A new piece in The Atlantic by Terrence Rafferty, “The Decline of the American Actor,” is immensely thoughtful and stimulating. Rafferty brings to light a crucial fault line in the history of filmmaking and film criticism: the cinema, since its invention, has been haunted by an inferiority complex in the face of the theatre. That complex was first exacerbated by talking pictures, and it shows up in contemporary times in the kind of acting that gains critical acclaim and wins Oscars—showy, theatrical, imitative acting.
Rafferty wonders “why so many good American roles have been going to English, Irish, Welsh, Scottish, Australian, and Canadian actors.” His answer is “technique,” which is to say, theatrical technique:
Exactly. American movie culture produces different kinds of actors, who are by and large vastly superior in movies but who suffer from a lack of cultural cachet—which is to say, they’re demeaned by critics, and even by many in the industry, for their lack of overt connection to traditional high culture. For instance, it took John Wayne—who was, along with Humphrey Bogart, the best American movie actor who ever lived—until 1969 to win his virtually honorary Oscar. (Cary Grant, the other comparably great actor in the classic era, was British but utterly non-Shakespearean, and he never won one at all). Henry Fonda, nominated only twice, won once, at age seventy-six. Many of the other great studio-era actors, such as Dana Andrews, Robert Mitchum, and Sterling Hayden, and many of the greatest moderns, including John Cassavetes and Elliott Gould, were never nominated for Best Actor; both Rock Hudson and Steve McQueen were nominated once and didn’t win. Anthony Perkins wasn’t nominated for “Psycho,” and, just as Alfred Hitchcock himself never won for Best Director, no actor in a Hitchcock film, besides the Shakespearean Laurence Olivier, in “Rebecca,” was ever nominated.
The best American actors have been overlooked, by critics and peers alike, and Rafferty, in repeating that error today, replicates the misjudgments of years past. As he laments the decline of training—along with what he considers a concomitant decline in “American culture,” which, he says, “isn’t providing a high level of sustenance right now”—Rafferty invokes another spectre that haunts the current cinema, the cult of Marlon Brando. Imbued with serious theatrical training, Brando is cherished for his theatrical impersonations, as in “A Streetcar Named Desire,” “On the Waterfront,” and “The Godfather,” when, in fact, his greatness is in his person, and shines through most clearly and forcefully in roles that depend least on impersonation—“Guys and Dolls,” “Last Tango in Paris,” and the Maysles brothers’ documentary “Meet Marlon Brando.” Brando was great not because of his theatrical training but despite it. He was trapped in artifice through most of his career, when his mere presence was itself one of the most charismatic and original ever filmed. Brando himself was a living work of art, and most of his famed performances aren’t gilded lilies but gilded paintings. He was pushed to be overpainted, overvarnished, overdecorated, and only a few films of his get close to the true depths of his character—because the technical and theatrical side of his talent was, for the most part, the one that got praised and rewarded, the one for which he was hired.
British actors have always had an outsized presence at the Oscars, and so has theatrical acting by American actors. That’s why flashy impersonations have always brought prizes, as with the characters who have won recent Best Actor awards: Stephen Hawking, Abraham Lincoln, King George VI, Harvey Milk, Idi Amin, Truman Capote, Ray Charles. Even the best American actors are coaxed into roles in movies that, for the most part, are notable not for their artistry but for their cultural cachet, and are, as a result, often destined for oblivion. Meanwhile, the greatest work being done onscreen these days often goes unrewarded.
With his complaint about the state of American movies over all, Rafferty looks to the studios to produce a new generation of actors, as if today were the nineteen-thirties (or even the nineteen-sixties) and the studios were more or less the only game in town. Rafferty praises the crew of young actresses whose talents grace contemporary screens, but wonders where the young men are. Yet for critics and viewers paying appropriate attention to the world of movies at large, including independent films, there’s an entire generation of young actors (borrowing Rafferty’s definition, actors under forty) who may or may not have theatrical training but who have powerful talent and electrifying onscreen presence. These actors should be winning acclaim from critics, and should be attracting the attention of filmmakers in all levels of the industry who are looking to discover new stars.
