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On playing Lincoln
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Yesterday I stood inside the dimly lit grotto at Memorial Park Cemetery pulling at a fake beard, waiting for my cue. As soon as the bagpipes wailed, I stepped out of the cave into the Memorial Day ceremony with a copy of the Gettysburg Address in my hand. Dressed in a top hat and black duster much like President Lincoln would have worn in 1863, I walked toward the podium. Seeing the crowd of veterans, their widows, nieces, nephews, sons, and daughters, I was seized—as I had been throughout the rehearsal process—with the pressure of having to honor what these people fought for, lost, and gained. And I doubted that what I do as an actor could actually be worthy in a situation like that.
I took the Lincoln job for the cash; I had no idea it was going to bring up that doubt. During rehearsal I wondered, is it possible for actors to honor the people for whom a script was written? Do we really honor striking laborers when we perform Waiting For Lefty? Or slaves when we’re doing Big River? How about dead and living soldiers while delivering the Gettysburg Address? I felt my job was to at least try, so with the little time I had, I did some research on Lincoln to help me understand his character.
I found Abe and I had a few things in common. Although I don’t have Marfan’s Syndrome as he did, I have a tall and gangly build that lends it self to faulty heart valves and murmurs, like him. We both suffer from depression. We both like hats. My girlfriend was born in Springfield, Illinois (which surprisingly turned out to be unhelpful). I found a former speech writer’s blog that compared the Gettysburg Address to a Hamlet soliloquy. Right, I thought. Abe and I both perform.
Lincoln knew the theatrics of public speaking. Gettysburg is a perfect example. He knew how to convey purpose: Over 50,000 Americans had recently died in Gettysburg, and he promised the audience that those did not die in vain. He knew how to appeal to the audience’s pathos: He reminded everyone that the world was watching them fight for their ideals. And he knew timing: Edward Everett had just addressed the same crowd with a two-hour speech, so Lincoln kept his to two minutes. The Gettysburg Address is a damn good piece of theater.
The more I looked at the speech as apiece of theater, the more doable it felt. It's historic theater, like a Euripides or Shakespeare play. So I worked on Lincoln’s text as I would any other: learning lines, personalizing circumstances, finding intentions, rhythms… But the question of how to honor the soldiers in the audience kept coming back to me. What was it about working on this text? Why did I feel I had a responsibility beyond acting? Why did I feel the need to dole out hope and inspiration the way our former president did? Why did I doubt that those things were possible?
Technically, all I had to do was get to the podium, say the words, and call it a day. But looking out into the audience of veterans I knew there was more to it than that. These veterans, at least once, must have grappled with the worth of what they fought for, in the same way that I struggled with the worth of my job. And because I couldn’t shake that uncertainty during rehearsal, or standing in the grotto, or during the long walk to the podium, the Gettysburg Address the audience heard was delivered with doubt weaved through it. And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe somewhere in the speech I spoke about the difficulty of carrying on when the worth of our actions becomes elusive.
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