How Oscar went mad
Anyone who is disturbed by the occasional but unmistakeable theatrical luvvie tones of entries on this site should probably look away now.
According to Mark Lawson — who is, in my opinion at least, rarely wrong on arts matters — the best way for an actor to get an almost certain Oscar nomination in these competitive times is to play the mental breakdown card:
“… academy voters are responding to the kind of acting which is easiest to spot: substantial physical transformation … When she appears as a genius with Alzheimer’s — two large strides away from her own mind — Judi Dench’s craft is more apparent than if she were playing a sixtysomething Englishwoman living in Hampstead, although the latter might be a more technically challenging task.”
It’s a horribly cynical approach, when analysed in that way. But it’s sadly true that portraying any form of mental illness is immediately seized upon as a demonstration of acting at its best, which supposedly pushing performers to their creative limit.
Well, I’ve got some shock news. As Mark Lawson suggests, playing ‘madness’ (I can feel my previously politically correct status plummeting already) is relatively easy, at least on the surface. Many average actors have suddenly been critically applauded when they’ve taken on such a role; a few anguished expressions and a little odd behaviour convinces audiences and critics far too easily. It’s in danger of becoming just another tick-box on the career path towards achieving the status of Seriously Respected Thespian: “Ah, here it is, the Mental Health question — oh yes, dahlings, I’ve done that one. Tick. So, when are the nominations published?”
This isn’t a criticism of Judi Dench’s portrayal of Iris Murdoch’s final years with Alzheimer’s in the film Iris, which I thought was superb. Instead, it’s an admission that quality performances such as these, where one feels that the actor has investigated the role thoroughly and has genuinely sought to understand the realities of the particular mental condition they’re being asked to play, may get lost amongst all the other portrayals that are based on a few external characteristics but lack any real emotional depth. Such pedestrian acting still impresses awards juries and audiences alike, however, because the performers are doing the whole ‘mental’ thing. (Some more very politically incorrect terminology used there, I know, but only because I imagine that’s what they’re thinking when they watch these films). As Mark Lawson suggests, would Judi Dench have been as lauded if the movie had concentrated entirely on the later years of Iris Murdoch’s life before the onset of Alzheimer’s Disease, even if the acting had required far greater technical ability? Probably not.
Maybe I’m asking too much. Because I have an interest in performance, I tend to analyse these things too deeply. They’re only movies, after all. If audiences are willing to bestow their highest praises upon a performance that contains a few obvious external signifiers and little else, then I suppose I’m in the minority.
I should think everyone knows this famous anecdote by now — but just in case you don’t, it does illustrate the point. During the making of Marathon Man in 1976, Dustin Hoffman was immersing himself in his Method Acting preparation by going without sleep for days to achieve the necessary frazzled state of his character, Babe. Hoffman’s co-star, Sir Laurence Olivier, was from an entirely different school. Despite being fêted as the greatest Shakespearean actor of his generation, he used to claim that he never understood a character until he found the right hat. Distinctly unimpressed by Hoffman’s behaviour, Olivier turned to him and commented, “Why don’t you try acting, my good man? It’s much easier.” Although it’s an almost heretical thing to say in some circles, you might not be surprised to learn that I’ve never been a great fan of Olivier. Somehow, I think acting requires a little more than simply finding the right hat.