions and mannerisms.  Humphrey Bogart would be an example of this type of actor, and John Wayne would be another.

I had the same general perception of Michael Douglas, viewing him as most comfortable in playing Gordon Gekko or another unlikable, bullying jerk who you hope gets his just desserts at the end of the film.  Then Kish and I watched the two seasons (so far) of the Netflix series The Kominsky Method, and my preconceptions about Michael Douglas were absolutely destroyed.  The show is a classic example of a  well-known actor playing against type, and doing so brilliantly.

The title of The Kominsky Method refers to the acting class of Sandy Kominsky, played by Douglas.  Sandy’s in his 70s, but he’s not ready to give up teaching — or acting, for that matter.  The show centers around Sandy’s relationship with Norman Newlander, Sandy’s long-time agent and best friend played by Alan Arkin.  Norman has been very successful financially and had a long-lasting marriage, whereas Sandy has gone through multiple wives, failed to pay his taxes, and hasn’t led the most responsible life — although he drives a terrific car.  Now Sandy and Norman are dealing with the kinds of problems that men in their 70s must deal with — like prostate problems, energy problems, memory problems, sexual problems, health problems, and relationship problems.

The interactions between Sandy and the dry, biting Norman as they address the issues they are confronting are often hysterical — at least, to this reviewer who isn’t all that far from his 70s — and there is a fine ensemble cast that includes Sandy’s daughter, his daughter’s aged boyfriend, Sandy’s new girlfriend, and the students in Sandy’s acting class.  The acting class scenes in particular are really interesting, as Sandy watches his students perform, teaches his approach to acting, and shows that he still has a lot of passion for trying to get people to take acting seriously as a craft.  Sandy’s got some warts, but on the whole he’s charming, vulnerable, funny, and likable.  You wouldn’t mind having a beer with him — but you might have to pick up the tab.

Michael Douglas, playing a vulnerable, likable character?  That’s a big part of the reason Kish and I binge-watched and really enjoyed The Kominsky Method, and why we’re looking forward to season three.

James Gandolfini, R.I.P.

James Gandolini has died.  Only 51, he passed away on a trip to Italy, of an apparent heart attack.  It is tough news for those of us who admired Gandolfini’s acting and held out hope that, at some point, we might see a bit more of The Sopranos.

Many people consider The Sopranos to be one of the best — and maybe the best — TV shows ever made, and James Gandolfini was its spiritual core.  His Tony Soprano was one of the most fully realized TV characters ever to grace the small screen.  Viewers understood his angst and sympathized with his crises, cringed at his extraordinary episodes of hyperviolence and serial philandering, celebrated his successful schemes, marveled at his generosity and quick turns of mood.  The character was the product of great writing, but also of Gandolfini’s brilliant acting.

My favorite Sopranos scenes were from the early years, between Gandolfini’s Tony Soprano and Nancy Marchand as his formidable, emotionally brutal mother.  It was naked, powerful, astonishing stuff.  Their convincing portrayals of a devoted son and a caustic mother in a devastating family relationship — and the flashbacks to Soprano’s boyhood — made the notion of a mob boss going to a therapist seem very plausible, indeed.

The Sopranos was TV lightning in a bottle, with the perfect combination of concept, cast, and writing.  It will be enjoyed by TV viewers for so long as people appreciate talent.  Fifty-one is much too young for a talent like Gandolfini’s to exit the stage, and his death is an enormous loss for his family, his friends, and his fans.

Release The Kraken!

I think being an actor would be an enormous challenge.  To be successful as an artist, you have to understand your character, get into their skin, and faithfully assume their personalities and mannerisms.  Otherwise, it will just look like someone acting.  On the other hand, to put bread on the table, you will need to accept jobs in movies that aren’t exactly artistic triumphs — perhaps a remake of a popular TV show, or a comic book adaptation — often wearing ridiculous get-ups.

When Kish, Russell and I went to watch Shutter Island on Saturday we saw the preview for the remake of Clash of the Titans.  The original dates from the ’80s and was a Ray Harryhausen stop-motion epic starring Harry Hamlin.  The remake features, among other notables, Liam Neeson as Zeus, the King of the Gods.  At one point in the trailer, Zeus says “Release the Kraken,” which is an enormous, large-toothed, screeching, earthen monstrosity.

It must have been tough for Liam Neeson, so memorable in Schindler’s List and recent fare like Taken, to speak that dialogue.  As he does so he is clad in some glowing, shimmering kind of armored breastplate and a cape, with long hair and a long beard.  How do you decide how to say such a line as such a character?  “Release the KRAKEN!”  “RELEASE the Kraken!”  “RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!!!”  Waving hand and shrugging, “Release the Kraken.”  Shatner-like:  “Release . . .  the Kraken.”  (Shatner probably would have been a good Zeus, come to think of it.)

Neeson pulls it off, somehow, speaking the lines with a sense of weariness, indignation, and resignation, as his breastplate glows and his beard hairs flap in the breeze.