But after opening night you’re in what they call a locked show.
In my view, that is the antithesis of what creativity should be. As long as actors and audiences are showing up, nothing is locked. How can it be?
With any play, moments can get bigger or smaller. They evolve from night to night. Sometimes I change for no other reason than to see how it feels. I twist the reading of a line. It may result in a much bigger laugh. It may not. Then I try it another way the next night to see what happens.
I’m part of the creative triumvirate: writer, director, actor. I listen, I respect, but I don’t lock anything. That works for computer programming—not acting.
I think you run a tremendous risk of getting complacent if you don’t keep looking for changes. You should never be too at ease on stage. Get too rehearsed, too relaxed, you lose focus and slip into autopilot, and then you’re not listening. Someone could drop a line. You have to work out of that problem, react to it. He skipped ahead, so I need to clarify that point for the audience. Otherwise, they’re completely lost.
Some actors panic; some assimilate mistakes and correct course. If you’re paying attention, if you’re present, more often than not you can rise to the occasion. Or sometimes your castmate will rise to the occasion for you. I know I’ve been bailed out many times. But you can’t bank on someone else coming to the rescue. You have to be open and present and willing to adapt.
If you tell me a play is locked at opening night and there’s no room for exploration or change, I’d say I’m probably not the best actor for your play. If every night you gesture here, put your hands on your hips there, if every night you sip your drink on exactly the same line, your consciousness will pop out of your body. You’ll be a casual observer of yourself, going through the motions. Once that happens, you’re dead. You’re a robot. Every performance needs to have its intimacy, its difference.
Every night, a new audience is sitting out there in the dark, waiting. And you’re new, too. You’re a day older. Maybe you’re hoarse. You drink some hot tea. Then you’re on stage and you have to pee like a racehorse. Note to self: ease up on the tea. Maybe you didn’t eat as much as you did last night. You’re hungry. Use that. You caught a cold. You have a sinus infection. LBJ is dealing with these same maladies on stage, blowing his nose, hacking away. You bring everything you are on stage with you. And you see if it can fit into the character. If it doesn’t, you need to note it and make an adjustment.
Bill and Robert and I sat down for coffee in my guesthouse in California, and I wanted to know: Were they open? Or were they “lock it” people? Were they going to say “the play is the play”?
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. The literature on Johnson is wide and deep, and I got lost in it. I devoured Robert Caro’s masterpieces. I listened to the LBJ tapes that Michael Beschloss edited and put into historical context. I read LBJ’s memoir, The Vantage Point, as well as books by Doris Kearns Goodwin, Joseph Califano, Taylor Branch, and Mark Updegrove. I also visited the impressive LBJ library in Austin, Texas, and soaked up everything I could.
Lastly, and most importantly, I leaned on the brilliant, powerful text in front of me, Robert Schenkkan’s All the Way.
I arrived in Cambridge, where we’d be mounting the play at the American Repertory Theater before taking it to Broadway. We gathered for a table read of the play, and it was me me me me me me him. Me me me me me her. Oh my God. Of course I’d read the play a few times before, but I’d been reading it objectively, not from a logistical, elbow-grease, what’s-it-going to-take perspective. I’d been looking for a deeper understanding of the story, the man, not thinking, Look at all these lines I need to memorize.
At the end of the reading, we got the schedule. Four weeks. We had four weeks before our first audience. The first week we’d rehearse Act One. The second week, Act Two. The third week we’d put it all together. The fourth week would be a technical rehearsal. Costumes, lights, makeup, sound. That wouldn’t really count as time for the actors to prepare.
So basically we had three weeks.
Holy shit.
What had I done? Or more appropriately, what had I not done? I thought if I could show up in Boston with the character nailed, I’d be in good shape, but I got lost in the joy of the research and neglected the nuts-and-bolts work. Memorization.
It was as if I’d been planning a feast, and then a few hours before serving it I realized I hadn’t shopped. The table was set, but the main thing was missing. The food.
Usually, preparing for a part, I memorize alone. But I knew this time I’d need help. I contacted my old friend Bill Timoney. When I was on Loving, he was on All My Children, playing Alfred Vanderpool. We were on the same network, right around the corner from each other in New York, and we became fast friends.
Now I hired Bill to come to Boston to be my right arm: to be my coach, to run lines with me, to help me with the daily stuff, power me through. He knew what that would entail. And I knew he knew. Bill is bright, personable, perceptive. I could count on him.
I’d never had problems with memorization before. Over the years I developed a habit of doing margin work, writing notes to myself in the margins of the script. That helps me memorize or “bone” lines as well as developing the character. I write a sentence’s verb in the margin (a trick I learned from Jane Kaczmarek), and the active verb works like a gatekeeper to the rest of the sentence’s meaning. As I’m familiarizing myself with a speech, I can test myself by reading the list of verbs in the margin to trigger each sentence. Pretty soon, I’ve memorized a page. Then repeat the process for the entire script.
But this part was so big, and I had so little time. The amount of dialogue I had to memorize was mind-boggling. Too many verbs! Do the work, I told myself. Just do the work. There are no shortcuts for doing the work.
But I soon started to feel the amount of work I had to do would crush me. I’ve loved work and thrived on work my whole adult life, but I was just dizzy with how many words I needed to stuff into my brain.
Within a week I had serious doubts about whether I was going to be able to pull it off. My uncertainty affected everything I did. My mind was heavy. My chest was heavy. Even my legs felt heavy when I went for my run. Each day was so crammed with input that I thought the wiring in my brain might short-circuit. By night, the morning was a distant memory. 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 curi
ous 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 think I can do this,” I said to Robin, more and more urgently. We were nearing the end of the second week. “I’m adrift. I’m at sea.”
