The Art Of Acting

A hundred years ago, you and your friend decide to want to be actors when you’re both young.

You both shift to a city where the industry thrives.

You and your friend are new to this, but have heard of so many others who came here and lost their way. You decide to stick to your guns, and follow your dreams.

You meet with people: directors, producers, other actors, and start to notice some of the sleaze around the place.

One fine day, you and your friend decide that no matter what happens, you and your friend will never become like them.

Time passes.

One day, you meet with a producer who really likes you. You start to like him too. You don’t really, but if you try hard enough you can do it.

The producer offers you a job on the spot, after an hour of talking and buttering him up.

There it is. You’ve found yourself a real gig! You’ve made it!

You tell your friend. Your friend says the theatre scene looks more attractive, and that you should try that out. You quarrel.

In the end, your friend and you both have tears in your eyes.

Your friend apologizes for raining over your parade. They bring a bottle champagne instead.

Pop!

Now, both of you are drunk. And you’re admitting how much you love your friend, how they’ve always had your back. They’re saying it back, but they’re smiling too much, blushing too much, looking down a little too much.

Hey, they say again, I love you.

I love you too.

No, you don’t understand, they say, and they mean it, I love you.

Before they can get out their ready speech about how they always have had a crush on you, they’ve found you cute, they found the littlest things you do adorable, and have always wanted something more than just friendship, you leave.

Just a minute, they say, right before you leave. But you don’t wait.

Hey, what about our pact? They shout from behind you, but you don’t look back.

Everyone wants to be attached to success, you think, all the while you drive back. Everyone loves success. These bastard producers, these directors, these actors, all of them. All they want is success, all of them are phony. I won’t ever be like these damned people, you say, and look at yourself in the mirror, and you mean it.

Just then, you get a call. It’s the producer.

Hello sir, you answer.

Yes sir, you reply.

Yes sir, you smile.

Will do, sir.

You cut the call, and relax a little. Your head’s clearing a little, and you can see better. Your shoot, as well as your career, begins tomorrow.

In the cold of December, your film releases. Although audience are few, critics shower it with praise. They especially praise your performance as a guilt-ridden doctor.

You smile. You take it all in.

They nominate you for an award. You attend the ceremony. You don’t win.

You smile. You take it all in anyway.

You smile even though you actually want to cry, because it’s good publicity, someone told you.

If there isn’t good publicity, the producers will drop you, no one will want to see your film, no one will sign you.

So you smile.

The next day, the winner of the award gets a first-page mention, but you snag page-three as ‘Sportsmanship Extraordinaire’.

The next film you do, you’re paired with a very attractive co-actor. You fall for them like a leaf in autumn, and a stormy affair ensues.

The press catches you multiple times, and rumours swirl.

You smile for the cameras, even when you don’t know they’re there.

The rumours take a toll, and you and your co-actor split up after shooting wraps up. This brief fling catapults you to regular first-page space. You snag an award or two, but you don’t care anymore. You’re sad, lonely, but more famous than ever.

You smile. You take it all in.

In the coming years, you do many films, you have many flings. You get less awards, as you do more and more audience-friendly stuff, establishing yourself as a bankable star, and commanding quite the salary.

You maintain good relations with everyone: your producers, your co-actors (even the ones you split with), your audience, and especially the press. There are times when you hate the sleaze they throw at you, and you hate them all for smiling at you, asking for autographs and demanding your time. You hate when they remind you of favours they did you in the past. There are times you feel like crying, but you sniff it all in, and keep it there, and you smile. And you remind yourself of how phony the world is, and how you will never be like them. And you smile. And you take it all in.

Then, the choice of films you do deteriorates. Or, the taste of the film-watching public changes, and just like that, no one’s coming to watch your films again.

You feel your own tastes beginning to change, and you gravitate to more serious roles.

You smile for the cameras, even when you know they’re not there.

In one of these more serious films, you and your co-actor strike up a conversation. And though you’ve had affairs before, this one’s not like those. This one begins with a dinner, and a conversation, which keeps going all-night long. Eventually, towards dawn, you both remember you have a twelve-hour shoot to get through, and you’ve not had any sleep because you’ve been busy talking about God-know-what, and God-knows-who.

The only way you make it through that day is because you have each other. Often, between takes, you both physically and emotionally support each other. In the end, you both wind up in the same vanity van, sleeping in the same bed with clothes on.

In the morning, you take your leave, getting their number, and leaving yours.

You wait for them to call.

They do.

You meet up again, for dinner, at a hotel this time, whose room you use well to finally quell the yearning you’ve had for a long, long time. This time, though, it’s different than all the other times.

Is this finally love, you ask? And a deep dark forgotten corner inside you answers something. But you’re too busy looking into the eyes of the person in front of you to remember to pay attention. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re smiling. And this time, you really mean it.

Here’s someone, you think, that’s not phony. I’d like to spend forever with this person, till the very, very end. I would, I really would.

Your film does very well, because the audience loves your chemistry. It’s like a fairytale; within months of knowing each other, you’re engaged. Then, married.

The press have a field day, they give you cute names, and say you’re the second coming of Romeo and Juliet.

You wish they’d read the ending of the play before they called you that.

You know Romeo and Juliet ended tragically. And so did this.

Five months after this, you and your spouse are caught cheating with your respective co-stars during the shooting of your respective films.

You part ways, leaving broken hearts and torn photos in your wake. You sleep lightly. At night, you cry, in the morning, you’re barely awake. You’re late to sets, and you have to get admitted in a good hospital, and get someone to nurse you back to health.

When you get back home, you check your face in the mirror. After all, that is how you make a living. You have grey hair now, but you also have a thousand bouquets waiting for you from friends, fans, prospective spouses.

A million opportunities lie in front of you, you think. But remember, you think, everyone is phony but you.

You open your door and smile for the cameras. They flash right in your eyes, and make them hurt, but your smile never ceases. You want to scream at them to stay the fuck away from you, but you keep smiling at them, and tell them you’re fine, and on the road to recovery.

You sign another deal with a big production company, and churn out hits like skimming pebbles on the beach. Incidentally, you used to skim a lot of pebbles on the beach as a kid, with that one friend of yours who ditched you the day you got a gig.

You check in your mail, and it’s that friend’s letter, saying you should meet. It’s almost wishful thinking. You smile to yourself. It’s time to forgive things, and move on. You agree to meet.

You call them to your huge mansion. It’s got a swimming pool, and everything.

You ask them how they’ve been. They tell you they’ve had moderate success as a theatre actor, however, theatres seem to be getting smaller and smaller.

Not in your experience, you say, before you realize that their theatre and your theatre are different entities.

Anyhow, they say, how have you been?

You lift your hands around you. You’ve been well.

Good, good, they say, then hesitate; listen, they say, about what I said, I’m sorry, I was drunk, and-

No need to apologize, you say, it’s all in the past and forgotten.

Oh good.

There is a moment of silence, and you smile at your old friend, who’s still looking around your house. They’re smiling, trying to take it all in.

You bend forward the slightest bit, they don’t notice.

Ay, you say, we made it. We succeeded among them, without ever becoming them.

They look at you with big, pained eyes. And then they smile and smile and smile.