Life and Lines

I would estimate, wildly, that only about 5% of people portray themselves convincingly when provided with scripted lines. Sometimes for television and film that’s good enough, when the person is interesting to look at and has an entertaining persona. Far fewer people can play a type of character well, even after some practice and the role suits the person’s natural characteristics. However, the rarest level of mastery is the ability to convincingly portray a character who is distinctly different from oneself. It demands an understanding of human psychology, an acute awareness of bodily nuances, and the ability to transcend one’s own limitations and biases. When an actor reaches this point—where they are not just mimicking but truly inhabiting another life, with all its complexities and subtleties—that's when they transition from being an entertainer to an artist. In accomplishing this, they achieve something remarkable: the creation of an entirely new life through their performance. The actor becomes more than an engaging vessel for storytelling; they become co-creators of a vivid, emotional reality.

Podcast #14

The Raven

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

A Little Bit of Drama

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

 

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

 

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

 

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

 

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

 

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

 

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

 

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

 

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

 

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

 

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore! 

Podcast #13

A Poison Tree & Suicide in the Trenches

BY WILLIAM BLAKE, SIEGFRIED SASSOON

A Little Bit of Drama

“A Poison Tree” by William Blake 

I was angry with my friend; 

I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 

I was angry with my foe: 

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

 

And I watered it in fears, 

Night and morning with my tears: 

And I sunned it with smiles, 

And with soft deceitful wiles. 

 

And it grew both day and night. 

Till it bore an apple bright. 

And my foe beheld it shine, 

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole, 

When the night had veiled the pole; 

In the morning glad I see; 

My foe outstretched beneath the tree. 

 

….. 

“Suicide in the Trenches” by Siegfried Sassoon 

I knew a simple soldier boy 

Who grinned at life in empty joy, 

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, 

And whistled early with the lark. 

 

In winter trenches, cowed and glum, 

With crumps and lice and lack of rum, 

He put a bullet through his brain. 

No one spoke of him again. 

 

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye 

Who cheer when soldier lads march by, 

Sneak home and pray you'll never know 

The hell where youth and laughter go. 

Podcast #12

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

A Little Bit of Drama

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Podcast #11

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways

BY WILLIAM WORDSWOTH

A Little Bit of Drama

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Besides the spring of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

Podcast #10: Episode 2

POEMS

BY ROBERT WALKER

A Little Bit of Drama

DAWN
Dead shadows dance in the night
yearning for the dawn.
Cold and forgotten walking scars,
drained by decay,
wasted by time,
stretch out,
hungered and blurred,
to a spark ignited,
climbing,
rising from the ground.
From the last depths,
rays of hope entwine in the sky,
kissing the hills;
breathing new life
and wonders layered in light.
Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.

THE OUTER VIEW
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.

Podcast #9: The Outer View

THE OUTER VIEW

BY ROBERT WALKER

A Little Bit of Drama

Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.

Podcast #8

“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE”

– HAMLET IN HAMLET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (ACT 3, SCENE 1)

A Little Bit of Drama

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

Rhythm and Words

When bobbing along in iambic pentameter, with perfect metre and pace, 1000 lines of Shakespeare is about 1 hour – or all night when fulfilling the words and their meaning.

Podcast #7

JABBERWOCKY

BY LEWIS CARROLL

A Little Bit of Drama

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Podcast #6: Dawn

DAWN

BY ROBERT WALKER

A Little Bit of Drama

Dead shadows dance in the night
yearning for the dawn.
Cold and forgotten walking scars,
drained by decay,
wasted by time,
stretch out,
hungered and blurred,
to a spark ignited,
climbing,
rising from the ground.
From the last depths,
rays of hope entwine in the sky,
kissing the hills;
breathing new life
and wonders layered in light.
Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.

Podcast #5

"Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame"

- SONNET 129 BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

A Little Bit of Drama

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Journal 2020-10-04

Recorded Sonnet 129 in one take. I didn’t plan how to do it - I just absorbed the words and wanted to see what happened.

The result is interesting, like nothing I have heard before.

The character speaking is not one you should let seduce you.

Podcast #4

"When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes"

- Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare

A Little Bit of Drama

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Podcast #3: Episode 1 - Intro

Hello and welcome.

A Little Bit of Drama

Excerpts (in order of appearance):

• Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare.
• Hamlet in Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
• Antony in Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare.
• Iago in Othello by William Shakespeare.
• Mike in West by Steven Berkoff.

Music:

• Night Eyes: https://youtu.be/IkLQJnXHj5E.
• Play Me Again: https://youtu.be/PoPdSDGUASU.
• Come Take It All: https://youtu.be/ajJVdmp9-s8.

Podcast #2

“I HATE THE MOOR”

– IAGO IN OTHELLO BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (ACT 1, SCENE 3)

A Little Bit of Drama

Iago is such a terrifying character because he revels in what he is doing. The motivating reasons can be analysed: broken pride, a sense of betrayal, jealousy, ambition, desire for power over others - or even unrequited love turned sour, if you want to read it that way. It’s true that villains often fool themselves into believing their actions are justified, or the fault of fate or caused by others; but the main factor with Iago is that he knows he is the villain and sadistically enjoys the suffering he causes. His motivation is the full embracing of enmity.

IAGO:

I hate the Moor: 
And it is thought abroad, that ‘twixt my sheets 
He has done my office: I know not if’t be true; 
But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, 
Will do as if for surety. He holds me well; 
The better shall my purpose work on him. 
Cassio’s a proper man: let me see now: 
To get his place and to plume up my will 
In double knavery—How, how? Let’s see:— 
After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear 
That he is too familiar with his wife. 
He hath a person and a smooth dispose 
To be suspected, framed to make women false. 
The Moor is of a free and open nature, 
That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, 
And will as tenderly be led by the nose 
As asses are. 
I have’t. It is engender’d. Hell and night 
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light.

Podcast #1

“FRIENDS, ROMANS, COUNTRYMEN”

– ANTONY IN JULIUS CAESAR BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (ACT 3, SCENE 2)

A Little Bit of Drama

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men–
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

Journal 2020-07-19

I think I’ve found a new thing. I’m really enjoying putting a podcast together on drama - and am working out how best to film some of the recordings. It will include some of my music as well.

Journal 2020-07-12

I’m interested in performing great monologues from literature - it seems easy to upload audio as a podcast and also filmed versions for a YouTube channel.

I’ve been looking for a podcast where I can listen to dramatic performances of literature, but am finding mostly dry monotone readings of poetry. Monologues on YouTube seem to be mostly non-realistic anger and angst.