Nina Foch, 1924-2008
7:53pm 12-09-08
I was saddened to read of the passing of one of the great film acting teachers, Nina Foch. As a student at USC film school, I got to take a special acting class of hers, designed to teach prospective directors and filmmakers just enough about acting to make them respect actors and their craft.
I'd already done some acting in high school and college, but I really didn't have a lot of formal training. Nina Foch's idea was that it was something you could teach, that it wasn't all that mysterious. You could break down a line of dialogue word by word and figure out exactly what it was supposed to mean, and therefore, how you were supposed to say it, and what gestures you should make to support it. It was almost a little too rote, but when she demonstrated it, it seemed effortless and impressive.
She had a lot of little tricks she would do to make an impression on you, like when she paused in the middle of a bit of instruction about how focusing your attention is a powerful acting tool, snapped her head up to glare at the classroom door at the back of the room, and said sternly, "Well, I know you're late, but hurry up and come on in!" Twenty five heads swiveled around to stare at a shut door with no one there at all. Twenty five heads swiveled back to a smirking Nina Foch, saying, "See what focus can do?"
She was wildly alive and full of pepper, inordinately proud of having been "Moses's mother" in one of her most famous roles, fiercely self-confident but also still insecure at times, in the way that actors and actresses always are deep down. She was a really fascinating personality, and I wish I'd gotten to know her better. There were times when I thought she was starting to really regard me as special, and there were other times when I disappointed her terribly. I was pretty hit or miss in those days.
I ended up paying tribute to her in a play I wrote called An American Folktale, which translated my film school experiences to an art school. In this rendering, Nina Foch's acting-for-directors class became a modeling-for-painters class, which ended up being a good way of translating the emotional nakedness her exercises required of you into the literal disrobing required of art modeling.
The scene compactly encodes all of my favorite memories about Nina Foch, her class, her teaching style, and her particular way with words (including many word-for-word quotes), into one scene. What other fitting tribute to her memory could I offer?
An American Folktale. © 1996 J. Robinson Wheeler.
STORYTELLER: Now, I'm going to stall for a minute while they reset the stage for Act II.
Stagehands begin redressing the set, as quietly as possible.
STORYTELLER: I had the opportunity during the last break to talk with some of you folks out there, and I was surprised to hear that a few gentle people weren't having a good time because they were upset about some of the language they've heard in the story. One young woman even went home. I'm really sorry to hear this, because all we want to do is tell the truth, and the truth is, sometimes people you meet, even young kids like John Brown, use what I like to call the sailor's brogue. I hope the rest of you, while still not too grown up to sit down and hear a story, are mature, even-tempered folk who can hear a bit of cussin' without fainting, scowling, or snickering. I just wanted to make that clear, because if you can't, the next scene is apt to leave quite an impression on you. Gentlewomen and gentlemen, I give you the studio lab.
STORYTELLER exits.
Lights up on a painting studio. The students are in a semi-circle, holding newsprint pads. DELLA FOGHORN, looking something of a muscular, tightly-packed old biddy, thunders into the room in a loose robe and pants. She paces, studying everyone's faces. Then, she takes hers tand on a low modeling platform.
DELLA: (swinging a fist in the air, with ferocity) CUNT!!!
All of the students are shocked. John Brown, also shocked, laughs.
DELLA: What are you, four years old? Cunt, cunt, cunt! Let me hear you say it, you little fuckers!
Everyone blushes and snickers.
DELLA: What's wrong with you? You're the worst class I've ever had! How are you going to draw a cunt if you can't even say the word? Would you prefer the word, "vagina?" A cunt is a cunt. Say it!
WILLIAM: Cunt!
DELLA: You weren't calling me that, were you? (She chuckles.) What are you afraid of? Any other body parts you can't handle?
She pulls off her pants, introducing the threat that she might peel off the rest at any moment.
DELLA: Relax, I'm just showing you my legs.
WILLIAM: You have great legs.
DELLA: (wistfully) Oh no, it was my mother who had beautiful legs. She was a dancer in Europe, long ago. (Snapping out of it.) Okay, you cowards. This is a sketching and modeling class. Who wants to come up here? The ones who volunteer first are always the ones who are really serious about their career. Come up and strip to your underwear. Learn what it's like to be an artist's model.
WILLIAM: Are you excluded from the exercise if you're not wearing underwear?
