Sing the Process, Part III

OK, one more installment on this theme... 

As I mentioned in Sing the Process, Part I, performances are snapshots in time, reflecting all we have to give in a specific moment, which eventually will grow, evolve, and change. Because of this, our performances will always be different, making a single "perfect" performance unachievable. So, we should focus more on the process of providing audiences unique experiences rather than perfect performances that will be locked away in a museum for all time. 

The one exception, as I described in Sing the Process, Part II, is when a performance is recorded. In that case, audiences across generations can view the same piece exactly as it was. With different viewings, however, audiences may still have different takeaways from the same piece, as I experienced when I watched the same version of Sunday in the Park with George years apart. 

Here's one more thing to consider. When a theatrical production is filmed, you could argue that it is no longer theatre. Since it can only be viewed on a screen, it's as if it becomes film instead of theatre. And the differences between the genres are significant. 

When I'm watching theatre, I get to decide where to look and where to place my focus. Where my attention is drawn is impacted by where I am sitting in the theatre. When I'm closer to the stage, I'm more likely to focus on the action that is happening directly in front of me. When I'm sitting farther back, I'm more likely to take in the full stage. 

But when a performance is filmed, the director and editor choose which camera shot to use at each particular moment. During ensemble numbers, they are more likely to use a wide frame where more of the stage is in the screen. During solo numbers or duets, they are more likely to zoom in on just the actors who are singing. So, instead of getting to choose where to place my attention, the film director and editor are deciding where they think I should be placing my attention. That's why you could argue that a filmed theatrical production is more of a film than it is a theatrical work. 

The actors also give different performances in film than in theatre. Speech, inflection, and gesture are all much bigger in theatre so that the people sitting in the back of the house can understand each actor's expressive choices. On film, the acting is more conversational since there is no need to project for a larger space. Zoomed-in camera angles mean that gestures and facial expressions can be much smaller, more like they are in real life. In theatre productions, some of those subtleties would never be detected by audiences—even by those sitting in the front row. 

I did some reading about the video of Sunday in the Park with George that I watched and it turns out it was filmed over five days. That means that pieces of multiple performances were edited together to create the version that I watched. So, in reality, no one in the audience saw the start-to-finish show that ultimately became the recorded product because it was spliced together from multiple performances. 

Essentially, then, recorded theatre isn't really film (because the actors are making "theatrical" choices) and it isn't really theatre (because there is a film editor deciding where you can place your focus). It suddenly becomes a strange hybrid of genres—not really enough of one or the other. Something like the Wicked movie is clearly film, which allows the creators to do lots of different things with the material than audiences would experience when attending a staged version of Wicked. But the Sunday in the Park with George that I watched is sort of caught in between—it's both and neither. 

So, what does all this have to do with "Sing the Process"? In film, you get multiple takes that a director will choose from and splice together to tell the story. In theatre, you get one shot to create a unique experience—once again, a snapshot in time—that everyone in the room will only experience in that way one time. Therefore, we don't need to be perfect. We need to be committed and engaging. We get to tell a complete, unique story each night. All we can do is sing the process. 

Lastly, I heard an NPR story earlier this year that included interviews with people who had attended Taylor Swift concerts. These fans had recorded videos on their phones during the concert so they could relive certain moments after the fact. Oddly enough, though, when they went back to watch those videos, they had no specific recollections of those moments. They knew that they had a great time at the concert, and they remember what they felt, but they didn't remember any specific details from the times when they were recording. 

Now, you could respond to this and say, "I guess the details of my performance don't really matter all that much, then, since no one will remember them." I would argue the opposite: It is the details of your performance that create the product that instills the feelings that are remembered. Audiences may not remember (or may misremember) the specifics of your performance, but they will remember the way your detailed work made them feel. 

How might it change your approach to performances if your overriding goal was to tell a story that inspires great feeling, rather than trying to nail every high note or perfectly execute every difficult passage? 

Do you need to make any adjustments to your practice routine so you can make the most of this last half of the semester (and last quarter of the school year)? 

Now go practice.