Gary Cassidy and Simone Knox

In our last blog post, we examined the acting by a female performer in a strong ensemble cast – Jennifer Aniston in

 Friends

(NBC, 1994-2004) – and today we will do the same again.

WHAT ACTORS DO: MERRITT WEVER IN NURSE JACKIE

So far in our blog strand, we have been looking at moments of performance that are quite noticeably (if not obviously)

 about performance

in some way, where the actor demonstrates an impressive level of skill via their use of their own body (Robert Lindsay’s twitch in

 G.B.H.

(Channel 4, 1991)) or an unusual prop (Charles Dance’s skinning of a deer stag in

 Game of Thrones

(HBO, 2011-present)). Today, we wish to pay

WHAT ACTORS DO: JENNIFER ANISTON IN FRIENDS

'You Win or You Die', the seventh episode from the first season of *Game
of Thrones* (HBO, 2011-present), contains a scene that has deservedly
gathered attention and acclaim. One of the moments when the television
series moves away from its source material, fans and
[critics](http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/showtracker/2012/03/game-of-thrones-executive-producer-db-weiss.html){target="_blank"}
alike have praised the introduction of Tywin Lannister's character, who,
played by Charles Dance, has a discussion with his son Jamie (Nikolaj
Coster-Waldau) concerning House Lannister's embroilment in the civil war
that is unfolding in Westeros, whilst skinning a deer stag. [Watch it
here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47MazYDnmaU){target="_blank"}.

Quite refreshingly, discursive attention has not been negatively centred
on issues of adaptation and fidelity,[\[1\]](#_ftn1){#_ftnref1} but has
instead paid recognition to the imaginative symbolism (the stag is the
animal of the House Baratheon, a key rival for the Lannisters), the use
of a real deer stag during production, as well as the fact that actor
Charles Dance practised with a butcher prior to filming. Our attention
lies with Dance's acting and the way in which this gives texture to his
characterisation of Tywin Lannister, in way that interestingly touch on
issues concerning performance.

[![A2](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/A2.png "A2"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="196"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/A2.png)

[![A3](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/A3.png "A3"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="196"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/A3.png)

[![A4](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/A4.png "A4"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="193"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/A4.png)Just
as well [he is not a
vegetarian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEzpu4H9gGg&t=3m40s){target="_blank"}:
Charles Dance skins a deer.

What is worth noting about this scene is that, first of all, it actually
exhibits a lot of the skinning and butchering: unlike the familiar sight
of a character playing the piano within a camera framing that just so
happens to separate the character's head/torso from the (talent
double's) piano-playing hands, the composition and cutting here
emphasise, if not insist, that it is Charles Dance who is physically
handling an animal carcass. Whilst the sequence is a composite of
different takes (as the switch of the knife reveals), over the course of
the four and a half minutes, we do see (and hear) Charles Dance cutting
through flesh and sinew, pulling out guts, yanking back flaps of skin,
and even placing one of the animal's haunches over his shoulder. With
short, sharp, powerful hand movements, nasal grunts, and visceral sound
effects for the work of knife and hands, this sequence renders a visible
(and audible) performance, of strength and skill, by character and
actor.

That this scene was devised and included already sets up something about
the intentions for the character: keeping up his physical skills, Tywin
Lannister is introduced as a man who is always prepared, engaged in all
aspects of warfare and who recognises the importance of physical actions
and power (and their display). The quality of movement, enabled by the
actor having received some training, is crucial, however, in terms of
characterisation: the forceful, methodical, decisive and efficient
economy of movement of the knife through different textures leaves no
doubt that this character, whilst not revelling in violence for the sake
of it, nevertheless is both willing and able to do what is necessary
(for him, this is hinged around the protection and continued rise to
power of the House Lannister). This encapsulates on the level of gesture
and movement the text's wider preoccupation with moral complexities; as
Shannon Wells-Lassagne (2013, 417) observes, 'the clear-cut villains
that seem to people the novels soon prove to be more understandable
villains, while the actions of the heroes are increasingly less morally
palatable.'

[![B1](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/B1.png "B1"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="195"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/B1.png)

[![B2](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/B2.png "B2"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="196"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/B2.png)

That will come out in the wash: a look of knowledge and composure.