DELLA: (aghast) It's just dirty when men don't wear underwear. Don't you think? Just dirty. If that's the case, or you're just ashamed of your bodies I hope none of you are. I'm not ashamed of mine! (She opens her robe and pats her stomach.) Now, get up here, someone, before I throw all of you out.
ANTHONY: I'll go. I'll do it, sure.
Anthony stands. Della takes a seat.
DELLA: See? There's always a serious first volunteer.
ANTHONY: So, what did you want me to do? Strip?
DELLA: No, there's too many who are too goddamn shy to take their pants off. Just take off one thing you're wearing and hold it out and talk about it while everyone sketches you. I'll tell you when to stop.
Anthony whips off his shirt. He is lean and muscular. He is wearing a thin gold chain around his neck.
ANTHONY: Maybe I should have just taken off my gold chain, you know?
He looks at Della, who is waiting for him to keep talking. Everyone begins drawing.
ANTHONY: Okay, this is my shirt, you know? I mean, I don't remember when I got it, you know? I don't remember when I washed it last, either, you know? (He sniffs it.)
DELLA: Don't clown around. Stand still and just tell us about the shirt.
ANTHONY: Okay, right. Uhm it used to be one of my favorites, but it's faded now, and smaller. I think I got it from my brother, Mikey. He used to wear it playing basketball, then somehow I got it. I remember I wore it when I was painting something in the garage you know, 'long time ago and I got this blop of paint right there on the sleeve, and I was really upset, you know, that maybe my brother would whale on me, you know, for getting paint on his favorite shirt. I'd just gotten it from him.
DELLA: Stop! That was perfect, thank you. Brave boy.
ANTHONY: Okay. Thanks. It was kind of fun, you know?
He replaces the shirt and sits. Sarah shows him her sketch, and he smirks.
DELLA: Who's next? Come on, come on. I swear to you, I have never had a class like this!
A few hands go up, including William's and Sarah's. Della calls on Sarah.
DELLA: You up! What's your name again? Sarah?
SARAH: Yes. With an 'H.'
DELLA: Okay, start talking.
Sarah takes a bracelet off her wrist, shyly glancing at Anthony, who strikes a macho pose as a defense against what's coming.
SARAH: This is my new favorite bracelet of all time. I was given it last night by Anthony.
She points at him. He folds his legs, masculinely.
SARAH: We were having a special night, really special for me, and he gave this to me. It means a lot to me, and I don't ever want to take it off and um (she notices she has it off) And I think it's 'cause I love him.
She returns quickly to her seat. Everyone lowers their pads. Anthony throws his arm around Sarah's shoulders as she slips her hand through the bracelet.
DELLA: No, no, no! I told you to stay up there until I tell you to stop.
SARAH: (to Anthony) I'm sorry, I promised you I'd never take it off!
ANTHONY: Hey, it's okay.
SARAH: (sad) You kept your chain on, though.
ANTHONY: It's okay, it's okay.
DELLA: You two Capulet and Montague, cut it out. I refuse to be upstaged in my own classroom by your young-lover melodrama.
Sarah seems to be crying.
ANTHONY: May we be excused, ma'am?
DELLA: Ma'am? Where'd you learn to call an old broad like me ma'am? Take five. Scram. Beat it. Ow-diddle-ee-ow-out!
ANTHONY: Okay, okay, take it easy, you know? It's a big day for her. Don't be making fun of her, all right?
DELLA: I'm not making fun of her. I'm not making fun of anyone, am I? Please leave if you're going to, so maybe the rest of these limp-dick Harrys can actually learn something, for God's sake.
ANTHONY: All right, I'll be back. Watch my stuff, someone. Thanks.
He shepherds Sarah out. Della paces, her robe billowing open and shut, suspensefully.
DELLA: You are all a damned wreck. We can get two more in before the break if we make it snappy. Who's got the balls?
WILLIAM: One. I've got one ball.
DELLA: What are you, a human deformity?
WILLIAM: No, it was a joke. I was just kidding.
DELLA: Of course you were. Are you coming up, One-nut , or not?
WILLIAM: I'm coming, I'm coming.
DELLA: (slyly) Not with only one nut, you're not!
Laughter boils to a rich froth, at William's expense, serving him right for making the joke in the first place. He foolishly takes the platform-stage anyway.
DELLA: I'm sorry, dear boy. You walked right into that one.
WILLIAM: (as if joking, but betraying a bad spirit) I take back what I said about your legs.
