The Reality of Fantasy Doing
So far with Tablework I’ve explored a variety of topics that can help someone who is preparing to play a character, whether it’s in the building of that character or reviewing circumstances before a session.
I realized that the more time I spent on those very solitary activities, the less prepared I was to do what actually happens at the table: play with others. I did all this work, and it certainly showed in the way I played my characters, but I had done nothing to strengthen the way I brought those characters to life in real-time, at the table.
A similar sentiment was shared by students in one of Sanford Meisner’s acting classes, as described in Meisner’s book On Acting. One student, commenting on the previous instruction he had received from the method-based courses at the Actor’s Studio, remarked that, “they make you go inside, and you can get stuck there.”
Meisner understood the importance of preparation, but he feared the “introversion” of the actor. If you go too deep to find your character, you can get stuck there.
So, in an effort to un-stuck myself, here are the lessons I’ve gleaned from Mr. Meisner that are very useful for being at — not before, not adjacent to, but at — the table.
The Foundation of Acting
“The foundation of acting is the reality of doing.”
Meisner would tell his classes this on their first day. He would ask his students to consider what it really meant to do something. He’d ask classes to count something in the room, or listen to the cars passing outside. Then he’d pause and wait for the students to do as he asked. Some actually did it. Others got bored and waited for the class to continue, proving that there really is a difference between doing something and only appearing to do it.
So the essence of playing a character comes from actually doing the things you’re supposed to be doing.
Why is this important to role players? You can’t actually bury your sword into bugbear flesh at the table.
But you can take a sip from your ale stein. You can dig through a component pouch or flip through a spell book. You can perform the secret handshake that your party rogue has been trying to teach you since you met six months ago.
Every action that you really do pulls you deeper and deeper into the world around you. But what are actions made of? Where do they come from? Why do we do them?
Meisner had a one-word answer:
Impulse
Everything you do is dictated by the impulses you get from your brain. Most people end up figuring out how to filter those impulses, resisting the ones that might not be considered acceptable in polite company.
Meisner’s technique involved encouraging students to give in to their impulses, arguing that actors could not afford to be polite.
Sanford Meisner taught this concept using a repetition game. Partners would stand across from each other and repeat a statement that one made about the other. Eventually, one of them would change the statement based on impulse — based on something they picked up from the other person.
When there’s a change in dialogue, that doesn’t come from an actor thinking of something new to say. It comes from an impulse. “You’re getting a lot of enjoyment out of this,” says the student, but only because she really noticed her partner getting a lot of enjoyment out of it.
The repetition exercise teaches actors to get out of their own heads, to listen and react to what they hear. They don’t have to worry about a script. They don’t have to worry about making an interesting scene. They only have to worry about their scene partner.
I’m not saying you’ve got to go around the table and try the repetition exercise in your character’s voices. Sanford Meisner didn’t add “character,” as we know the term, to the repetition exercise, because that’s not what it was about. But it could be a fun warm-up for your table, and I could only imagine the exchange between a human and a tiefling:
“You have horns.”
“Yes, I have horns.”
“You have horns.”
“I have horns.”
“You have horns.”
“You’re afraid of my horns.”
“I’m not afraid of your horns.”
“You’re afraid of me.”
“Yes, I’m terrified of you.”
All that work, but not for nothing.
While Sanford Meisner railed against techniques that “introvert” actors, he still made his students do a fair bit of preparation, using circumstances and the Magic If.
But here’s the thing: that preparation is only supposed to last for the first moment. Once you’re in the scene, once you’ve gotten yourself to live under those imaginary circumstances, there are way more important things to consider.
Impulse is one of them. The other is everybody else on the stage.
Preparing your character is a pretty solitary act. Sure, if you write or draw or blog about your characters, you’re sharing that content and getting feedback. But the actual creation of your character happens in a vacuum. Naturally, you’ll come to the table with expectations of how the session will go, how your character will interact with other characters. That’s a byproduct of your preparation.
But those expectations don’t help you, especially when it’s likely that what the other players are going to do will defy those expectations.
How many times do we walk into a room and immediately abandon what we were planning on doing there? You go to the kitchen to make lunch, but the stove is on fire. Are you just going to fire up the other burner and keep going? No. The circumstances have changed!
Let’s say your cleric walks into the tavern with a sad look on her face. She’s upset about something that’s happened recently. Maybe she got into a fight with a friend. Maybe she’s lost a lot of money. Either way, you enter this scene with one goal: drown your sorrows with the strongest thing they have on tap.
But the party barbarian has just made himself comfortable at a table, and now he’s shoving the tavern’s signature french fries into the corners of his mouth and acting like a walrus. He invites you to join him, and your first instinct is to laugh.
But you’re sad! You can’t let the barbarian’s antics get in the way of your being sad, right? Wrong.
Not only is it more real to let yourself laugh and join in, it’s also more fun for you and everyone else involved.
Your bard walks into town with the intention of busking on a busy street, flexing his performance skills for a little extra cash. But the second you enter through the gates, the party witnesses a burglary and begins to tail the thief down a dark alleyway. You don’t keep busking. You follow your party.
When circumstances change, so should your behavior.
Impulses Come From Outside
Sanford Meisner often issued two rules for the later stages of his repetition game:
1. Don’t do anything unless someone happens to make you do it.
2. What you do doesn’t depend on you. It depends on the other person.
That’s useful advice for us!
As role players we should be in tune with our impulses, but we should also be aware of when we might be steamrolling over other players in the game. Tying your impulses to the two rules above can help avoid that.
An example from a recent game: Our Out of the Abyss group (mentioned extensively in this article) had tied up the NPC Sarith for his own safety after he acted without thinking. We waited for him to calm down for a bit, and then went to see if he was alright.
Before untying him, our ranger tried to get an explicit guarantee from Sarith that he would not run or betray us. Sarith, being a man of few words, didn’t answer. The rest of the group began to debate whether or not untying him was a good idea.
I wanted — Thavma wanted— to set him free. She never wanted him to be tied up in the first place, and she found the whole debate unnecessary. But Thavma needed a reason to act. And she needed that reason to come from someone else.
At that moment, the ranger said, “I want to make sure we can trust Sarith.”
At the sound of that one word, I lurched forward.
“Thavma unties him,” I said, and it was done.
I had a desire to see Sarith untied, but the impulse came when the ranger mentioned trust. Of course Thavma trusts Sarith. That’s all she has.
The party got their discussion in. A conclusion was reached. But the moment felt unforced and much fuller, because Thavma waited for a change in someone else’s behavior to change her own. The ranger had touched a nerve.
Since adding Meisner’s philosophies to my repertoire I’ve noticed I’ve gotten much better at the part of the game where I create a story with other people. The more I listen to every player at the table, the more my impulses become rooted in the world that surrounds us. The more that happens, the richer my character becomes. The richer my character becomes, the more behavior I can lend to the impulses of the other players. And our table is stronger for it.
There’s more to Meisner’s technique, and the repetition game, than I described in this post. Pick up a copy of his book On Acting for more information.
Thank you to Bethany Reeves for pushing our acting workshop through repetition exercises this summer.