Ironically, the dialogue of the scene at one point concerns itself with
the use of 'clean' working methods for what is essentially the dirty
business of warfare; and the theme of cleanliness and dirtiness is not
only reflexively echoed in Charles Dance's efficient handling of the
knife, but also further developed in his repeated wiping of his hands.
Necessary on a practical level for the handling of the knife, this
cleansing of the hands of blood and visceral slime symbolically reflects
the cost of doing what is necessary. This act, especially through its
noticeable duration, implies that Tywin's larger goal will entail
repeated dirty acts, and -- crucially for long-running and narratively
complex television -- will involve not only the climactic act of
killing, but also its aftermath and repercussions. Fascinatingly, Dance
looks at his hands before and while he is wiping them, instead of, for
example, seeking more eye contact with his son. This suggests a sense of
self-knowledge and steely composure for the character, who is aware of
his actions and the costs they entail, and willing and able to face
these -- unlike Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth, he can deal with
regicide-related stains, knowing that they will wash off. Having wiped
his hands a second time, Dance's Tywin grasps Jamie's face with his left
hand: this is not a rare gesture of paternal closeness for this
character, but instead a tangible reminder that Jamie is, by deed and
association, also tainted and marked (he is the 'Kingslayer' after all),
and will have to get repeatedly and continually dirty too. (That it took
Dance [a couple of days to get the smell off his
hands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEzpu4H9gGg&t=3m40s){target="_blank"}
only underlines the physical marking, not dissimilar to war paint, of
the son by the father here.)

[![C1](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/C1.png "C1"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="196"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/C1.png)

They both know where that hand has been: Tywin marks Jamie.

What runs further through this symbolically charged scene is a reflexive
preoccupation with the notion of performance: Tywin and Jamie's talk is
flecked with references to reputation and image, and these are created
and sustained through enactment. Indeed, Tywin in so many words tells
Jamie and the viewer that the House of Lannister has its strength based
on repeated, continual performance -- it is because the Lannisters have
a fearsome reputation, and know how to use this reputation, that they
have power. This is both a strength (others act in accordance with the
fearsome Lannisters' goals) and a weakness (their power could begin to
crumble with a slip in the performance). With House Lannister thus
embodying the disciplinary power of performance (see Foucault 1977), the
discussion of matters pertaining to performance is delivered during and
through a performative act: the skinning of the deer. Possessing the
most acute recognition of the power and fragility of performance, Tywin
Lannister delivers an act of performance to his son (and any of the
surrounding Lannister bannermen that may need to enter the tent) that
can be understood as an animal sacrifice in a trajectory with the other
performative rituals (such as weddings and coronations) that a ruling
class such as the Lannisters must participate in in their quest for
power and endurance. Framed evocatively by the deep red curtains of the
tent, Tywin not only tells Jamie at the end of the scene that he needs
him to 'become the man you were always meant to be', but during the
course of the scene gives an embodied act of performance of this kind of
masculinity to his son.

[![D1](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/D1.png "D1"){.addCaption
.aligncenter loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="196"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/D1.png)

The kind of man a Lannister needs to be: a performance of masculinity.

Clearly, it is imperative that Tywin delivers a successful and
convincing performance when skinning the deer, which in turn of course
relies on Charles Dance doing the same. It is here worth reflecting for
a moment on the fact that Dance has to manage what is a busy and
physically involving performance under challenging circumstances.
Receiving [training from a butcher for an hour prior to
filming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEzpu4H9gGg&t=3m40s){target="_blank"}
is not much rehearsal time for the required confident handling of a
knife and an animal carcass under visibly cold conditions that would
affect grip and movement. (The fact that Dance does not do any cutting
without taking his eyes off the carcass indicates the needed level of
concentration and attention.) It would be a challenge to remain
completely in character during this demanding, visceral, malodorous work
and an understandable instinctive human response to, for example, flinch
or wrinkle one's nose at the smell of the guts as they come out. Charles
Dance, however, does not slip, and this is crucial, for showing an
instinctive human response here would be breaking character for his
character, who performs being beyond such basic human concerns and
frailties to himself and his son.

[![E1](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/E1.png "E1"){.addCaption
.alignnone loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="350"
height="196"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/E1.png)

Unflinching: neither character nor actor slip in their performance.

