Stagefright is an age old phenomenon that can afflict anyone whose activity brings them to the attention of an audience. Since it does not necessarily involve a stage, it is perhaps more properly also known as 'performance anxiety'. Nor does the audience that triggers stagefright necessarily need to be a large one, an audience of one can be enough, especially if that one is a person of particular importance.
Stagefright is most commonly experienced as a fear of speaking in public, but can manifest itself even when there is no speaking involved. A mime artist, for example, may find it impossible to perform in public through stage fright, and even a sportsman or athlete can suffer from it, especially when called upon to perform on some momentous occasion like a championship final.
The extent to which people are afflicted by this very common malady varies greatly from one individual to the next. Some people are so in fear of it that they spend their entire lives avoiding any situation that might focus attention upon them. There are others whose phobia is less extreme, who don't let the fear dictate their lives but still avoid the limelight as much as possible and never volunteer to put themselves before the public eye. Another group are those who do not actively enjoy public appearance, but conversely have no particular fear of it - taking it in their stride as a necessary part of their lives. And lastly there are those, like actors, singers and musicians, who are driven by a passion for creative expression, and for whom public performance is intoxicating.
One might think that this latter group, which covers almost all of those professionally involved with the performing arts, should be immune from stagefright. But this is far from the case. In fact their very need for public approval can serve to heighten the anxiety that leads to stagefright.
The symptoms of stagefright vary greatly but usually consist of some combination of the following:
Like most anxiety disorders, stagefright is believed to stem from a combination of nature and nurture. That is, some people are genetically, from birth, more inclined toward stagefright than others, whilst upbringing can make a tremendous difference in reinforcing or countering that tendency. This combination of factors simply means that some people are very good candidates to develop stagefright, whilst others are very unlikely to ever experience it.
It commonly afflicts sufferers in any or all of the following ways:
For most people, prescience, negative anticipation, is the worst symptom of their stagefright, and once the performance gets underway their stagefright will rapidly evaporate. Even for those that suffer significant physical symptoms of anxiety during the course of a performance, these symptoms too are in most cases fairly transitory. They may momentarily 'dry up' and have some little difficulty in carrying on, but if they can but regain their composure their stage fright may not disappear, but it will become far less intimidating.
Following are articles from period publications on the horrors of stagefright:
THE THEATRE (UK) - July, 1891.
Some Stage Frights
There are two varieties of the genus "fright" peculiar to the denizens of stage-land. There is the ordinary variety, the "fright" such as is experienced off the stage as well as on it. This sort of "fright" may perhaps be more aptly termed "shock." It is the immediate result of an accident, a blunder, a piece of carelessness or malice aforethought on the part of someone.
The other form of "fright" is a species of nervous complaint exclusively peculiar to the stage, a complaint somewhat difficult to diagnose. Even those who have suffered from it - and there are few who have not at some time or other in the course of their professional careers fallen victims to its insidious attacks - experience some difficulty in describing their symptoms and putting their sensations into matter-of-fact prose.
In attempting to collect together some of the more striking and interesting "frights" of the first class which have occurred on the stage during the past, one feels how sadly negligent of such minor details of stage history were those worthy scribes who essayed to record the struggles and the successes of the drama for the benefit and enlightenment of prosperity.
Volume after volume of stage history and biography may be skimmed without a single incident of the kind cropping up. Everything apparently went as merrily as the proverbial marriage bell. And yet there must have been some accidents occasionally, some startling slips every now and again, some terrifying occurrences calculated to "harrow up the soul, freeze the blood," and make each particular hair providing the unlucky witness did not wear a wig stand on end like quills upon the oft-quoted porcupine.
Incidents of the kind are not foreign to our modern stage. In spite of perfected appliances and a thousand and one accessories, human and otherwise, absolutely unknown to our forefathers, accidents will and do happen, with the natural result that those who are immediately and personally concerned in them are, like the old country-woman who was shown the Venus of Milo, very much shocked.
How much more frequently must such "frights" have occurred when the disciples of Thespis lived, and moved, and had their being amid surroundings of the most primitive description. Perhaps they thought such trivialities unworthy of being committed to paper. Possibly the actors and actresses who underwent adventures of the kind maintained a discreet silence with regard to them. Those were not the days of interviewers, of gossiping newspapers, of popular biographies. In these times the stage and its votaries have lost what mystery surrounded them half a century ago.