DELLA: (stung) It was my mother's legs, not mine. She had such grace. (She freezes her hand, as if becoming sculpture, into a poise of graceful beauty.) She was so lovely.
WILLIAM: So, should I start?
DELLA: Whenever you like.
William fidgets a moment, then drops his pants, embarrassing everyone in the room. He is wearing small briefs.
WILLIAM: (starting to realize his error) I should have taken my shoes off, first.
He stands there, stiffly, his pants around his ankles. He looks to Della for support, but she offers only a steely gaze in return. He decides to take off his shoes.
WILLIAM: Uhm uhm.
Della glances at a timepiece. Everyone waits with their sketchpads. William finally gets his trousers off and holds them in a bunch.
WILLIAM: These are my pants, as I'm sure all of you can tell. They're blue, and there's a button, and a zipper, and some pockets. (He pauses, looks at Della.) I also don't remember when I got them, but I know that I washed them this weekend. Nothing special ever happened to me while wearing them, probably because I don't have a life. I was thinking about getting one. (He pauses again.) And, that's it. I guess.
DELLA: (showing mercy) All right, that's enough. You can go back to your seat now.
William pulls his pants back on and collects his shoes. John can't quite look him in the eye at first, but does so in a gesture of support. William looks quite humbled.
DELLA: One last one before we break? John Brown, you're up.
JOHN: Me?
DELLA: It's a hard act to follow, I know.
There is some nervously-released laughter.
DELLA: Come on.
JOHN: (a bit stage-frightened) I'll try.
John paces up onto the platform and considers his options. He decides to remove his wristwatch.
DELLA: (kindly) Go on.
JOHN: This is my watch. It's lost its original band, but it's built like a tank. That's what a repairman said, once. It's got a digital display, and I keep it on my right wrist instead of my left one, just to be different. Originally, I had a reason to switch, and just never went back. Maybe it's because I like to pretend I'm left-handed. My dad is left-handed, and I always thought it would be neat. I think this watch will outlive me, and I hope maybe my grandson will inherit it, if I have one. The light doesn't work anymore, and that's it.
John looks at Della, who looks back, rapt. John lowers his head and returns to his seat.
DELLA: (disappointed) I said, stay up there until I tell you to stop.
JOHN: I can go back up again, sorry.
DELLA: No, no never mind. Time for a break. See you in ten minutes.
I was saddened to read of the passing of one of the great film acting teachers, Nina Foch. As a student at USC film school, I got to take a special acting class of hers, designed to teach prospective directors and filmmakers just enough about acting to make them respect actors and their craft.
I'd already done some acting in high school and college, but I really didn't have a lot of formal training. Nina Foch's idea was that it was something you could teach, that it wasn't all that mysterious. You could break down a line of dialogue word by word and figure out exactly what it was supposed to mean, and therefore, how you were supposed to say it, and what gestures you should make to support it. It was almost a little too rote, but when she demonstrated it, it seemed effortless and impressive.
She had a lot of little tricks she would do to make an impression on you, like when she paused in the middle of a bit of instruction about how focusing your attention is a powerful acting tool, snapped her head up to glare at the classroom door at the back of the room, and said sternly, "Well, I know you're late, but hurry up and come on in!" Twenty five heads swiveled around to stare at a shut door with no one there at all. Twenty five heads swiveled back to a smirking Nina Foch, saying, "See what focus can do?"
She was wildly alive and full of pepper, inordinately proud of having been "Moses's mother" in one of her most famous roles, fiercely self-confident but also still insecure at times, in the way that actors and actresses always are deep down. She was a really fascinating personality, and I wish I'd gotten to know her better. There were times when I thought she was starting to really regard me as special, and there were other times when I disappointed her terribly. I was pretty hit or miss in those days.
I ended up paying tribute to her in a play I wrote called An American Folktale, which translated my film school experiences to an art school. In this rendering, Nina Foch's acting-for-directors class became a modeling-for-painters class, which ended up being a good way of translating the emotional nakedness her exercises required of you into the literal disrobing required of art modeling.
The scene compactly encodes all of my favorite memories about Nina Foch, her class, her teaching style, and her particular way with words (including many word-for-word quotes), into one scene. What other fitting tribute to her memory could I offer?
An American Folktale. © 1996 J. Robinson Wheeler.
STORYTELLER: Now, I'm going to stall for a minute while they reset the stage for Act II.
Stagehands begin redressing the set, as quietly as possible.