Just as the character needs to perform a sense of strength, skill and
physicality, so too does the actor here, to some extent. Whilst Charles
Dance was a fan favourite for the part of Tywin Lannister -- as Janet
Moat notes in
[*Screenonline*](http://www.screenonline.org.uk/people/id/523340/){target="_blank"},
he is 'often lazily cast as a villain', such as the ruthless lawyer
Tulkinghorn in *Bleak House* (BBC1, 2005) -- he was also roughly a
decade older than the character when cast, and did not exactly fit the
description offered in the source novels:

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in
his middle fifties, yet hard as a man of twenty. Even seated, he was
tall, with long legs, broad shoulders, a flat stomach. His thin arms
were corded with muscle. (Martin 2003, 611)

Charles Dance manages to establish this imposing, commanding presence in
this scene through his mastery of the physically demanding performance
under difficult conditions. (Such are the demands of handling the
carcass that he gets audibly exerted roughly halfway through, but makes
his shortness of breath work for him by using it to punctuate his steely
vocal delivery when discussing the captivity of his other son, Tyrion,
and its potential consequences.) Dance (who did not attend drama school,
but took acting lessons) achieves this partly via the use of the
Psychological Gesture, a Chekhovian acting technique which calls for the
physical expression of the inner psychology of the character; their
emotions, objectives and thinking corporeally condensed into a specific
movement. With the knife and carcass here not passive, decorative props
but the materials through which Dance creates his performance, he finds
the core essence of the character through the physical act of skinning.
In *Game of Thrones: Inside the Episode*, executive producer and writer
D. B. Weiss has remarked that the repeated takes for this scene ['didn't
seem to faze
\[Dance\]'](http://www.hbo.com/video/video.html/?autoplay=true&vid=1184475&filter=game-of-thrones&view=null#/){target="_blank"}.
We want to suggest that, on the contrary, bodily gestures such as here
cutting and hacking 'allow actors to identify specific emotions more
clearly and to enter them in a quick and efficient way' (Bloch 1993,
131), helping Dance in this scene to access, draw on and deliver the
range of emotions (determination, anger, disapproval and frustration)
demanded by the scene.

The Psychological Gesture is rarely used in finished performance, but
here works beautifully to express the character 'in condensed physical
form' (Chamberlain 2010, 72). It also subtly serves as a portent of the
'butcher's bill' often referred to in the source material and gives
credence to Tywin Lannisters sobriquet, 'Butcher of Castamere'.
Incorporating what is primarily a pedagogical device into the very
fabric of his performance, Charles Dance in this scene tackles an
eagerly anticipated entrance of a complex character in a high-profile
television show, and utterly fails to disappoint.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Gary Cassidy** is currently undertaking AHRC-funded doctoral research
at the University of Reading. His thesis explores the rehearsal process
of playwright Anthony Neilson, using filmed footage of rehearsals and
interviews. He trained as an actor at the Royal Scottish Academy of
Music and Drama and has thirteen years of acting experience -- Equity
name Cas Harkins -- covering film, theatre, television and radio. Plans
for future research focus on using his research methodology to explore
the working processes of other contemporary theatre practitioners.

**Simone Knox** is Lecturer in Film and Television at the University of
Reading. Her research interests include the transnationalisation of film
and television (including audio-visual translation), aesthetics and
medium specificity (including convergence culture), and representations
of the body. She sits on the board of editors for *Critical Studies in
Television* and her publications include essays in *Film Criticism*,
*Journal of Popular Film and Television* and *New Review of Film and
Television Studies*.

 

[\[1\]](#_ftnref1){#_ftn1} See also Keith M. Johnston's discussion in
[*CSTOnline*](https://cstonline.net/adaptation-and-interpretation-in-current-american-television-by-keith-m-johnston/){target="_blank"}
of how *Game of Thrones* 'departs from, and rewrites, its core texts,
often for reasons of budget, narrative coherence and performance.'


‘You Win or You Die’, the seventh episode from the first season of

 Game of Thrones

(HBO, 2011-present), contains a scene that has deservedly gathered attention and acclaim.

