I
began my search for The Text’s co-director, You, at John Marshall Media in
New York. I’d interviewed some promising candidates but finding the right You proved
to be an elusive and exhausting endeavor: Aunt Mary showed up under
thirteen aliases. Often, I observed even articulate Yous struggling to
coherently express their function as the narrator’s significant other
co-director in succinct, actable vocabulary.
Finally: A minor miracle. My last You of the
day wafted into the studio. After minimal pleasantries, a perusal of You’s
Narrator’s award-winning audio book vitae, I was treated to an itemization—proffered
with seminal clarity—of You’s co-director responsibilities. You’s
actable directions immediately convinced me—and
here transparency compels me to note that my condition for acceptance was that You’s
views on technique be commensurate with those I espouse and teach—that I’d found the narrator’s quintessential
co-director: You.
I said, impetuously: “You, I want you.”
Surprised, You said, “You?”
“No, You!” I repeated. “Not me.”
“You,” said You, raising a congratulatory fist
in the air.
“But, what about You?” said You.
At that point I sprinted out the control room
for our engineer, Tony Van Hoorn. I beckoned: “I have You.”
“Me?” said Tony.
“No, You.”
“Who?”
Having worked with Tony over a decade, he
politely and typically nonplussed, ignored my obfuscation, and trundled into
the control room.
“Take You into the booth,” I asked Tony. “Please.”
“Me?” Tony said.
“Oy. Sorry, Tony. I pointed. “You.”
“Oh,” said Tony. “You!”
Settled in the booth in front of two mikes, I tentatively
began.
PAUL: You, welcome. Ah, this is gonna get
syntactically tricky. Can you, I mean, we, can we sort of try and figure You out?
YOU: You is an open book.
I noticed Tony’s head had disappeared in his
hands.
PAUL: So, you are You only. No me or I?
YOU: You does prefer You. But let’s go
grammatically conventional.
PAUL: I thank you.
YOU: I—ugh!—thank
you. I! So déclassé.
I exhaled prayerful relief.
PAUL: Okee-dokee. You. Remember what you
initially told me needed definition before you could enumerate a single actable
direction for narrators?
YOU: You do. Sorry. I do.
I felt identity-secure.
YOU: That my directions are techniques. And technique is defined as an actable performance tool whose purpose is to
cause compelling storytelling. My job-one is to provide the narrator with an
actable, self-directing roadmap that compensates for what appears to be the
irreversible trend.
PAUL: Working either alone in a home studio or
with an engineer.
YOU: Directionless
storytelling.
PAUL: How about I specify various narrator acting
challenges. You then tell me how You, as the storyteller’s
co-director, actably address them.
YOU: Glad actably
was used. That’s vital. Only actable directions transform performance, and
quickly I’d add.
PAUL: Narrators don’t have all day.
YOU: Amen!
PAUL: Some narrators sound emotionally
uncertain, whether it’s about what a character is feeling or the narrative’s
mood.
YOU: Because they haven’t emotionally connected to the text and therefore
can’t help reading or announcing it.
PAUL: Problem noted.
YOU: Now the actable antidote. While looking at
the text in preparation to record, Direction #1: Verbalize your emotional state, silently or aloud. Don’t utter the
first word till you know how you feel: Happy, sad, frustrated, angry, etc. Whatever
the subtext is telling you.
PAUL: You are directing your narrator to hit
the page emoting.
YOU: Precisely. Too often, I’ve tapped my
narrator’s psychic shoulder in mid-sentence and whispered, ‘hey, what are you
feeling? Right now?’ Silence.
PAUL: And why was that?
YOU: Because my narrator wasn’t acting, just
speaking words unfelt.
PAUL: And your narrator’s eventual response?
YOU: Something like, ‘Well, I’m just painting
the picture, setting the scene, or the character you know, comes from a bad
home.’
PAUL: But what if the text isn’t emotionally clear?
YOU: The narrative’s subtext—where
emotionality quivers—may not be immediately recognizable or obvious
or, arguably, evident. But, think of it this way: Does the author ever intend
for the listener to be disengaged? Ever? Besides, emotionality is inherent in
language. So it is incumbent upon narrators to dig into the subtext, like a
crazed ferret if necessary, locate feeling, reveal it. Trust me, an emotionless
word is an oxymoron.
PAUL: Okay, so assuming the narrator
immediately connects to the text, what other actable directions can they employ
to maintain that connection?
YOU: Meaning, what specific techniques can
narrators physicalize, like a switch!
PAUL: If you say so.
