The Suzuki Method of Actor Training

Performance Styles

29 May

Context

The 1960’s were an era of transition in Japan. "There was great confusion as Japan moved from an agricultural to an industrial society," (Suzuki) recalls. "You had large populations accumulating in metropolitan areas, rapid economic growth, and tensions between the values of the traditional and modern periods. There was social anxiety, and lots of student demonstrations.

"So instead of finding employment," Suzuki smiles, "a group of us decided to start a theatre with me as its leader. We were creating a theatre to posit a response to the identity crisis that existed in Japan at that time."

Intent

If I have to articulate the raison d'être for the existence of theatre in simple words, it is a cultural device that seeks to find out how to confront difference and sameness, coincidence and necessity for human beings, as well as how to confront a group of peoples and nations.

My training for actors was devised out of the need to know how to make the invisible that reside inside this visible body feel like as if the former are out there for us to see, and how to make the superiority of his concentration on them a standardized value system that can be shared among the collective.

Suzuki, For the Future of Theatre

Τhe essence of theatre lies in the presence of the actors

Tadashi Suzuki For the Future of Theatre

Theatre has ceased to be something very vital.

Suzuki, One Step on a Journey.

Theatre as art form that has fallen asleep, and I feel that Mr. Suzuki’s work is an alarm clock.

Leon Ingulsgrud, SITI Company member and Suzuki’s translator.

Animal Energy

Performing is a series of moments of survival.

Through training, one may tap into what I call animal energy.

The Grammar of the Feet

If we apply this criterion to the theatre, we notice that most contemporary stage productions are modernized and rely heavily on non-animal energy.

In its essence, Noh is pervaded by the spirit of creating something purely out of human skill and effort—so much so that it can be thought of as an epitome of the pre-modern theatre. It is an endeavour driven by animal energy.

Just as the eyes’ natural capacity to see has been diminished through the invention and use of the microscope, etc., modernization has severed our natural organs from our essential selves, entrusting an increasingly larger portion of their workload to non-animal energy.”

Culture is the Body
There is nothing outside of yourself that can ever enable you to get better, stronger, richer, quicker, or smarter. Everything is within, everything exists. Seek nothing outside of yourself.

Miyomoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings

Culture of the Body

The Invisible Body
Through disciplined, integrated development of these three parameters, the body gains strength and agility, the voice acquires range and capacity and an awareness of the “other” grows. Such work develops the expressive potency needed to transmit the actor’s point of view. It follows, then, that the core requirements for the art of acting lie in disciplines created to deepen an awareness of these three crucial, interrelated, “invisible” phenomena.

For the Future of Theatre

If your productions are only talking to people with whom you share a common language and culture—that's entertainment," he remarks. "But if the work is appreciated by those outside your language, culture, and values—that's art. The theatre has a language barrier against multinational participation, so my goal is to diminish that language barrier." Still, he does not eschew his roots, or the spoken word, for that matter.

For the Future of Theatre

Actors convey emotions and ideas through the sounds and rhythm of language as opposed to the words. No, this is not a realistic acting style.

My theatrical practice is a critique of this modern thinking, the thinking that evaluates people and space from the perspective of homogeneity. I believe that theatre has been needed by many people because it has existed as an act of confirming that human beings are heterogeneous and cannot be visibly measured by the same standards. Based on this fact, I believe that theatre has appealed for the establishment of common rules for the coexistence of human beings.

Culture is the Body

A Fundamental Technique and Theory of Acting

There is no good acting or bad acting. Acting should be judged by the degree of how profound a reason the actor has to stand on stage.

The Sum of Interior Angles

There are four things that an actor must be aware of at all times. They are the centre of gravity, breathing, energy and voice.

The excellence of his (sic) performance depends on the intensity of his concentration, developed through conscious training in these necessary things. The training of concentration on these is essential for the actor who presents his body and utters his voice from the stage to the audience.

For the Future of Theatre

If these three concepts constitute Suzuki’s ontology, then the following would be the means in which they manifest in performance through training in the Suzuki Method of Actor Training. These aspects are all inter-related with none able to exist independently of the others.