WHAT ACTORS DO: CHARLES DANCE IN GAME OF THRONES

As Robert Lindsay notes in his autobiography *Letting Go*, by the late
1980s, things weren't looking so well for his career: following an
difficult stint in the USA, where he had worked on the film *Bert Rigby,
You're a Fool* (1989), the actor who was known for roles such as Wolfie
Smith in *Citizen Smith* (BBC1, 1977-1980) and had enjoyed success both
in the West End and on Broadway, returned to Britain with little of that
most crucial commodity a performer needs for their craft:
self-confidence. As he put it: 'I was shattered; my self-esteem had
completely gone. \[...\] I was completely lost from a career point of
view; I was thinking of giving the whole thing up.' (Lindsay 2009,
205-6) Then came the opportunity to play a character named Michael
Murray in *G.B.H.* (Channel 4, 1991), a part written by Alan Bleasdale
with Lindsay in mind. With Murray a corrupt, haunted, twitching,
loathsome and tragic city council leader, located within a script with
surreal overtones, this was certainly a challenging part for any actor
to take on, never mind one who had lost faith in his ability to act --
and Lindsay went on to produce a memorable small screen performance that
deserved the BAFTA he won for best actor, and still deserves, if not
demands, some detailed critical attention that looks at how he engaged
with this acting challenge.

Given the richness of Lindsay's performance, we will focus our attention
on one short moment towards the end of episode 4 ('Message sent'), which
readers located in the UK can enjoy [in full
here](http://www.channel4.com/programmes/gbh/on-demand/8551-004){target="_blank"}.
Under increasing professional and personal pressure, stressed Michael
Murray leaves the hotel lobby where a *Doctor Who* convention is taking
place. This is perhaps the most commonly remembered scene from *G.B.H*,
because of Alan Bleasdale's in-joke for Verity Lambert, and can also be
watched here:

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Having secured condoms and ordered champagne, Murray makes his way
upstairs to spend the night with love interest Barbara Douglas (Lindsay
Duncan). At just over an hour into the episode (to be precise, 1.00.25
on 4OD, 1.01.25 on the DVD), the moment that fascinates us takes place
when he walks through the hotel corridor and arrives at Barbara's room.
Here, in the space of one extraordinary minute and one uninterrupted
take, Murray's physical twitch, which originated as a wink and was
already getting in his way during the Dalek scene, interrupts his
attempt to knock on the door. To steady his nerves, he backtracks to
take a run-up to the door, trying to talk himself back into the (albeit
faux) confident swagger with which he first arrived. There are many,
many performance choices by Lindsay worth paying attention to here, as
he verbalises and involuntarily physicalises his interior monologue and
turmoil, calling up subtle intertextual references to John Travolta in
*Saturday Night Fever* (1977) and Fonzie from *Happy Days* (ABC,
1974-1984), interweaving performative elements of football, dance and
musical theatre, and working both with and beyond the script in what
Alan Bleasdale in the 'Interview' DVD extra calls a 'moment of lunatic
improvisation'.

[![Image
1a](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image1a.png "Image 1a"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="330"
height="248"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image1a.png)

[![Image
1b](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image1b.png "Image 1b"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="340"
height="245"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image1b.png)  
*One of the subtle intertextual references called up by Robert Lindsay's
acting*

For the purposes of space, we will for now focus on the perhaps most
widely remembered aspect of Robert Lindsay's performance as Michael
Murray, the twitch. The following screen shots give a flavour of this:

[![Image
2a](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2a.png "Image 2a"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2a.png)  
[![2b](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2b.png "2b"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2b.png)  
[![2c](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2c.png "2c"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2c.png)  
[![2d](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2d.png "2d"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2d.png)

[![2f](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2f.png "2f"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2f.png)

[![2g](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2g.png "2g"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2g.png)

[![2h](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2h.png "2h"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2h.png)

[![2i](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2i.png "2i"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2i.png)

[![2k](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2k.png "2k"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image2k.png)

In *Letting Go*, Lindsay notes that while the twitch had been written
into the script by Bleasdale, the production team was concerned that
this tic was not rooted in any reality, and that he, Lindsay, had 'to
make it as real as possible' (2009, 207).[\[i\]](#_edn1){#_ednref1} So,
how does he approach this task here in this scene? Firstly, Lindsay
begins the scene evidently having prepared himself *physically* for it,
perhaps bearing in mind Stanislavski's advice that, '\[i\]f \[the\]
preparatory work is right, the results will take care of themselves'
(1989, 212). Following the Stanislavskian emphasis on getting into
character, he both taps into the nervous energy that can naturally occur
in performers before shooting and has, through some physical exercise
before the take, built up a slight sweat and near-hyperventilation. Out
of breath and perspiring, this preparation allows him to enter the scene
at the right -- in this case, edgy -- energy and performance level,
where the would-be confidence of his initial approach readily gives way
to the anxiety the character was feeling in the previous scene.