STORYTELLER: I had the opportunity during the last break to talk with some of you folks out there, and I was surprised to hear that a few gentle people weren't having a good time because they were upset about some of the language they've heard in the story. One young woman even went home. I'm really sorry to hear this, because all we want to do is tell the truth, and the truth is, sometimes people you meet, even young kids like John Brown, use what I like to call the sailor's brogue. I hope the rest of you, while still not too grown up to sit down and hear a story, are mature, even-tempered folk who can hear a bit of cussin' without fainting, scowling, or snickering. I just wanted to make that clear, because if you can't, the next scene is apt to leave quite an impression on you. Gentlewomen and gentlemen, I give you the studio lab.
STORYTELLER exits.
Lights up on a painting studio. The students are in a semi-circle, holding newsprint pads. DELLA FOGHORN, looking something of a muscular, tightly-packed old biddy, thunders into the room in a loose robe and pants. She paces, studying everyone's faces. Then, she takes hers tand on a low modeling platform.
DELLA: (swinging a fist in the air, with ferocity) CUNT!!!
All of the students are shocked. John Brown, also shocked, laughs.
DELLA: What are you, four years old? Cunt, cunt, cunt! Let me hear you say it, you little fuckers!
Everyone blushes and snickers.
DELLA: What's wrong with you? You're the worst class I've ever had! How are you going to draw a cunt if you can't even say the word? Would you prefer the word, "vagina?" A cunt is a cunt. Say it!
WILLIAM: Cunt!
DELLA: You weren't calling me that, were you? (She chuckles.) What are you afraid of? Any other body parts you can't handle?
She pulls off her pants, introducing the threat that she might peel off the rest at any moment.
DELLA: Relax, I'm just showing you my legs.
WILLIAM: You have great legs.
DELLA: (wistfully) Oh no, it was my mother who had beautiful legs. She was a dancer in Europe, long ago. (Snapping out of it.) Okay, you cowards. This is a sketching and modeling class. Who wants to come up here? The ones who volunteer first are always the ones who are really serious about their career. Come up and strip to your underwear. Learn what it's like to be an artist's model.
WILLIAM: Are you excluded from the exercise if you're not wearing underwear?
DELLA: (aghast) It's just dirty when men don't wear underwear. Don't you think? Just dirty. If that's the case, or you're just ashamed of your bodies I hope none of you are. I'm not ashamed of mine! (She opens her robe and pats her stomach.) Now, get up here, someone, before I throw all of you out.
ANTHONY: I'll go. I'll do it, sure.
Anthony stands. Della takes a seat.
DELLA: See? There's always a serious first volunteer.
ANTHONY: So, what did you want me to do? Strip?
DELLA: No, there's too many who are too goddamn shy to take their pants off. Just take off one thing you're wearing and hold it out and talk about it while everyone sketches you. I'll tell you when to stop.
Anthony whips off his shirt. He is lean and muscular. He is wearing a thin gold chain around his neck.
ANTHONY: Maybe I should have just taken off my gold chain, you know?
He looks at Della, who is waiting for him to keep talking. Everyone begins drawing.
ANTHONY: Okay, this is my shirt, you know? I mean, I don't remember when I got it, you know? I don't remember when I washed it last, either, you know? (He sniffs it.)
DELLA: Don't clown around. Stand still and just tell us about the shirt.
ANTHONY: Okay, right. Uhm it used to be one of my favorites, but it's faded now, and smaller. I think I got it from my brother, Mikey. He used to wear it playing basketball, then somehow I got it. I remember I wore it when I was painting something in the garage you know, 'long time ago and I got this blop of paint right there on the sleeve, and I was really upset, you know, that maybe my brother would whale on me, you know, for getting paint on his favorite shirt. I'd just gotten it from him.
DELLA: Stop! That was perfect, thank you. Brave boy.
ANTHONY: Okay. Thanks. It was kind of fun, you know?
He replaces the shirt and sits. Sarah shows him her sketch, and he smirks.
DELLA: Who's next? Come on, come on. I swear to you, I have never had a class like this!
A few hands go up, including William's and Sarah's. Della calls on Sarah.
DELLA: You up! What's your name again? Sarah?
SARAH: Yes. With an 'H.'
DELLA: Okay, start talking.
Sarah takes a bracelet off her wrist, shyly glancing at Anthony, who strikes a macho pose as a defense against what's coming.
SARAH: This is my new favorite bracelet of all time. I was given it last night by Anthony.
She points at him. He folds his legs, masculinely.