“You can do it.” She hadn’t heard me like this, other than when I struggled through Brooklyn South. 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. I wanted to believe him.
And I did, intellectually, but it wasn’t resonating. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t going to be on stage forgetting lines. I nodded along, but I was steeped in doubt.
By the end of the second week, I was feeling my sanity at risk.
For the first time in my life I was having the classic actor’s nightmare. I was on stage, doing the play, and then—blank. I couldn’t remember my lines. I felt naked, defenseless. I gave pleading looks to my fellow actors, but they couldn’t help. I was on my own. The audience was looking at me with sympathetic embarrassment. If I was lucky, I’d wake up from the awful dream before too long. But then I couldn’t go back to sleep, because there was too much adrenaline running through my system. Bad sleep? Good luck with the memorization tomorrow.
I’d had moments of insecurity and doubt before in my career, but never the standard anxiety dream, never The Nightmare. Now I’d had it a few times. It would shadow me into the morning hours. It was hard to shake.
When I was feeling overwhelmed, on my walk to work, I would concoct these elaborate victim scenarios. Morbidly reassuring daydreams. What if I got hurt? What if I got injured just badly enough so that I couldn’t do the play? Then it wouldn’t be my fault. I couldn’t be blamed if the play was delayed or canceled. I started imagining a Tonya Harding-type situation. Could I pay someone to kneecap me with a baseball bat, put me out of commission? Not a permanent injury. Just enough to sideline me for a couple of weeks. No one would blame me if I had to bow out because of a shattered kneecap!
And then it was out of my reverie and back to the play.
Bill Timoney said to me, “Here’s the bottom line. Come the first night of previews, you will be on that stage. You will perform. So work backward. Trust that you’ll get there. Don’t stop working. We won’t stop working. We’ll get you there.”
Yes. I just had to trust the people around me and the process and keep working. Never stop working.
With one week to go, the play suddenly began to open up. It began to come to me. Everything I’d done in my life seemed to have prepared me for this moment. Collecting eggs and killing chickens at my grandfather’s farm. Watching my mother gather junk to sell at swap meets—she didn’t give up. Announcing that Abraham Lincoln was going to write one of America’s greatest speeches as soon as he returned to the White Front—that failure and embarrassment was with me somewhere, too.
Opening night, I stood in the wings as the audience got settled. The script called for the other actors to fill empty seats on stage, and then for the lights to cut to black. That was my cue.
Downstage center. Right in front of the audience. That empty seat at center stage. That was my seat.
Two weeks earlier, it looked like an electric chair.
Now, opening night, it looked like a throne.
Standing in the hushed darkness, I smiled. Oh. That’s why I went through this. The monastic life. The doubt. The work. The pain. It was all part of it.
It was all so I could have this feeling. It was so I could live this moment.
I took three deep breaths. I shook those breaths into my body. And then I relaxed. I let it go.
And I went to take my place.
Acknowledgments
Shannon Welch. For your superb talents in orchestrating, contributing to, and editing this book. Your guidance and support in taking charge made this collaboration an enriching experience.
Bill Timoney. For your counsel on this project, and helping me get through a difficult time.
John O’Hurley. For your support and suggesting that I do this book.
Mrs. Waldo and Mrs. Crawford, my fifth- and sixth-grade teachers, for encouraging me to take chances toward a creative path.
Vince Gilligan. For giving me the role of my life—that also changed my life.
My grandparents, Otto and Augusta Sell. For taking me in and teaching me tough love and discipline.
Joe and Peggy, my parents. For teaching me, in their unique way, the person I should become.
Thank you:
Jodi Gottlieb, Lindsay Shane, and my team at Independent PR.
Sarah Clossey, Jeremy Zimmer, and my team at United Talent Agency.
Leonard Grant, the Baral family, Mickey Middleton, Linwood Boomer, James Kiberd, Reverend Bob, Stewart Lyons, Brett Hansen, Kevin Stolper, Mark Subias, Chris Highland, Ivan Markota, Break Costin, Shirley Knight, Diane Galardi, Taryn Feingold, Georgette Reilly-Timoney, Kris Chapman, James Degus, Kirsten Jacobson, Andy Garcia, Dan McVicar, Raymond Fitzpatrick, Bill Rausch, Robert Schenkkan, Richard Pine, Jeff Widener, Louis Rego, Javier Grajeda, Carolyn Kiesel, Reuben Valdez, New Mexico, Daytona Playhouse, and
All the great people I’ve met on my path who had an influence on my life.
About Bryan Cranston
BRYAN CRANSTON won four Emmy Awards for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series for his portrayal of Walter White in AMC’s Breaking Bad. He holds the honor of being the first actor in a cable series, and the second lead actor in the history of the Emmy Awards, to receive three consecutive wins. In 2014 he won a Tony Award for his role as Lyndon Johnson in the bio-play All the Way. In film, Cranston received an Academy Award nomination for his leading role in Trumbo. Among his numerous television and film appearances, he was nominated for a Golden Globe and three Emmys for his portrayal of Hal in FOX’s Malcolm in the Middle.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/Bryan-Cranston
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-9385-6
ISBN 978-1-4767-9388-7 (ebook)
Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed.
Photographs on pages 5, 208, 221, and 276–77 courtesy of Sony Pictures Television.
Photographs on pages 9, 11, 19, 36, 82, 148, and 260 courtesy of Bryan Cranston.
Photograph on page 184 Malcolm in the Middle © 2001 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation, Monarchy Enterprises S.a.r.l. and Regency Entertainment (USA), Inc. All rights reserved.
Photograph on page 271 courtesy of Jeffrey Richards Associates, photograph by Evgenia Eliseeva.
A Life in Parts Page 25