::: {.wp-caption .aligncenter style="width: 260px"}
[![Image
3](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image3.png "Image 3"){loading="lazy"
decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image3.png)

Lindsay's Michael Murray and his 'demon hand'
:::

When Murray's attempts to knock on the door are prevented by his left
arm spasming upwards, Lindsay manages to convey Murray's loss of control
over his own body through careful acting that brings together this
twitch with a whole host of other small actions, or outer
characteristics -- such as deep breaths out, talking to himself,
whistling, stretching the arm downwards as though trying to ease a cramp
-- into an organic sequence where these different actions trigger one
another as he attempts to calm himself down whilst still at the door.
Lindsay further makes the twitch and these other actions look integrated
into the character because he (mostly) looks like he is genuinely in the
moment, surprised and appalled by and apparently unable to predict what
this 'demon hand' of his is doing.

Because of this organic quality of the performance, it may seem tempting
to think of Robert Lindsay's acting here as further drawing on the
Stanislavskian approach where 'in each physical act there is an inner
psychological motive which impels physical action' (Stanislavski 1968,
11), and one's character is found through psychological and emotional
engagement. However, we wish to propose that this is actually a very
technical performance here, where the portrayal of the loss of control
requires such careful control, such precision (of timing, of movement,
of physical distance to the door) and involves such business (with
repeated near-knocks and attempts at calming down, there are many outer
characteristics for Lindsay to manage in a very short time), that the
Stanislavskian mode would not be entirely appropriate. A Stanislasvkian
approach to acting proposes that 'it is a necessary condition of the
unfettered operation of the subconscious that conscious awareness be
actively supressed during the creative act' (Mitter 1999, 16). Or put
another way, as long as you are in the moment, the details of the
acting, the outer characteristics, will take care of themselves, and the
performance will just happen. However, the demands of the role here are
such that Robert Lindsay is employing a technically precise imaginative
performance, whereby he makes his actions look real, organic and
happening against his will and appears to be genuinely in the moment,
through external means, thinking and planning. His autobiography
confirms this careful planning through his reference to working closely
with the continuity girl. (See Lindsay 2009, 207.) This resonates with
Chekov's approach to acting, where '\[t\]he task of the actor is to
become an active participant in the process of imagination, \[bringing\]
the world of the imagination on to the stage' (Chamberlain 2010, 69).

That Lindsay is indeed thinking about what he is doing, has carefully
planned it and is not improvising spontaneously is confirmed firstly by
his account of how 'there's always this 'stuff' that I put in' (2009,
177) for his roles. It is further shown by a slip in his performance
with the final near-knock as well as the eventual actual knock at the
end of the scene, when his twitch has him bang the door open: in these
two instants, his response to the twitch pre-empts the movement of his
arm by a fraction. With his actions for the scene evidently planned out
and choreographed, he is visibly not genuinely in the moment (and in the
first instant very likely to be thinking about the imminent demands of
the rest of the scene). Of course, what these tiny slips vividly
demonstrate is the overall acting skill of Lindsay and how much he
manages to make himself look like he is in the moment, when actually he
is not.

[![4a](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image4a.png "4a"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image4a.png)

[![4b](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image4b.png "4b"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image4b.png)  
[![4c](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image4c.png "4c"){.aligncenter
loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="250"
height="188"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image4c.png)  
*A brief moment where the loss of control is visibly controlled*