YOU: Name the challenges, I’ll name the switches.
Oh, and these techniques are all modulation eradicators. Just thought I’d
mention that perk.
PAUL: Okay: Point of view, the moment,
characters that speak like real people and most importantly, emotional
commitment to the subtext.
YOU: Direction #2 covers all those bases: Hold back, hold back, hold back; don’t let
the words out easily.
PAUL: You have some explaining to do.
YOU: Well, that’s what You, ah, I am here for.
PAUL: Hold back suits all genres, comedy and
drama?
YOU: One size fits all. And it’s physicalized
like a switch, flick!
PAUL: So, axiomatically.
YOU: Hold back, you’re in the ballpark; pour forth,
you’re out.
PAUL: You’ve got my attention.
YOU: When I catch my narrator la-dee-da
modulating in a syncopated, smooth, or sing-song rhythm, where the micro spaces
between each word and sentence are identical, I direct: Hold back! Don’t let
those words come out easily, metronome-like, as if you know what you’re going
to say in advance.
PAUL: So you’re directing the narrator who is speaking
one word behind the other at the same pace to pause non-rhythmically.
YOU: More like choke off the next word or sentence,
and do not speak it.
PAUL: Until?
YOU: The subtext is discovered.
PAUL: And literally holding back flicks that
discovery switch?
YOU: That’s the technique.
PAUL: What triggers the emotional discovery?
YOU: Ask a neurologist. I only know that this
physicalized technique forces narrators out of their inauthentic (because
they’re merely rhythmically vocalizing words) comfort zone, and in those micro,
held back moments, guess what pops through the text?
PAUL: The subtext.
YOU: Voila! And in those hesitated,
non-articulated moments lurks point of view, the moment, discovery and a rhythm
that more accurately represents the way real people speak.
PAUL: That’s storytelling.
YOU: You would say so!
PAUL: You did. So, let’s narrow our focus to drama.
YOU: Direction # 3: Flat, flat, flat.
PAUL: Not applicable to comedy?
YOU: No. It is a dramatic narrative’s best
friend direction.
PAUL: Best friend?
YOU: Because, whether fiction or non-fiction, Flat, Flat, Flat simultaneously
liberates organic emotion and eliminates PBES.
PAUL: PBES?
YOU: Phony Baloney Emphasis Syndrome.
PAUL: You mean non-organic modulation. How so?
YOU: First book my narrator recorded, all the
words were reported, as if their emotionality had been surgically removed. Oh,
myriad voice-over special effects, but no feeling. Psst! Try this: As you
narrate, no emphasis.
PAUL: Not a single word?
YOU: Nada.
PAUL: But-
YOU: Boring? The absolute opposite.
PAUL: Really?
YOU: Flat, flat, flat deprives the narrator his
reflexive lurch to PBES. And when the narrator is reeeaaally flat, it’s as if a
trap door opens, revealing?
PAUL: The subtext.
YOU: Begging for connection.
PAUL: But what about emphasis?
YOU: See, flat, flat, flat isn’t an outcome
whose endgame is speaking in a monotone. It’s an actable, storytelling
technique that switches on organic subtext discovery and is simultaneously
lights out to PBES.
PAUL: Bottom line: Each time narrators
literally flatten the voice?
YOU: PBES scoots and the luscious subtext is
revealed to be intuitively felt.
PAUL: So long as we’re on dramatic threes-
YOU: Direction #4: Less, Less, Less!
PAUL: Less what?
YOU: Volume, voice!
PAUL: Axiomatically.
YOU: Caution: Axiom risks one size fits all.
But it also provides a palpable measure the actor can at least use to
concretely regard the concept.
PAUL: Okay, then. Axiomatically!
YOU: Less is more.
PAUL: Kind of trite, no.
YOU: I stand by trite! Take a third person
description of some unsuspecting lamb of a character about to be slow-mo sliced
and diced by the scythe-wielding serial killer.
PAUL: There’s a ten on the dramatic stakes
scale.
YOU: Ya think!
PAUL: So you, I mean You-
YOU: Yeah, yeah, I know.
PAUL: Right. You direct your narrator, how?
YOU: Les, less, less! Stage whisper if the
stakes are threatening, painful, gruesome or just plain horrifyingly gross.
PAUL: Doesn’t less volume remove dramatic
choices that demand volume?
YOU: The dead
opposite! Less voice opens more vocal
choices, not fewer.
PAUL: Explain.
