Before rehearsal:

I gravitate to the seat I was in yesterday, next to Bill Sadler. He is concerned about a posting on the callboard which shows him scheduled for a wig fitting. It turns out to be an appointment to have a fake beard made. The opening scene calls for a huge banner with a photograph of Caesar, and as the artist’s renderings of the banner show a bearded Caesar, and as Bill is clean shaven, a wig designer is employed. Bill is justifiably concerned. He doesn’t even know the character himself yet, and decisions are being made about what Caesar looks at in the mirror each morning. This is one of the most maddening things about the institutional and commercial theatre. The photograph for the banner has to be taken this week to be ready in time for the first performance. As there is no time to grow a beard, a fake one will be used in the picture, and he will grow one for performance. Personally, I’m disappointed to hear it, because I loved the Rumsfeld resemblance. On another level, I’m angry that actors have, over time, ceded this part of the creative process to directors and designers. If Olivier had not been able to create his own look for Richard III we would never have cowered from the indelible black page boy wig and Big Bad Wolf nose which defined that character for a generation. The mask is a crucial part of the characterization. Indeed, many fine actors begin their search for a character with just this sort of external detail. I remember being cast as Captain Brazen in a production of The Recruiting Officer at The Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and being shown a fully developed drawing of a fat man in uniform at the first rehearsal. The image was complete with red wig and mutton chops, and while quite beautiful out of context, bore no relation to how I would be able to play the role. It was topped off by a tall round captain’s hat which looked a bit like a bishop’s miter. This was undoubtedly historically accurate, but once doffed in the presence of a lady it left the actor holding it in one hand like a can of Folgers coffee. By contrast, the tri-cornered hat I had found in my own research could be rakishly held with hand on hip. You could fan yourself with it, make a bow, gesture with it, toss it in the air—the variations were endless and empowering. I had a brief conversation with the director, who asked me to “live with” the design for a while, and see if it could be made work. At my first costume fitting I told the designer that, while it was still early in rehearsal and I hadn’t finalized many choices, I felt sure that Brazen was not a fat man. Finding the “center” of a character is an important part of characterization for me, and I knew that Brazen was centered in his chest. As his name suggests, Captain Brazen is a braggart and a swaggerer— based on the Commedia character of the boasting soldier—and is puffed up with his own self importance. I had begun to work with an image of a fantail pigeon, a bird so puffed in the chest it looks like it is nearly falling backward. The design I was offered suggested that Brazen be centered much lower, in the stomach—suggesting a man who is all appetite like Belch or Falstaff. This was just plain wrong, and I said so. Again, I was asked to try the padding for a while. I should have known better, but I agreed. Of course, once you have agreed to the shape of a character, you have agreed to the size of the costume. It would be very difficult to alter it at a later date. I expressed my reservations, but, as is so often the case, I was afraid of being labeled “difficult” or “a diva” so I relented.

At the final run-through in the rehearsal hall the invited audience laughed at nearly everything I did. I felt on the verge of making a real success in the role. Then we moved into the theatre and put on the costumes, and every single laugh vanished. The character fell flat. There was simply nothing I could do. The silhouette created by the designer bore no relation to the man I had created over four weeks of rehearsal. For the first time in my career, I offered the director a choice. He either had the wrong actor or the wrong costume. I would happily bow out of the show if he felt that the costume was right, but I could not wear it. The entire costume had to be remade overnight, at tremendous inconvenience and expense to the theatre. The laughs which I had garnered in the rehearsal space returned, and the performance was a success. But all of it could have been avoided if the director and designer had consulted the actor before making such crucial decisions about the character. For the ancient Greek actor, creating the mask was a sacred part of his process. Actors need to risk being labeled “difficult'” and reclaim this part of their craft.

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12 noon.

Still at the table. We are introduced to Jack Willis, who has joined us to play Casca. Jack is heavyset, with close-cropped hair and a voice which is a cross between Harvey Feirstein and Truman Capote. He gives a bold, eccentric reading. Dakin points out that Casca appears to have one character in the first scene, and a completely different outlook in the next. People behave in contradictory ways in life but were fixed character types on stage and in literature before Shakespeare came along. Harold Bloom went so far as to say that Shakespeare “invented the human being” in literature. Casca’s portrayal of himself as someone who doesn’t care about or fear anything is revealed as a mask when he is confronted with a terrifying storm.

It is a useful rule of thumb to remember that the more a character boasts of fearlessness, the more frightened he probably is inside. Macbeth is universally renowned for his bravery—but is in fact terrified throughout most of the play. The mask of bravery is a compensation for the enormity of the fear.

Dakin draws our attention to the metallic imagery used in the play. Brutus says that Casca was “Quick mettle (metal) when he was at school”. Cassius says “You are dull, Casca”, and that Brutus’ “honorable mettle may be wrought from that it is disposed.” Men are not pure metal, but alloys—a combination of hard and soft qualities. Both Caesar and Brutus claim to be made of one thing only, and that is their downfall. Cassius asks Brutus “Can you see your face?” No. We cannot, ultimately know ourselves. To think we can is folly, (at least in this play) and may lead to tragedy. We count on our friends to reflect our true selves back to us.