SARAH: We were having a special night, really special for me, and he gave this to me. It means a lot to me, and I don't ever want to take it off and um (she notices she has it off) And I think it's 'cause I love him.
She returns quickly to her seat. Everyone lowers their pads. Anthony throws his arm around Sarah's shoulders as she slips her hand through the bracelet.
DELLA: No, no, no! I told you to stay up there until I tell you to stop.
SARAH: (to Anthony) I'm sorry, I promised you I'd never take it off!
ANTHONY: Hey, it's okay.
SARAH: (sad) You kept your chain on, though.
ANTHONY: It's okay, it's okay.
DELLA: You two Capulet and Montague, cut it out. I refuse to be upstaged in my own classroom by your young-lover melodrama.
Sarah seems to be crying.
ANTHONY: May we be excused, ma'am?
DELLA: Ma'am? Where'd you learn to call an old broad like me ma'am? Take five. Scram. Beat it. Ow-diddle-ee-ow-out!
ANTHONY: Okay, okay, take it easy, you know? It's a big day for her. Don't be making fun of her, all right?
DELLA: I'm not making fun of her. I'm not making fun of anyone, am I? Please leave if you're going to, so maybe the rest of these limp-dick Harrys can actually learn something, for God's sake.
ANTHONY: All right, I'll be back. Watch my stuff, someone. Thanks.
He shepherds Sarah out. Della paces, her robe billowing open and shut, suspensefully.
DELLA: You are all a damned wreck. We can get two more in before the break if we make it snappy. Who's got the balls?
WILLIAM: One. I've got one ball.
DELLA: What are you, a human deformity?
WILLIAM: No, it was a joke. I was just kidding.
DELLA: Of course you were. Are you coming up, One-nut , or not?
WILLIAM: I'm coming, I'm coming.
DELLA: (slyly) Not with only one nut, you're not!
Laughter boils to a rich froth, at William's expense, serving him right for making the joke in the first place. He foolishly takes the platform-stage anyway.
DELLA: I'm sorry, dear boy. You walked right into that one.
WILLIAM: (as if joking, but betraying a bad spirit) I take back what I said about your legs.
DELLA: (stung) It was my mother's legs, not mine. She had such grace. (She freezes her hand, as if becoming sculpture, into a poise of graceful beauty.) She was so lovely.
WILLIAM: So, should I start?
DELLA: Whenever you like.
William fidgets a moment, then drops his pants, embarrassing everyone in the room. He is wearing small briefs.
WILLIAM: (starting to realize his error) I should have taken my shoes off, first.
He stands there, stiffly, his pants around his ankles. He looks to Della for support, but she offers only a steely gaze in return. He decides to take off his shoes.
WILLIAM: Uhm uhm.
Della glances at a timepiece. Everyone waits with their sketchpads. William finally gets his trousers off and holds them in a bunch.
WILLIAM: These are my pants, as I'm sure all of you can tell. They're blue, and there's a button, and a zipper, and some pockets. (He pauses, looks at Della.) I also don't remember when I got them, but I know that I washed them this weekend. Nothing special ever happened to me while wearing them, probably because I don't have a life. I was thinking about getting one. (He pauses again.) And, that's it. I guess.
DELLA: (showing mercy) All right, that's enough. You can go back to your seat now.
William pulls his pants back on and collects his shoes. John can't quite look him in the eye at first, but does so in a gesture of support. William looks quite humbled.
DELLA: One last one before we break? John Brown, you're up.
JOHN: Me?
DELLA: It's a hard act to follow, I know.
There is some nervously-released laughter.
DELLA: Come on.
JOHN: (a bit stage-frightened) I'll try.
John paces up onto the platform and considers his options. He decides to remove his wristwatch.
DELLA: (kindly) Go on.
JOHN: This is my watch. It's lost its original band, but it's built like a tank. That's what a repairman said, once. It's got a digital display, and I keep it on my right wrist instead of my left one, just to be different. Originally, I had a reason to switch, and just never went back. Maybe it's because I like to pretend I'm left-handed. My dad is left-handed, and I always thought it would be neat. I think this watch will outlive me, and I hope maybe my grandson will inherit it, if I have one. The light doesn't work anymore, and that's it.
John looks at Della, who looks back, rapt. John lowers his head and returns to his seat.
DELLA: (disappointed) I said, stay up there until I tell you to stop.
JOHN: I can go back up again, sorry.
DELLA: No, no never mind. Time for a break. See you in ten minutes.