Oppositional Tension

The key that draws an audience into dramatic action is tension or conflict. Without it a story and a performance remain in the ordinary, everyday realm. Oppositional tension within the performer and the performance creates an energy, a conflict, a drama in every moment on stage. It provides the resistance that inspires greater commitment to action, an absolute investment to the moment and the potential for extraordinary performance.

Marcus Aurelius said, “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” Part of engaging with our life is to understand that the obstacles we overcome are the things which taught us the greatest lessons. Avoiding or ignoring a problem takes you from your path. Engaging with each problem, even unsuccessfully, progresses your journey. Without these resistances, our lessons may be easier learned, but not better remembered.

Oppositional tension effectively doubles the amount of energy a performer has by generating resistance to whatever it is they are trying to do. Their awareness of when to apply and release this tension heightens their physicality and forces a greater engagement in each moment. It also means that stillness is no longer passive, but the intensely energised motionless of action suspended. By creating resistance, the performer is forced to become more aware of their physicality, specificity and what is necessary or useful tension and where tension impedes or inhibits the free expression of performance.

Suzuki uses the image of an airplane on the runway, building speed to take off. At the moment the plane’s wheels leave the runway, some magical braking system is employed so that, while the plane is at full throttle, the brakes are its equal, holding the aircraft motionless in the air. This is what is referred to as dynamic stillness by French artist Jacques LeCoq. If the brakes were incrementally released, the plane would inch forward at a constant, incredibly slow but completely empowered pace.

Oppositional tension is seen in the Suzuki Method exercises as the energy applied to immediately and precisely stop an action, to ground the performer and provide an implacable base for free expression, of readiness in the performer capable of any action in a split second. Oppositional tension is what gives an action a clear and distinct start and end point. It is the energy that makes stillness riveting to watch; already moving with the brakes on full. It creates a sense of magnetism that draws the audience in. It is the extraordinary energy that underlies the calm exterior. It is not something that is ‘performed’ but exists as the pre-expressive necessity for performance.

This oppositional force is part of the energy the performer creates, not separate from it. Energy and its opposition are two sides of the same whole, like a tapestry expressing beauty on the front, created by the essential weaving on the back. It is in the dialogue between these two forces that the performer’s work gains subtlety and nuance.

In practice, oppositional tension is realised as an engagement of the centre, pulling into the body’s base of stability. Pulling up as you drop down, pulling back as you push forward, pushing down as you raise up means that the action does not just fade away, but is engaged to its very end. This reinforces the importance of moving from the centre and allow the remainder of the body free expression.

Centre and Gravity

In Western cultures the centre of the body is usually considered to be the heart.

Traditionally, this is where emotion is seen to originate, it is the source of connection and empathy and even defines the nature of a person, as in “they have a good heart”. In Western performance traditions, the head and heart are privileged and often lead the body in actions such as the grand jeté of Ballet, transcending the bounds of gravity and coming closer to heaven.

In Japanese culture, the centre of the body is the hara, the area below the navel and above the pubic line. The term is not to be confused with the stomach as this relates to only one of the specific organs within the hara and limits the understanding of the hara to an anatomical position. The hara connects downward to the earth, grounding the performer and providing a sense of gravity. This downward focus can also be seen in the tradition of sitting on the floor and the connection to the rural and natural gods which, in Japan, reside in the earth.

This central point is more than simply the anatomical centre of the body, the meeting of the axes of the homolateral and homologous lines dividing the left/right, upper/lower quadrants of the body; a point which implies a two-dimensional location. It is the three-dimensional, gravitational centre of the body and, more importantly, the centre of energy creation in the body. Like the Western concept of ‘heart’, a person’s hara defines their spirit and essence as stable, centred and balanced. The connection of energy, essence and spirit is why the act of seppuku, or ritual suicide, widely known in the West as hara-kiri, involves the horizontal cutting of the hara and severing the body’s life energy and spirit.

This centre of energy has long been known in Asian performing and martial arts from Kabuki to Aikido which emphasise moving from the hara, or one’s centre of being. The concept is also seen in yoga, acupuncture, Qigong, shiatsu massage, osteopathy and more recently in postural alignment (Feldenkrais, Alexander technique), the neuro-physical therapies of Bartenieff and Cohen, and the movement theories of Rudolf Laban. It is from this point that trained martial and performing artists connect their essence with the world outside the body.

