This is a repository copy of The Importance of How : Directing Shakespeare with Michael Chekhov's Technique. White Rose Research Online URL for this paper: http://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/75318/ Version: Published Version Article: Cornford, Tom orcid.org/0000-0003-4336-7382 (2012) The Importance of How : Directing Shakespeare with Michael Chekhov's Technique. Shakespeare Bulletin. pp. 485-504. ISSN 1931-1427 https://doi.org/10.1353/shb.2012.0065 Reuse Items deposited in White Rose Research Online are protected by copyright, with all rights reserved unless indicated otherwise. They may be downloaded and/or printed for private study, or other acts as permitted by national copyright laws. The publisher or other rights holders may allow further reproduction and re-use of the full text version. This is indicated by the licence information on the White Rose Research Online record for the item. Takedown If you consider content in White Rose Research Online to be in breach of UK law, please notify us by emailing [email protected] including the URL of the record and the reason for the withdrawal request. [email protected] https://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/ Access Provided by University of York at 01/15/13 3:31PM GMT The Importance of How: Directing Shakespeare with Michael Chekhov’s Technique TOM CORNFORD University of York ‘‘What’ is important, but ‘how’ is much more important.’ Michael Chekhov (cited in Hurst du Prey 1977, 191) Michael Chekhov was an actor, director, teacher and philosopher of the theatre. He trained with Stanislavsky before developing his own studio in Moscow and rising to become Artistic Director of the Second Moscow Art Theatre. Political disagreements forced him to leave Russia in 1928. After a period of moving around Europe and America, he cre- ated the Chekhov Theatre Studio, first at Dartington Hall, south Devon (1936–1938) and then in Ridgefield, Connecticut (1939–1942). When war forced the Studio to close, Chekhov went to Hollywood, where he taught and acted until his death in 1955. His was a life devoted to the practice and evolution of an artistic technique for the theatre. I first encountered Chekhov’s technique in 2002 in a workshop at Shakespeare’s Globe led by the actor Michael Gould, who had been play- ing Edmund in the Globe’s 2001 production of King Lear. While playing Edmund, Michael had been struck by a distinction made by Chekhov in his book To The Actor: I don’t think it is erroneous to say that two different conceptions exist among actors concerning the stage [ . ] To some of them, it is nothing but an empty space which from time to time is filled with actors, stage- hands, settings and properties; to them, all that appears on the stage is only the visible and the audible. To the others, the small space of the stage Shakespeare Bulletin 30.4: 485–504 © 2012 The Johns Hopkins University Press. 486 TOM CORNFORD is an entire world permeated with an atmosphere so strong, so magnetic that they can hardly bear to part with it. (Chekhov 2002, 47) Chekhov rejected the materialism of the former group and advocated an approach to performance that embraced the intangible: We lay great stress in our method upon the so-called intangible means of expression [ . ] for instance, the atmosphere [ . which is] absolutely intangible but strong, often much stronger than the lines the author gives us. (Chekhov and Powers, Disc 4) Michael Gould used his workshop to address atmosphere, beginning by reading aloud the following extract: The actors who possess [ . ] a love and understanding for atmosphere in a performance know [ . ] what a strong bond it creates between them and the spectator. Being enveloped by it too, the spectator himself begins to “act” along with the actors [ . ] If the actors, director, author, set de- signer [ . ] have truly created the atmosphere for the performance, the spectator will not be able to remain aloof but will respond with inspiring waves of love and confidence. (Chekhov 2002, 48) We laughed: obviously it couldn’t be so easy, but as we worked on the at- mosphere at the beginning of Hamlet, I quickly recognized the feeling of a performance going well, of jointly achieving a creative state. A hitherto elusive condition was suddenly accessible through simple, practical means. This was, for Chekhov, the only purpose of technique: ‘to invoke our inspiration and get into a creative state [ . ] by our own will’ (Chekhov and Powers, Disc 4). The value of such a technique became increasingly apparent as I started to direct and to teach acting, and I began to use and teach it gradually, dropping other approaches or re-framing them in dialogue with the principles articulated by Chekhov. My earlier training had fallen mainly into two areas: verbal and psy- chological. The verbal approach is based on the assumption that the text contains codified authorial instructions so