Among the actors coming to prominence in independent films is Kentucker Audley, who has given thrilling, demanding, unsparing performances in “Bad Fever,” “Sun Don’t Shine,” “Christmas, Again,” and elsewhere. Caleb Landry Jones, of “Heaven Knows What,” Gabriel Croft, of “Young Bodies Heal Quickly,” David Dahlbom, of “Uncertain Terms,” and David Maloney and Tim Morton, of “Men Go to Battle,” are fascinating and charismatic. They’re ready for roles in ... I was about to say more prominent productions, but I really just mean more movies. The lack of prominence of the movies I’ve cited here isn’t their problem—it’s the problem of critics who, fixated on Hollywood as if they were paid publicists rather than discerning viewers, have neglected them. (Rafferty also ignores some superb young actresses who have appeared mainly in ultra-low-budget movies.)
Other independent films, made on a larger scale, have also been showcasing fine actors. The main actors in “Dear White People”—Tyler James Williams, Brandon Bell, and Kyle Galler—should advance to complex leading roles. Miles Teller, who was terrific in “21 and Over,” did thankless heavy lifting in “The Spectacular Now” and “Whiplash,” and should soon make a great impression in far better films; so did and should Shameik Moore, from “Dope,” and Thomas Mann and RJ Cyler, from “Me and Earl and the Dying Girl.” (Teller is one of the stars in “Fantastic Four,” opening in August.)
And Hollywood, too—or, at least, its high-budget independent sector—is in fact creating a remarkable generation of male stars. Oscar Isaac is as forceful a performer, and Jason Schwartzman as imaginative and surprising an actor, as Hollywood has seen in quite a while. The wry and wounded Jason Segel is only thirty-five; the bluff and playful Jake Johnson is under forty. And even the studios and their offshoots are coming up with excellent performers—Jonah Hill is extraordinarily creative and scathing, and Seth Rogen isn’t far behind (the difference being that Hill has less natural sweetness, which Rogen often trades on). There’s Adam Driver, who is already prominent in the industry but awaiting lead roles. Henry Hopper, from Gus Van Sant’s “Restless,” is only twenty-five and should do much more, soon.
This is a remarkable batch of artists who are nourishing films already on screens, and who are either cast in notable forthcoming movies or awaiting their chance for roles alongside the actresses on Rafferty’s list. On the other hand, things have changed—not in the movies but in the world—that affect the tone and texture of acting, more for men than for women: the fundamental shift, in the post-sixties era, from a rush into adulthood to a prolongation of youth. I think it’s a good thing. The difference is more psychological than practical. The extension of youth doesn’t imply irresponsibility—many young people are highly responsible—but, rather, a sense of openness, skepticism, idealism, and mutability. Yet it affects actors especially: few can summon the granitic opacity of people from half a century ago or far earlier, yet British actors can imitate it. (Rafferty wonders why many of the key roles in Ava DuVernay’s “Selma” were played by British actors; I think that’s the reason. But I also think that the British casting is the main reason why, despite DuVernay’s deeply insightful writing and acute production, the movie didn’t connect as it should have.)
There’s another problem facing actors and actresses alike today, one that’s rooted in the fundamental aesthetic of cinema: good actors are, in effect, the creations of good directors. The directors don’t create the people, of course; they find them—but they reveal aspects of performers that performers themselves may not otherwise have tapped, and may not even have been aware of. What’s more, they often work these transformations on non-performers or inexperienced performers, turning friends and friends of friends into stars or potential stars. Critics who look to the wrong films as exemplary will miss a rising star; those who fixate on studio films will wonder where the next generation of actors is coming from; those who overlook the best young directors will overlook the best young actors. In the process, they replicate the century-old errors of writers who, from the earliest days of the art form, remained trapped in old artistic concepts, and didn’t perceive—or feel—the distinctive vitality of the cinema and its onscreen personalities.
