Homicide Adjacent: Chemistry is all.
How do actors do this? Let's get you thinking like an actor - just for a day.
I love working with actors. In groups or, one on one. So, when the opportunity presents itself, I jump at it. It helps me be a more active listener and observer, and it’s usually really satisfying. Teaching are coaching are sorta separate in my mind. Teachers are doing something tangible like sharing a technique and a course of study. Coaches are there to cheerlead, observe, and bring forth the best the actor has to offer using whatever means necessary.
In the past, I’ve had my share of questionable acting teachers. It can be hit and miss in our arena, especially for young actors just starting out. There are plenty who are legit and focused on the betterment of their students, but a few of them have a cultish vibe - teaching about mysterious concepts in ways only they could ever possibly understand. While this may be interesting to hear about on, say, a podcast - you wouldn’t want to be part of their class/scam/emotional or financial spin cycle.
There are some amazing coaches, who are insightful and compassionate, tough and realistic. Tough and realistic is good in the actor’s world, which is often built on fantasy and make-believe. Compassion is good, as most actors are a mixture of vulnerable, ambitious, open-hearted, detail-oriented, obsessive, and at times can be emotional wrecks.
When I came to Homicide in ‘93, I had spent time in Germany and Italy with an acting teacher, called Maestro by his talented, yet fawning students. He liked music, metaphors, and large beach balls. The premise was the music and the beach ball were primary, while you, the actor - listening deeply to how the music and the beach ball wanted to move - were secondary and meant to disappear; hence, the metaphor. The Maestro was the final word on IF you had disappeared. I never did.
So yeah, still in that mode, I brought my large beach ball and, for good measure, a more discrete one to Baltimore and threw on music whenever I could to keep in good, disappearing shape.
You’ll be happy to know I’ve stopped all that, though it’s fun to revisit occasionally, cuz the music is bomb and I like to dance. But now when I coach, I instead encourage students to develop strong and interesting wants and needs for their characters and trust their highly individualistic internal rhythms and musicality.
That’s one reason actors keep acting. All the variations on the theme, all the exciting approaches to different mediums: from improv, to Method, to masks, to avant-garde; it’s intense, it’s fun, and you are consistently living on the edge, in that not-knowing space.
It’s also, like any other craftsperson job - something that gets better with repetition. Most of the actors I know strive to get better. Some went to college for it. Some have never taken a class, or, they may have gone for a couple of years, then stopped. Some continue for ages. No two actors are the same in that regard.
That’s how it was with Andre and me. When he left Juilliard after four years of conservatory training, I don’t think he ever took another class. He started working almost immediately and his training served to support and inspire his already incredible instincts, intellect, and heart. Me, I didn’t have a formal education, so I kept going back to classes, trying to fill in the gaps on the go, and find support to help express this strange, almost overwhelming mass of impulses. Bring two such different actors like that together - it matters less about their training, and more about their dynamic chemistry.
Indulge me, if you will, and let’s look at this scene between Frank and Tim. With good writing and chemistry, it’s almost a given that actors discover something about themselves, their scene partner, and what’s happening between the two of them in the scene - all the training, or coaching that came before is invisible, which is also a ‘goal’ of sorts.
It’s after Frank’s stroke, Tim wants to encourage and support him, yet, he still wants Frank’s love and approval. He’s desperate for it. In that first closeup, Frank’s musing about The Board sets the stage for a scene exploring themes of ‘loss’, ‘relationship’, and ‘hope’. He’s uncertain, perplexed about what life has dealt him. Tim enters with no clue that Frank wants anything from him. In fact, as with many of his post-stroke moments, Frank seems barely there himself, frustrated by the changes within, and Tim even has to remind him he closed a case.
Then, in a move that seems to come out of nowhere, Frank invites Tim to dinner. Tim is speechless, shocked that his dreams might come true, and almost blows it with his incomprehension. Frank has gone out of his comfort zone, seems to take Tim’s disbelief as a form of mockery, and backs away. Frank pulling away the carrot always wakes Tim up. He then assures Frank he’s a great friend and like all great friends, he’ll contribute some wine to the evening, if not for Frank, for Mary. But, surprise! New information: Mary has left Frank. So now, the tables have turned and it appears Frank might really need something from Tim. What though? A friend? Maybe. We’ll find out.
The rhythms are way off and jagged between the two, portending a new twist in their relationship. So, it’s good writing AND good chemistry.
The second scene is odd, funny, and tragic. It’s a wonderful piece full of searching, reckoning, and the banter Frank and Tim are known for. But this time, it’s Tim who tries to reassure and comfort Frank who appears lost, not knowing who he is anymore. A couple of good frozen dinners might fix that.
Then, in the third scene, Frank sits staring at…nothing. We get that icky sense all is still unwell in Frank’s world. Bayliss, however, enters the squad room invigorated, imagining the relational landscape has shifted (he’s always susceptible to that), that he and Frank have grown closer and are dinner buddies now. He takes it for granted, he’s sure of it even. But no. He’s let down by Frank again, butt-hurt, which he clumsily covers as Pembleton heads off to ‘mass’. We come away feeling, that after six long years, “Why can’t they just be buds?”
It’s such good writing, such incredible scenic composition - AND then there’s that chemistry. It’s also very simple to break down from a coaching standpoint: just pinpoint who, what, where, when, how, and why. Then, let your instincts and rhythms fly free.
Even with our varied backgrounds, Andre and I didn’t over intellectualize these scenes. We had been partners for four seasons and we knew the character’s moves. We had spent hours rehearsing scenes together and knew when to drill down and rehearse and when to do less. As an actor, that type of discretion becomes second nature. With this scene, it was maybe one rehearsal and a little talk, but then it was show up and go time! You see what happens, like Jake Nicholson said, “It’s film. If it don’t work - Take 2”. Sometimes the less talk the better.
And twisting this back around to working with actors as a director or a coach: you get to see them transform from being stuck, to a place of fluidity, depth, and joy in a very short period of time. It doesn’t matter how they get there, just that they do.
Thanks for a personal & professional POV on a scene I loved so much.
Thank you for this look into the art--and mystery-- of acting. I know little about it, and this post gave me insight. And it illuminated scenes that show the incredible complexity of Frank and Tim's relationship. The rest of the episode is so beautiful. ( I think it's "Kaddish"?). Frank and Tim later attend the death of an elderly woman who died in her sleep. It's peaceful. Ravel's "Pavanne for a Dead Princess" is playing on her bedside radio. Bayliss, Pembleton, and Cox are all moved to silence. (A moment David Simon describes in his book). Season 5 has its glories.