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Cassius:

“I, your glass, will modestly discover

To yourself, that of yourself which you yet

Know not of.”

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But in this play friendship is dangerous territory. Brutus kills his friend, Caesar. Cassius seduces his friend, Brutus, away from his better nature, using trickery and lies. As usual, Shakespeare is not providing answers, but posing questions. What is a friend?

Dakin played Casca in Dan’s last production of Julius Caesar. He must have been remarkable. He also played Brutus in a recent production. A friend of mine saw that one and was later cast as Brutus himself. He said he failed in it because he couldn’t get Dakin’s indelible portrayal out of his head.

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During the storm scene, Casca tells Cassius that:

“The senators tomorrow

Mean to establish Caesar as a king;

And he shall wear his crown by sea and land…”

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Summoning my courage, I point to this as the biggest event in the scene. When Cassius is given this information, all previous plans have to be abandoned or put on the fast track. Casca and Cassius had agreed in the last scene to dine tomorrow. That dinner, and all other plans are now replaced with a burgeoning emergency. Brutus must be convinced tonight, no matter how late it is, and Caesar must be assassinated tomorrow. Dakin doesn’t seem to hear me/

In fact, my point is largely ignored by everyone, except by Bill Sadler who leans toward me with enthusiasm to discuss the idea further. Bill is my kind of actor. Always looking for the human needs and behavior which makes the language necessary. Already, his Caesar is a revelation to me. A relatively small man with piercing eyes and a wiry frame, we never doubt that he could have emerged as the unquestionable leader of this society. Even in early readings, every image is used for a purpose. Caesar’s arrogance and outbursts seem inevitable. Bill is not content with “That’s just an expression” or “In Shakespeare’s day they talked that way.” No. They didn’t. Why does Caesar talk this way? Now. In this moment. Bill asks the right questions and comes up with unique and interesting answers.

I make a mental note to be quiet and keep my ideas for this journal. Time is pressing on us, and not everyone can have a voice. If something is truly crucial, Dan, Dakin and the rest are sure to find it.

This episode also makes me take a silent pledge to treat supporting and ensemble players with the utmost respect when I am in the leading role. There truly is a caste system in the theatre world. Musicals, in particular, are cruel that way. In many productions the principal performers rehearse separately from the ensemble, and rarely meet or socialize with them. This is a waste of a tremendous resource. Michael Bennett tapped the wisdom that was hidden in the chorus line and created one of the longest running musicals of all time.

When we get to Brutus’ soliloquy in act two Dakin does a beautiful, line by line dissection of the speech. Each argument Brutus attempts collapses. Each metaphor and each image proves inadequate to the task of convincing himself that Caesar must die. Most soliloquies begin with a premise which is then explored. Macbeth, pondering a similar action, says:

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“If it were done when ’tis done,

Then t’were well it were done quickly.”

The speech begins with “if”. For Macbeth, the murder is not yet decided.

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Brutus, on the other hand, begins with his mind made up, and searches for a reason to justify what has already been concluded. Or perhaps, more actively, tries (and fails) to find a way to escape his initial premise.

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“It must be by his death. And for mine own part

I know no personal cause to spurn at him…”

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He begins with “must”, and creates an illogical string of rhetoric to support it which he admits is unpersuasive:

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“And since the quarrel

Will bear no color for the thing he is,

Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,

Would run to these and these extremities…”

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I can’t help but think of the inverted logic which precipitated the U.S. invasion of Iraq. According to Richard Clarke (and others close to the president) the neoconservatives were determined to topple Saddam Hussein from their first day in office, and searched for reasons to justify what they had already decided. Saddam was not a threat, but might become one. This is Brutus argument regarding Caesar:

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“Then, lest he may: prevent.”

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Dakin observes that Cassius uses precisely this argument when he advocates removing Antony as well, and Brutus rejects it. He is not convinced by the very argument he used on himself! And, as we know, the decision to spare Antony is a fatal error.

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Denzel squirms in his seat.

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“Why?! Why does he do that?”

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He is struggling with Brutus’ hypocrisy and naiveté.

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“You have to understand, I’m from uptown. We just don’t make this kind of mistake.”

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Denzel is on a relentless search for the truth of this character. As one of the finest film actors in the world, he knows that the camera picks up even a flicker of falseness, and he is applying that standard to the stage as well. Working from the inside out, listening and responding, he finds it hard to believe that he would trust or be fooled by Eammon Walker’s Marc Antony. He perceives the danger there, and finds it hard to deny.

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“I can hear the audience now: ‘Don’t do it, Denzel!'”

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Dan Sullivan reminds us that Antony is a party boy, smelling of alcohol. He is not considered a political threat. But Denzel is responding to the reality he finds right in front of his nose, and I admire the rigor of his search for the truth.