TIME OUT:He reminded us of what we were at our best, writes MARIE MURRAY
THE DEATH of an actor involves more than the death of one much-loved person. People grieve for the actor who died, for the person he was, for the talent he had, for the characters he portrayed and for what he brought to life on the stage. The loss is the loss of many, of past, of present and of future parts.
When an actor dies, people grieve for the many parts he played in his time because each actor depicts each part in a unique manner. The script is written, the role prescribed, technique may be practised, but it is the actor who moves us emotionally. It is the actor’s “method”, his characterisation, his presence, his voice, his pauses, his facial expression, his posture, his vitality and essence that cast a spell on us.
What is witnessed on stage is special because each theatrical performance captures one particular performance in the presence of a single audience at a distinctive historical moment in time, when a play that may have graced the stage for centuries is brought alive and lived by actors and audience collaboratively.
The response to a play, to the characters within it, the time, location, imagery and the actions that take place upon the stage, are more than that of an audience as a single entity, but the composition of that audience and the resonances the script has for every individual person sitting watching the play unfold.
The resilience of plays lies in their capacity to evoke emotion and meaning for each generation regardless of how long ago or how recently they were first written. They engage us because they are about the human condition, and they provide us with vicarious access to the very face of life itself.
Plays are psychological events. To believe the plot, relate to the characters, to care about what happens depends upon the script and how it is portrayed. That is why we revere actors: they incarnate our fears and fantasies and invite us into emotional experiences that might otherwise be unavailable to us.
Actors allow us to look at life in all its moments; in its graciousness and rawness, profundity and vulnerability, and in the astounding poignant fragility and ordinariness of our everyday relationships with each other. From the safety of our seats, protected by darkness, we peek at life, as if through an uncurtained window, into our own souls.
It is this soul which the actor holds in his hands and that is why certain actors are especially loved, and Mick Lally was truly loved. We trusted him with our souls. The outpouring of grief at his death is for him, his family, his colleagues and for theatre itself. It is because he was not just a fine actor, but because he was a fine person. And in the psychology of acting we need actors to be fine.
Just as one cannot separate the dancer from the dance, one cannot separate the actor from the part: it is in the recesses of the actor’s own being that he finds what he bestows upon us, interpreting us with nuance, mercy and gentleness, however complex or dark the character being portrayed may be.
We go to the theatre not to see others but to see ourselves. And whatever part Mick Lally played he provided it with dignity. We may ask if we loved the Glenroecharacter Miley because we loved Mick Lally, or Mick Lally because we loved Miley. We loved them both, because together they gave us a character that became part of our memory of Ireland at a particular time.
Whether we knew him or not, we grieve for Mick Lally whose finest role was being himself. He reminded us of what we were at our best: of rural Ireland or sense of place, of grace above show, of intellect that was quiet and accent that retained its own origin, expression that was genuine, sincerity that was deep, and surety that was gentle despite its power.
His entrances and exits are ended and as he leaves we must be truly grateful for how he peopled our lives and portrayed us to ourselves.
Marie Murray is a clinical psychologist and author and director of psychology in UCD student counselling services. Her radio slot, Mindtime on Drivetime with Mary Wilson, is on RTÉ Radio One on Wednesdays