A Life in Parts

Whenever young actors ask me for advice, I always tell them: get your house in order. Your relationships, your health, your personal life: that’s your foundation. If your home life is sane, it allows you to go insane in your work.

Luck also played a part. Any successful actor or writer or artist will tell you that luck is a crucial factor. But the only way to get lucky is to be prepared for luck to find you. Writers write. Actors act. If you’re not constantly applying your talents to your craft, no one is going to stop you on the street and say, “Hey, come write this TV show!” Or, “I want you to star in my movie.”

Robin is my partner in all things. My love. There are a million things I adore about her, but if you pressed me for my absolute favorite thing, it’s that from the moment I met her, through the twenty-seven years we’ve been married, she has maintained this incredible sense of play and wonder. A firefly makes her giddy.

Actors have to have that drive, that instinct that says: this role is mine.

If an actor comes in, and I feel flop sweat and need from them, there is almost no chance I will hire them. Not because they are untalented, but because they haven’t yet come to the place where they trust themselves, so how can I trust they’ll be able to do the job with a sense of ease? Confidence is king.

I was doubting, but I heard no quaver of uncertainty in her voice. Her counsel was soothing. She believed in me.
“Trust the process,” Bill Rausch said. “It’s amazing what the brain will allow you to do. You open your brain and fill it with words, and close it and let it rest. You have to rest. And then the next day you’ll be able to stretch and fill it with more. I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t see it working every day. You have to trust the process.” Bill was a wonderfully open and generous director, supportive and smart.

My grandparents, Otto and Augusta Sell. For taking me in and teaching me tough love and discipline.

We talked for a while, and then I suggested we read some passages.
They were delighted. Since it wasn’t an audition, it would have been awkward for them to ask me to read. But I’m sure they were wondering: Can this guy pull it off?
Together we found out. Robert picked out a scene. How about this one with Hubert Humphrey? I read. They listened. I experimented with putting LBJ’s voice in my body, and suddenly I felt more attached to the role.
At the end of the meeting, we all knew. They liked what I had done, and I liked them. They were not rigid. Nor were they pushovers. I had the strong feeling we’d make a good team. And I could see myself in the part. This could work.
We got the agents involved, signed a deal. We’d open in Boston in the late summer of 2013.
I dove into the research

Before bed, I’d call Robin. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I told her.
“Sure you can,” she said.
“I need more time.”
I thought: I have to be in a place where my body can support this effort, this stress. I tailored my whole existence around the role. I ate oatmeal and vegetables and fish with a squeeze of lemon. No sugar. Few carbs. I pounded water. Every meal, I sat with the script. Every night, homework. Seven days a week, I worked. I needed every minute.
We’d finished blocking the first act and were on to Act Two. A couple of days into that second week, I was feeling desperate and asked for a meeting with the director and writer. Off-site. I didn’t want to talk in the theater. Too close to home. I took them across the street to a park in Cambridge.
“I’m drowning,” I told them. “I’m dying here.”
They exchanged a curious look. “What are you talking about?” they said. “You’re in great shape.”
“I don’t feel that way. I don’t have enough time to be ready.”
“No, no. You’re on track. Keep going.”
Every day I willed myself out of bed. Sit-ups, push-ups, push-ups. A run every other day. Oatmeal. And then into the play. I’d see how well I remembered what I did the day before and then I’d go further. I’d memorize more. By 10:00 a.m., I was at the theater rehearsing. At dusk, I’d go outside with my script just to get some air. I’d eat dinner, then read more sections of the play. I’d go to sleep with the play on my chest and wake up with pages scattered all over my bed.
Except for bike rides with Bill on Mondays and Breaking Bad on Sunday nights, that’s all I did. The play, the play, the play. I stayed on it. The other actors would shoot the breeze, talking about their days off: dinners, day trips. What about this new movie? Did you try that new restaurant?
I was envious and resentful of their freedom. For a minute. And then I went back to work. As we rehearsed, per equity rules, we took periodic fifteen-minute breaks. I’d get some oxygen and do a stretch and then back into the play, reading, rereading, making notes, memorizing. I was never without it. Even when I was going for a run, I was working out how I’d deliver a line, when I’d punch it up, when I’d hold back. The play was always with me.

I don’t work well with that kind of domineering, my-way-or-the-highway type of director or writer. I work better in collaborative environments. Everyone respects each other, challenges each other, and works toward a common goal. The best idea wins.
As part of the storytelling complex, as an actor, I have to be able to know I can ask questions and be heard. I wanted to know if Bill and Robert would allow for that kind of exchange.