Monday, May 3, 1999, was an ordinary day. After signing out at Red Penguin Company, Matthew hailed a cab and reached the Los Angeles School of Performing Arts in North Hollywood before nine o'clock. Today was the first session of the acting class he'd enrolled in.
He pushed open the door to the designated classroom. Because he'd come straight after work, he was late; a dozen students were already standing inside.
There were no desks or chairs. On the wall opposite the door hung a huge mirror.
As Matthew walked over, he quickly scanned the group. A few faces looked faintly familiar, though he couldn't place them—probably actors he'd seen in some Hollywood film.
Anyone who struck him as familiar had to have been in a blockbuster. Ever alert, Matthew wondered if he should start cultivating contacts right here. Networks are built one connection at a time.
He stopped beside the group. A few people glanced at him curiously; seeing a stranger, they quickly looked away.
Greeting strangers is an art, and forcing familiarity rarely ends well. Matthew didn't speak up—then the classroom door swung open and a man carrying a folder walked in.
He was a typical Caucasian, conspicuously bald, clearly past fifty, poised and very much in command.
Ahem…' The bald man coughed deliberately to draw everyone's attention, then smiled. 'Good morning, all.'
Including Matthew, everyone turned. A man that age couldn't be a student—he had to be the instructor.
Sure enough, the man introduced himself: 'I'm David Astor, one of your teachers.'
'I want to get to know you, but no rush—I've set aside a special segment for that.' David Astor cut to the chase. 'You're here to learn acting or to improve your craft. You have six months, and I won't waste your time on idle talk.'
He stepped forward, stopping four metres away. 'I never attended USC's film school or CalArts—I'm not an academic. As far as I know, neither did you. Like you, I'm just an actor hustling in the film world, except I've got forty-plus years of practical experience on you.'
Hearing he wasn't an academic, Matthew felt he'd come to the right place. A wild-card like him might struggle with conservatory methods; learning from another wild card could be far more effective.
Matthew's knowledge was limited—it was only a gut feeling.
David Astor went on, 'I'm happy to share what I know. Most of my skills come from grinding it out on set and summarizing what works. Many seasoned actors learn their craft the same way. Beyond the basics, success depends on personal accumulation and reflection.'
Most listened intently; everyone here harboured a star dream.
'If anyone claims there's an objective yardstick for acting,' David Astor declared, 'ignore them—they're talking nonsense. Judging acting is purely a matter of taste. Sure, there's a mainstream consensus: that's why people think Dustin Hoffman is great. But if you don't like him, you're not wrong—you're just a bit eccentric, at most.'
He clapped his hands. 'All right, enough chatter—let's get to the real class!'
His gaze swept across their faces. 'There are fourteen of you. Pair up. When it's your turn, introduce yourselves, then improvise a scene from the script I'll give you. Show me your level!'
'You have three minutes!'
The instant he finished, Matthew turned to the girl beside him and asked politely, 'Hi, would you like to partner up?'
She glanced at him. Matthew's bright, sunny smile made him instantly likeable.
'Sure.' She gave a slight nod.
Temp partners were chosen casually; like Matthew, most simply picked whoever stood nearest.
Since she hadn't refused, Matthew said courteously, 'I'm Matthew Horner, from Texas.'
The girl smiled back. 'Rachel McAdams, from Canada.'
Her features were a touch angular, but when she smiled a pair of charming dimples appeared. She wasn't strikingly beautiful, yet her smile felt wonderfully comforting.
The fourteen people quickly split into seven pairs. David Astor handed each pair two identical copies of a script, giving them only five minutes to read and discuss before calling up the first two actors, both in their early twenties.
"Begin."
At David Astor's command, the two actors introduced themselves and launched into a very simple dialogue scene.
"What were you doing last night?" the short-haired actor asked first, standing perfectly still. "Why didn't you pick up when I called?"
The long-haired actor across from him spread his hands, looking troubled. "My wife wouldn't let me answer the phone—I couldn't get out!"
The short-haired actor still didn't move, his expression barely shifting. "I waited for you all night at the bar!"
"I didn't want this either," the other man muttered gloomily. "My wife said if I have another drink with you, she'll break my legs..."
The brief dialogue scene ended quickly. Matthew watched them and quietly asked the girl beside him, "Which one do you think was better?"
"The long-haired one," Rachel McAdams answered casually.
Matthew nodded slightly. "Yeah, I think so too.
Though no acting expert, he could clearly tell the long-haired actor had done better than the short-haired one—exactly how, he couldn't say.
"You both feel stiff to me!" David Astor walked up to them. "And wooden!"
He spoke first to the short-haired actor. "Dialogue isn't just about the mouth—it's body language too." He made an exaggerated face. "You barely moved, no small gestures at all, staring straight at him the whole time. It makes you look lifeless!"
Hearing this, Matthew saw the light. Exactly! The short-haired actor had stood stock-still, expression unchanged from start to finish.
David Astor turned to the long-haired actor. "You've got more energy. I saw expressiveness in you, a desire to perform. That's good—keep it up.
Matthew finally understood why the long-haired actor had felt better.
It was one of those things separated by a thin sheet of paper; without someone to poke it through, you might never figure it out.
"Open dialogue scenes like this show up all the time in film and other media. They look simple, but they're not easy to do well!"
David Astor addressed everyone now. "In open conversation, try adding small movements—walk a bit, lift your head, frown, purse your lips, raise a hand. Avoid stiffness. Leads and one-line extras alike can use body language to set the mood.
Matthew committed every word to memory.
After watching that scene, he realized David Astor wasn't an academic. He cared about practical acting, never launching into long speeches on releasing your nature or the merits of representational, experiential, or method acting like the books Matthew had read.
This was a crash course; time was limited. For people without systematic training—especially someone like him with little schooling—hands-on practice beat lofty theory.
If they'd started spouting theory, Matthew figured he'd have been lost in minutes.
Next came a male and female actor with no lines. David Astor cast them as siblings and told them to play the moment they learn the sister has been murdered.
At "Action!" the actress froze, plastering on a "miserable face" and crying to God—weeping as though her real sister had died.
The actor took a different route: first disbelief and shock, then the same miserable face, but with slight tremors in his lips and cheeks, a subtle shake of the head conveying unspeakable grief. David Astor stepped in. "Both of you exceeded my expectations, but I prefer the latter.
Matthew scratched his head; normally the actress seemed closer to real life.
"Remember, this is acting—it serves the play, episode, or film," David Astor explained. "In a scene like this, unless specifically asked, don't burst into tears right away. That doesn't hook the audience. You have to build their emotion.
"Show sadness first," he told the actor, "then pair it with anguished words, or disbelief, or a look of being on the verge of tears. Unleash your sorrow only later, and calibrate it to the story. The character's not dead yet... don't cry them to death before they are."
"All right!" He clapped his hands. "Next!"
The pair returned, another took their place, and after a while it was Matthew's turn.