that, for instance: “Shakespeare tells an actor quite clearly when to go fast, when to go slow, when to pause, when to come in on cue” (Hall 41). Its determinism is authorized by particular ways of reading and speaking which are valorized as some- how authentic (to the nature of dramatic verse, to the practices of the early modern playhouse, or to Shakespeare himself ). Practitioners of this approach vary from Peter Hall’s prescriptive insistence upon “the sanctity of the line” (Hall 50) to Cicely Berry’s more open, inclusive preference for THE IMPORTANCE OF HOW 487 “a real physical involvement with the language” (Berry 14). All, however, share an emphasis on text both as the principal guide to rehearsal and the primary means of communication in performance. The prioritizing of speech has a tendency to generate talking-head performances in which non-verbal communication is minimal or deployed mainly to illuminate elusive meanings. Recent historiographical and textual scholarship on actors’ parts has also given us historical reasons to suspect that this apparent fidelity to Shakespeare’s text may be no such thing and may indeed rob us of a layered and contested verbal space constructed by multiple texts containing cues that are often repeated to create complex interactions, rather than the simple linearity of a single script.1 What is more, the early modern theatre generated a diverse range of other kinds of performance-texts: extemporized speech, song, dance, fencing and other physical performances for which a primarily verbal ap- proach offers the director no vocabulary. Such an approach also inevitably prioritizes those characters (invariably male and usually upper-class) who speak most and are therefore made to seem more significant–even more alive–than other roles. To me this seems both politically insupportable and theatrically undesirable, as does the verbal approach’s tendency to- wards authoritarianism: if the text is given unequivocal authority, then the director (in teaching actors both to read and speak it) is the power behind its throne. I therefore knew that I had to find a language for rehearsal that would enable me to work with each actor’s body-mind, and would offer them freedom within the context of an interdependent ensemble whose inter- pretative decisions could be jointly evolved. The predominant model for such an approach is broadly Stanislavskian. It scores action as a series of units guided by characters’ objectives and is predicated upon an interpre- tation of their inner life. This psychological approach is, however, frequently based upon a misunderstanding of Stanislavsky’s system that “supposes that all onstage action is motivated exclusively by psychological intention” (Bogart and Landau 16) and scholars have frequently observed the pitfalls of graft- ing a predominantly Freudian conception of the human subject onto an early modern play-text. Rather than presenting a plausible psychological through-line, Shakespeare’s plays often unfold through a series of dis- continuities, with characters playing different roles in different scenes. In order to portray that, actors must be capable of treating characters as a series of images to be embodied, rather than a single psychological nar- rative. The psychological approach is poorly equipped to do this, since it 488 TOM CORNFORD tends to ask the actor to identify with the character rather than to stand outside of it and acknowledge its otherness. Chekhov’s technique, however, which depends continually upon a dia- logue between what he called “imagination and incorporation” (Chekhov 2002, 21–34), is ideally equipped to enhance productive discontinuities of character: The actor imagines with his body [ . ]. The more developed and stronger the image, the more it stimulates the actor to physically incorporate it with his body and voice. On this natural ability of the actor we base our principle of Incorporation [ . ]. The first step [the actor] must take is to imagine, as it were another body for himself [ . ] But he must imagine this within his real, visible body, occupying the same space. (Chekhov and Gordon 95–100) Rather than grounding his characterization in the day-to-day experience of continuous selfhood (that authorizes a psychological interpretation of his role), Chekhov’s approach locates the truth of the actor’s performance in a series of images. That process liberates the actor from contemporary pseudo-naturalism because his performance does not need to cohere into a single narrative, and can thus explore genres other than the realistic and cultural contexts other than the lived present. I am often struck, for instance, by the contrast between the fastidious details observed by designers and makers of clothing for Original Prac- tices productions and the relative lack of attention paid to the interaction between the clothes they make and the bodies of the actors for which they are made.