In performance, the hara is what grounds the actor and connects them to the space. Rather than the performer imposing their presence through the conscious clenching of the muscles of the lower abdomen, the pelvic floor, the adductors of the front and inner thigh and the muscles that comprise the hip flexors, an awareness of the centre is all that is necessary to generate a sense of gravity in performance. While these muscles are engaged, they need not be restrictively so, as they are in the movement of a squat exercise for example. In a relaxed state, the performer can imagine that the weight of their body is succumbing to gravity while a string fastened in the middle of the body rising through the crown of the skull, suspends them from above.

In order to experience this physical focus, tension in the upper and lower body needs to be avoided as tight muscles in the shoulders and chest lift the body out of the centre. Likewise, the performer who privileges the mind and intellect is often seen as ungrounded or disembodied. The relaxed/ready state also requires the knees need to be soft and slightly bent rather than locked, and the feet in contact with the floor to the fullest possible extent.

The hara can be considered a starting point of the energetic exchange vital to performance, or for that matter, any human interaction. As a source and depository of energy, fuelled by and feeding the action of the body, the performer’s energy radiates out into the space, connecting to the energy flow of other performers creating a cycle within connecting to a cycle without. This shared cycle between the two performers then connects with the energy of the audience, which feeds back to the performers and then into each individual before emanating back out again. The hara is the anchor for this exchange within each individual.

In a physical sense, with the upper body remaining light on a solid foundation, the torso, arms, hands and face are freed to meet the more expressive action of which they are capable. In terms of connection, a centred performer can more easily connect energetically with the space, their fellow performers and the audience. Being embodied, this connection has a physical quality that is missing if the performer is merely focused on conceptual thought or imaginings.

When this is employed, not only is the performer grounded in the space, but the emanate a sense of gravity, complete with all of its connotations – there is a weight, a seriousness and profundity to their presence and once there is gravity, it magnetically draws the audience’s attention.

The Energetic Exchange

The energetic exchange is at the heart of any interaction. While some may dismiss the esoteric ideas of auras and spirit, anatomically human beings exist as electro-chemical beings that radiate energy.

The integration of all of the elements of a performance – the physical, vocal, psychological, and spiritual – is more effective the less there is blocking this energy. The performer, even in stillness can generate an extraordinary amount of energy within all of these elements and combined, there is a synergy where the sum of a performer’s energy becomes greater than the combined energy generated within each.

This is extraordinary energy and what Suzuki refers to as animal, or primal energy.

As many people have experienced for themselves, this energy is often felt in heightened situations. Even in a darkened room we can sense the presence of another living creature. We can unconsciously react, move on impulse, and intuit much about our environment and the people in it when we relax our analytical mind and allow our senses our full attention. There have even been some fascinating experiments performed by Masuro Emoto that show the effect of different types of energy on the physical world. Emoto discovered that the patterns formed by ice changed drastically if the water was exposed to positive or negative language, regardless of the dialect, before freezing (Emoto, 2004, The Hidden Messages in Water).

We are sensitive to the energy others emit. We sense a friend’s bad mood, group laughter is infectious and we are often told to ‘read the room’ when we are not showing this awareness. We find some people immediately appealing and some people unpleasant or repellent without them even saying a word. Our sense of them is based on our interpretation of their energy, influenced by our prejudices (our own blocks) and by what the other is projecting (their blocks).

Most of the time our awareness is spread broadly in order to prepare us for any potential threat, but if this active listening energy is focused into a deliberate attention, it can affect change in its target. When two performers are actively listening to each other, their energy meets in a dynamic negotiation, responding to each other authentically. The energy that was generated to such a degree internally to integrate the elements of performance, the inner or personal energetic system, spills externally and encounters that of others creating the ensemble energetic system. Combined this creates an extraordinary engagement with the fiction, grounded in the truth of physical presence on stage. This synergy then generates an incredible energy that expands beyond the stage and connects with the audience, individually and collectively feeding their energy back to the performers, which in turn feeds back to and affects the individual performer.

