Free The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory by David Rotenberg Page B

proscenium.”
    “Chinese audiences need the floor of the stage lowered because the average height of Chinese people is less than that of Russians.” “Stanislavski always had his stages this height.”
    “The dimension of this place is inhuman. Brutal.” “Stanislavski said the humanity should be on the stage, not in the house.” And so on.
    So she had lost. Actually, the city of Shanghai had lost. A lot of money had been spent on a virtually useless theatrical space because a Russian acting teacher who had probably not said a third of the things Russians claim he said was too godlike to be challenged.
    Fu Tsong assumed that Stanislavski was a nice enough guy with the odd good idea. She also assumed that he never intended to be quoted and deified. . . although being Russian it’s possible he was interested in deification. Be that as it may, Fu Tsong had found it a breath of fresh air when Geoffrey Hyland entered her theatrical life with the line: “Stanislavski who? If I had a dog, I might call him Stanislavski—if he were long dead and gone and irrelevant to the twentieth century art of acting, that is.” It had been artistic love at first sight.
    Fong remembered Fu Tsong coming home after that first rehearsal with Geoffrey Hyland. He remembered her excitement, her joy. He also remembered his feeling of being outside her world. Outside while Geoffrey was inside.
    Now, on the stage, Geoffrey spoke to the Twelfth Night cast who sat around old wooden tables. There was a rapt concentration so unlike most Chinese rehearsals, which were often exercises in wasted energy and diffused focus. Fong noted that the academics had been ushered out of the room. This session was not about text. Not even about Twelfth Night . This session, the first rehearsal in Geoffrey Hyland’s theatre land, was about his passion: acting. Fong had heard Fu Tsong talk about Geoffrey Hyland’s first rehearsals. She had said that she learned more about acting in two hours with Geoffrey Hyland than she had in four years at theatre school. So Fong leaned forward and tried to catch every word, to hear what she had heard.
    Geoffrey was on his feet—“in full flight” was the phrase that came to Fong’s mind—his translator at his side. “For an actor the art form of the theatre is not theatre, but acting. Acting is the art. Because most actors are taught by directors they are usually taught that what actors do is interpret. That acting is not an art but a craft. It behooves a director to have a pliant, obedient actor. And the best way to achieve this is through convincing an actor that his job is to serve the text, the way a brick mason serves an architect. Bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, and more fucking bullshit.”
    Geoffrey looked out into the house. For the briefest moment his eyes locked with Fong’s.
    Geoffrey took a breath and allowed his interpreter to catch up. “Acting is not about pretending. Acting is about knowing your instrument and selecting the notes on that instrument that produce the ’most eloquent music.’ Hamlet, when pumped for information by Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, takes a recorder from his pocket and offers it to one of them saying, ’Will you play upon this pipe?’ To which Guildenstern responds, ’My lord I cannot.’ After further beseeching by Hamlet, Guildenstern finally says, ’I know no touch of it, my lord!’ To which Hamlet responds, ’Tis as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.’ Then taking back the recorder he says, ’Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from the lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to play on than a