Shooting The Fall with Gillian Anderson and Allan Cubitt.
You can’t take acting with you. It is the invisible art form.
It’s there in the moment or it isn’t. As a teen, I wanted to be an actor. When I saw Dan Gordon in A Night In November by Marie Jones, I knew I had to be an actor.
It was alive. It crackled with raw honesty, with the mesmeric and the exotic. I needed to be honest about who I was and what I felt. I was a beta in an alpha world, an overly sensitive romantic among monosyllabic farmers and soon-to-be bankers.
But the acting I began to do, for the following twenty years or so, wasn’t as honest as I wanted it to be. It still didn’t express who I was or what I felt. It was showy and prescriptive — planned out objectives and obstacles and actions. It reached for like-ability. It craved attention. My performances sought acknowledgement and more work. Some were gut-punched by the indifference of a brutal industry, others beaten down by the toxicity of ego, at times my own.
There were moments. In the light, where I lost myself — ego and all — dissolving into the moment, listening to someone live through something imagined, both of us — all of us — transcending ourselves, feeling more alive than life itself, fleeting, like life itself.
You cannot take it with you.
Demo reel - recent screen work