YOU: Remember, audio book narration occurs in a
booth where the technology can tolerate limited volume. You can scream your
brains out in a stage whisper, but not in full voice.
PAUL: So, listeners’ willing suspension of
disbelief means that they will emotionally connect to a viscous,
stage-whispered howl, even if the line says, ‘She screamed at the top of her
lungs’?
YOU: Yes. Audio book storytelling is an
intimate medium: So, you scream intimately.
PAUL: Full blast would disconnect the listener.
YOU: And deafen the engineer. Finally, less
voice imagines drama’s aesthetic soul: Fear, suspense, anger, etc. Less voice
is an actable technique that instantly warns: Uh-oh, something is up here, and
it’s gruesome.
PAUL: What about comedy? Since time is short,
your most potent comedy direction.
YOU: In threes.
PAUL: Natch!
YOU: Direction #5: Big, Big, BIG!
PAUL: Opposite of less.
YOU: Of course. Humor is predicated on
intellectual recognition—of
an event, human characteristic or foible, etc.—rather than empathy for what’s occurring.
PAUL: So big
comes in where?
YOU: Big
alerts us that even if a character is talking about murder, the author’s
aesthetic request is an associative recognition that will hopefully tickle our
funny bone, rather than cause us to empathize or feel. And, axiomatically-
PAUL: What else.
YOU: Broad means big, broader means bigger.
PAUL: Now translate in actable parlance.
YOU: The more exaggerated the narrative’s
syntax, axiomatically, the more license the text gives the narrator to vocally
exaggerate: Long, melodramatic pauses; heightened energy, exaggerated emphasis,
etc.
PAUL: Non-fiction. What’s the fundamental
actable direction that addresses this genre’s unique performance challenge?
YOU: Direction #6: Dispassionately teach passionately.
PAUL: Sounds cryptic.
YOU: I’ll open the crypt.
PAUL: Uh-huh.
YOU: Fiction emotionally connects character and
story to listeners. Non-fiction connects only the author’s feelings about his narrative to listeners.
PAUL: How do you account for non-fiction’s powerful
events and characters?
YOU: Right, but the non-fiction narrator’s only
performance obligation is matching the author’s feelings about characters or
events, not becoming the actual character or internalizing the event as fiction
demands.
PAUL: So, is the non-fiction narrator still
emotionally involved?
YOU: Absolutely! And here’s your actable
trigger: Involved with the author’s need to teach this amazing story.
PAUL:
Why teach?
YOU:
Because that’s non-fiction’s performance purpose: Whether it’s 50 ways to leave
your lover, the rise and fall of an empire or the next disruptive technology.
PAUL:
Where’s the emotionality then?
YOU:
The non-fiction narrator’s job-one is to imbue the narrative with the author’s passion to tell
his story.
PAUL: Kind of like that great teacher we all
had or wished we did.
YOU: Yes, and to be clear, dispassionately
teach passionately directs the narrators’ passion away from involvement with
the story and its characters and to the author’s need for this important story to be understood and appreciated by
the listener.
PAUL: That’s it?
YOU: Oh, no!
PAUL: One last, all encompassing, ballpark
direction.
YOU: For the turnstile to move—whether its comedy, drama,
non-fiction.
PAUL: Drumroll!
YOU: Direction # 7: Up the stakes. Up, up, up.
PAUL:
This is about performance commitment to storytelling, eh.
YOU: When my narrator fails to commit to the
emotional stakes embedded in the narrative, we have a situation: WNA—Wet
Noodle Acting. Trust You, nothing emotionally disconnects listeners more than
WNA.
PAUL: The antidote to WNA?
YOU: If the stakes look like a 5, make ‘em an
8, an 8, make ‘em a 10, and a 10: Drop your socks and grab your-
PAUL: Hey, this is a family blog!
YOU: Then swing on the chandelier!
PAUL: What about over-commitment: Over-acting?
YOU: Over commitment occurs at about the same
rate as having quadruplets. Too often WNA visits and stays like an unwelcome
guest.
PAUL: Okay. How about a wrap-up tweet-count of
actable directions?
YOU: Verbalize feeling; Hold back; Flat; Less; Big;
Dispassionately teach, passionately; Up the stakes!
PAUL: Whoo-hoo! Thank you, You.
YOU: Isn't that redundant.
///
I’m
looking forward to my upcoming NY and LA Narrator’s workshop and, despite the
demands of my MFA creative writing program, to trying to keep up with regular blog
posts. In the future I hope to explore possible relationships between creating
narrative fiction and performing it: Some interesting similarities, I think.