“WALKING ON”

Greymouth Evening Star, 12 February 1936, Page 12

“WALKING ON”

AN ART IN ITSELF. “Do let me have anything, Mr. Carroll, even a walk on.” How often have I heard that pitiful appeal. And my heart has gone out to the speaker in the remembrance that one day, long ago, I myself stood trembling in the office at the Lyceum of Mr. Bram Stoker, business manager of the illustrious Sir Henry Irving, making very much the same sort of request (writes Sydney W. Carroll, in the London “Daily Telegraph”). A “walk on” is the stage beginner’s first hope. It is frequently his last. For walking on is not quite so simple as it sounds. To walk on the stage the aspirant requires nerve without too much of it, confidence without assurance; certainty without precision; ease without sloppiness. The “walk on” must know how to stand perfectly still; how to avoid interference with other people’s movements; how to “dress” the stage, i.e., to avoid obscuring other actors, and equally to avoid being hidden "himself. He must accustom himself to the circumstance that every stage has a rake—that is, it runs on a slope and sometimes a fairly steep one. To walk on it in a manner that conveys to the audience an idea that there is no slope at all is again by no means so simple. The beginner who walks on has to learn his propel- position and place in the company. If he is, as so often happens, a sufferer- from undue ambition he may try to attract attention to himself by making superfluous movements dr grimaces, which only detract from the true business of the scene.

He must know how to listen, or at least to appear to be listening. He must realise that, unimportant as his role appears to be, he has the power to kill an important scene in which he is only a “walk on” just as easily as can the principal players in it. One lapse from grace and the mischief is done, and mischief that is irreparable. He must know his cues. It is his business to learn that refraining from is as important as acting itself; that repose is the “walk on’s” greatest asset, and that the priceless gift of accurate “timing” is of as much value to him as it is to the most highly paid member of the cast. By “timing” I mean that perfect sense of fitting the action precisely to the moment. There is always an exact second when, to make a movement. There is always an exact rate of speed for each crossing of the stage, graduated according to the dramatic fitness of things. To have the gift of “timing” actions, motions and stops is to possess half the equipment of the true professional. There must be no obvious artifice. Action must come as naturally and as spontaneously and as accurately as Time itself. NOT DULL. People often say to me, “Acting is a dull subject and all actors are dull dogs.” I dissent completely. Some actors are dull enough in their private behaviour, but then so are many literary men, poets especially. Acting is the most exciting of professions, and even the adventure of “walking on” has its unsurpassable thrills.

I can only compare “walking on” to passing along a tight-rope. One mistake and you crash. It is true enough that little children can come on the stage and often behave far more naturally than grown-ups. But that is because they are quite devoid of self-consciousness.

As we grow older we become more sensible of our own powers and defects. Our limitations assert themselves. The knowledge that a thousand pairs of eyes are concentrated upon us, the realisation that criticism in the mass, with possible ridicule, is being swiftly focused upon every single movement of our hand or foot has a tendency to paralyse us and render us subject to stage fright, in which norrid condition we appear as blithering imbeciles let loose for a walk against footlights. > Be kind to the poor “walk on.” Praise is never for him. The panegyrics that pour thickly on the heads of “stars” leave him untouched. The worst-paid member of the troupe, he frequently has to make more changes of clothes and make-up than Fregoli had to do. The first to come to the theatre jand the last to leave it, he is only sustained by that forlorn belief in his future, without which life to him would be unbearable. He has all the spurious glory of full inclusion in a profession which secretly scorns him and fails to recognise his talent. They also serve who only stand and wait. The “walk on” seldom has any “waits,” and seems to spend his life in standing, if not upon the stage, outside the stage door or the manager’s office waiting for another chance to imitate Johnnv Walker.