The quality of your energy as a performer affects the quality of your relationship with your ensemble and the ‘text’, which in turn affects your relationship with the audience and likewise in reverse. This is the energetic exchange. When one considers Suzuki’s quote that “there is no good or bad acting, only the profound reason the actor has to stand on stage”, it is clear that the reason must be bigger than oneself.

The training does more than ask the performer to generate extraordinary energy, but to become aware of its subtle variations and interactions as part of the ecosystem of actor, audience, and performance. In this way they make themselves indismissable; not waiting for the event, being the event. It means putting something at stake and risking something. Anything else is switching off and if you dismiss yourself, the audience will too.

The Integrated Whole

It’s difficult to look in a mirror and see your whole face.

You see an eye, a nose, a blemish, a self-conscious expression.

My nose is too big. Ears are weird. My eyes have so many colours in them. My face isn’t perfectly symmetrical. We’re too close and define ourselves by dominant features only, losing the beauty of the whole picture to a generalisation based on only one aspect.

We never manage to focus holistically, only managing to piece together an image that we call identity from the accumulation of individual pieces. But the ego screams “Like any person, I am more than that!”, and yet we still do exactly the same to others, defining them by Individual aspects judged on our personal hierarchy of important features. Child, parent, Asian, Arabic, Hindu, Catholic, great personality, cool shoes. This is what Sartre called bad faith – your identity based on others’ prejudice and perspective and without the knowledge of the full complexity of your self-identity. Only the most open to observation and least hindered by prejudice see the holistic individual; that part of us which is greater than the sum of the parts.

This ‘greater than’ (<) can be seen in psychological terms as integrating the conscious and unconscious mind, or in spiritual terms as the part of us that is not corporeal, or psychological.

Unconsciously we focus on one thing and define the whole accordingly. Suzuki training is confronting because it shows the whole, including the parts we would prefer not to have and the parts we block ourselves from having. It does this through forms, or kata that strip away the individual and idiosyncratic, showing the component parts for what they are – individual, yet integrated. Anne Bogart once said that the way to show individual difference was to make people do the same thing. Through the form, the individual’s presence becomes apparent, as does that which is blocking it. The block stands out of harmony with the holistic performance by the actor. Blocks often manifest as tension, a resistance to the free flow of energy, withdrawing or trying too hard as an ego fear response. When nothing is differentiated and everything integrated without constraint, we see the whole body relative to itself. Freed of these added layers of constructed meaning, the inner life – the energetic quality that some call attitude, spirit or presence – becomes observable.

The voice is a physical act. The mind has a psychosomatic effect on the body. Each affect the other and can never work in isolation, but in the dynamic relationship between them, something greater is created. The integrated whole – physical, vocal, psychological, and spiritual – is the return to the primal state the Suzuki was looking for. The state where, like the Shaman of old, the performer transforms, creating something from nothing, their bodies a vessel for the inspiration of the gods; literally in spiratos; breathing life into ideas.

The inspiration connects the mind, the breath the body and voice and, in the space, it changes the vibrations in the air in and around the stage and audience. The integration means that the whole of the performer exists in every action, every gesture, every movement, every breath, every look and their stillness. The integrated performer is the holistic performer who can channel their entire being into changing the angle of their chin, or the breath they take in stillness.

The same integration exists from the macro to the micro – from within each actor to the integration between actors in a cast and scenes in a performance. None can exist independently of each other, or ignore any part of the whole. To paraphrase Sandford Meisner, an actor must accept every part of themself – the good, the bad and the ugly – as whatever is not accepted cannot be used. As Goethe said, “There is nothing human of which I am incapable.”

Discomfort - either physical or psychological - and fear are usually the cause of not accepting the parts of ourselves which challenge our ego. These become blocks, self-imposed limitations on the energy and full potential of performance.

The integrated whole, the <, is difficult to discover with a chattering mind and in this way, the kata in the Suzuki Method become a form of moving meditation. The physical grounding in the moment, the forms that when practiced require no conscious thought, but rather free the mind from judgement allowing unhindered but considered expression are all very similar. Like meditation, the Suzuki Method is not a form that can be perfected, just practiced, which means the emphasis is not on it being understood, but performed, felt and applied to life.