Ralph Richardson and Basil Dean
Some thirty years ago, Richardson was rehearsing a play directed by Basil Dean. The latter was the last of the old-time directors on the British side of the Atlantic. By “old-time,” I mean abusive, cruel, sarcastic, and contemptuous of actors. His American equivalent, albeit far younger, would be Jed Harris. Mr. Harris, however, has changed. So far as I know, Mr. Dean never did. Richardson was an important actor at the time but not yet a film star nor one of the classic theatre’s leading lights. In this particular production, it had been decided to open “cold,” which means no tour of the provinces and no previews before the opening performance. Throughout the rehearsal period. Dean was nasty and autocratic with most of his actors, but left Richardson strictly alone. In fact, practically no conversation, pleasant or otherwise, passed between them. “Good morning, Mr. Richardson”; “Good morning, Mr. Dean”; “Good night, Mr. Richardson”; “Good night, Mr. Dean” was about the long and short of it. The night before the play opened, the cast performed a dress rehearsal with only Basil Dean out front. He stopped the performance quite often, either to change entrances and exits, lighting and cues for the stage manager, or merely to abuse the skills and talent of one actor or another. Late in the evening — midnight or thereabouts — Richardson made an exit which Dean considered important. He stopped the performance and asked the stage manager to bring Mr. Richardson back on stage. A moment later, Richardson stood soberly before the footlights.
Dean rose from his seat and ambled down the center aisle. When he reached the first row, he spoke softly. “Mr. Richardson,” he said, “do you think it possible that at some moment between now and tomorrow evening you could learn to leave the stage like a gentleman?”
Richardson gazed blandly back at his director and then all but murmured, “Yes. I believe I could.” He thereupon turned away, left the stage, continued on past the wings, the dressing rooms, the stage doorman, the alleyway, took a taxi for the railroad station, a train to his country home, told his wife what had taken place, instructed her not to call him to the phone for any purpose, and never opened in the play. For several days, his telephone rang hourly, but only Mrs. Richardson heard the pleadings, cajolements, blandishments, and inducements offered by producers, playwright, and fellow actors. It would seem perhaps cruel to deprive one’s innocent colleagues of employment, but
if the play had been really good they would have gotten someone else. In any case, they didn’t. The play closed before it opened, and Dean’s directorial charisma sustained a smarting blow. Richardson—single-handed—caused what amounted to a silent revolution in the treatment of English actors by directors.
George Stevens and Method Acting
Only at the Actors Studio (granted its drawbacks and parochialism) can the actor ask question on question with impunity. Only there can he seriously explore the mysteries of his craft without being looked on as a neurotic pariah…. [T]he Studio remains a house of questions and stands, therefore, as an oasis in the lip-cracking desert of pay your dues and take your orders and grab the money and run for the cat-house…. I cannot say that I have stopped asking questions, but I have certainly stopped believing that honesty is the best policy. Because it isn’t. Not when directors are kings.
Good directors understand all this, of course, though they don’t often say so out loud. Good film directors understand exactly the reverse, and they are quite correct. During the filming of The Greatest Story Ever Told, George Stevens (a really excellent film director) was queried by an actor as to “motivation.” “Young man,” he said, “while you were resting yesterday, I went up in those hills over there and I shot a lot of sequences with a herd of cattle. Not one of those cattle asked me a question about motivation and, believe you me, they did just fine.”