In order to be able to tackle a role and performance so technical,
intricate and demanding, RADA-trained Robert Lindsay uses a rich
approach to acting that draws on Stanislasvkian and Chekovian
approaches, employing physicality and imagination, a high degree of
ability, control and thinking through, underpinned by careful rehearsal.
Tise Vahimagi in
[*Screenonline*](http://www.screenonline.org.uk/people/id/470186/index.html){target="_blank"}
rightly praises Lindsay's work in *G.B.H.*, noting that: 'He played with
all the stops out, creating an extraordinary, unrealistic, chimerical
figure as Michael Murray; prancing, twitching, anarchic and
unrepressed.' Interestingly, there is a divergence in point of view
between the practitioner's explicit intention to 'make it as real as
possible' and the scholar's reading of the performance as 'unrealistic'.
We share
[Vahimagi](http://www.screenonline.org.uk/people/id/470186/index.html){target="_blank"}'s
view that *G.B.H.* 'may well have been Lindsay at his television
finest', but find some of his terminology ill-chosen, for Linday's
Michael Murray strikes us as far from 'unrepressed' or indeed
'unrealistic': while Lindsay is unrepressed in the sense that he fully
commits to the role (which could not have been successfully realized
with anything less than that), his acting invests into creating a
character who represses both his memory and physicality. More
importantly, he does manage to root the outer characteristics in a
believable sense of character, taking realism and naturalism up to the
line where they border on something else, but without going beyond that
point. (Even with the character on the edge of a nervous breakdown, such
as Murray, if the actor took it much further than Lindsay does, it would
go too far.) The term 'heightened naturalism' to us would capture the
tone and texture of Lindsay's performance better.

::: {#attachment_4693 .wp-caption .aligncenter style="width: 460px"}
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.size-large loading="lazy" decoding="async"
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sizes="(max-width: 450px) 100vw, 450px"}](https://cstonline.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/image5.png)

'Lunatic improvisation' by an actor at the top of his game
:::

The courage that a role such as Michael Murray demands of an actor is
considerable. That it was taken on by an actor who had lost confidence
is remarkable: consider the bravery that it takes to do a scene such as
this -- alone in front of camera and crew, in a small space and in one
take, to attempt something so complicated and judge how far to take it
-- this scene is about acting. The loss of control, performance anxiety
and self-consciousness of the character are performed with aplomb by an
actor in control of the material, and as committed as he is
un-self-conscious; producing fine acting by a performer who knows he is
delivering strong work, which only adds to our enjoyment of the scene.
Robert Lindsay puts the cathartic importance of Michael Murray to his
career as follows: 'But *GBH* gave me that self-esteem back -- it proved
to me that I could still act.' (2009, 205) Indeed, he could.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Gary Cassidy** is currently undertaking AHRC-funded doctoral research
at the University of Reading. His thesis explores the rehearsal process
of playwright Anthony Neilson, using filmed footage of rehearsals and
interviews. He trained as an actor at the Royal Scottish Academy of
Music and Drama and has thirteen years of acting experience -- Equity
name Cas Harkins -- covering film, theatre, television and radio. Plans
for future research focus on using his research methodology to explore
the working processes of other contemporary theatre practitioners.

**Simone Knox** is Lecturer in Film and Television at the University of
Reading. Her research interests include the transnationalisation of film
and television (including audio-visual translation), aesthetics and
medium specificity (including convergence culture), and representations
of the body. She sits on the board of editors for *Critical Studies in
Television* and her publications include essays in *Film Criticism*,
*Journal of Popular Film and Television* and *New Review of Film and
Television Studies*.

 

[\[i\]](#_ednref1){#_edn1} This was an especially interesting challenge
for an actor who, because of his ''big face' and 'big eyes'' (Lindsay
2009, 139), has had to 'work hard at being less expressive in front of
the camera.' (ibid.).

 


As Robert Lindsay notes in his autobiography

 Letting Go

, by the late 1980s, things weren’t looking so well for his career: following an difficult stint in the USA, where he had worked on the film

 Bert Rigby, You’re a Fool

(1989), the actor who was known for roles such as Wolfie Smith in

 Citizen Smith

(BBC1, 1977-1980) and had enjoyed success both in the West End and on Broadway, returned to Britain with little of that

Messaggi di Rogue Scholar

WHAT ACTORS DO: MERRITT WEVER IN NURSE JACKIE

WHAT ACTORS DO: JENNIFER ANISTON IN FRIENDS

WHAT ACTORS DO: CHARLES DANCE IN GAME OF THRONES

WHAT ACTORS DO: ROBERT LINDSAY IN G.B.H.