Few secrets exist between those on the stage and those off it. The footlights no longer form an unclimbable barrier between the two sections of the public. The most trifling incident that happens on the stage is at once made the subject of general gossip. The modern actor is always approachable and willing to afford information. As will be seen later on, I have taken advantage of this pleasant trait to swell my list of "stage frights" by adding a brief account of a few interesting incidents in the careers of some of our present-day favourites.
In October, 1692, we learn that whilst two actors named Sandford and Powell were playing in a tragedy, "Oedipus, King of Thebes," a keen-edged dagger was accidentally given to the former. During a struggle between the two, the unfortunate Powell received a stab three inches deep. When Sandford withdrew the dagger covered with blood, and saw his fellow-actor fall heavily to the ground with a groan of anguish, he is said to have been so thunderstruck that for a moment he remained absolutely immovable.
From that time forward accidents with daggers have been somewhat frequent on the stage, though on one occasion a stage combat nearly assumed the proportions of a real struggle with a tragic termination all through the unrestrained jealousy of two rival tragedy queens. Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Boutell curiously enough were appearing in a play, appropriately entitled "The Rival Queens; or, the Death of Alexander the Great," when a dispute arose between them as to which of the two should wear a certain veil. The property man was appealed to, but not being a second Solomon, it did not occur to him to heal dissensions, promote peace, and at the same time to discover the real owner by suggesting that the garment should be equally divided. Indeed, he widened the breach by handing the veil to Mrs. Boutell. The quarrel was continued, and tho two actresses went on the stage in a very fierce frame of mind. At the conclusion of the piece they had to struggle on the stage, and on this particular occasion it may be judged that their combat was a peculiarly vicious and realistic one. The two ladies flew at each other, and Mrs. Barry screaming, "Die, sorceress, die, and all my wrongs die with thee," she sent her polished dagger through "the armour of Mrs. Boutell's stays," to quote Dr. Doran's account of the affair. Her subsequent alarm on withdrawing the gory dagger can be better imagined than described. Fortunately for the assaulted tragedienne, the excellent and substantial workmanship of her corsetiere effectually prevented a serious wound, but the shock to both cannot have been soon forgotten. Strange to relate, a similar mishap this time through pure misadventure, however occurred whilst Miss Woffington and Mrs. Bellamy were playing the same parts a good many years afterwards.
Rather a painful "fright" fell to the lot of Mrs. Robinson whilst playing in "A Trip to Scarborough" in 1770. The play did not meet with the approval of the audience, who expressed their dissatisfaction by giving a realistic imitation of the traditional saviours of Rome. Miss Yates suddenly fled from the stage, leaving Mrs. Robinson alone in the centre of it, and exposed to the fury of the mob. Transfixed with terror, she did not know what to do. Fortunately the Duke of Cumberland came to the front of his box, and addressing her, said, "It is not you but the piece they are hissing," whereupon the frightened actress regained her confidence and her speech at the same moment.
More amusing, and at the same time more embarrassing, was the accident that happened to Mrs. Siddons whilst playing Queen Katherine in "Henry VIII." The chair in which she was seated in Act IV. was so small that when she rose to make her exit it stuck to her. For once during her professional career the great actress nearly lost her customary confidence and presence of mind.
The great John Philip Kemble experienced a shock which he never forgot (nor doubtless did his audience) when he opened in the March of 1794 at Drury Lane Theatre with "Macbeth." With an eye for spectacular effect, Kemble introduced during the cauldron scene a troupe of children "made up" as hobgoblins. Amongst those children was none other than Edmund Kean, who had been playing pantomime imps at several of the London theatres, and had obtained a reputation for that kind of part. When Kemble, as Macbeth, entered the cavern, little Edmund upset his neighbour, and, as Hawkins says in his life of the latter, "the impulse having communicated itself to the whole troupe, the stage immediately exhibited a scene of confusion altogether indescribable." Imagine poor Kemble's horror and dismay!
In after years Kean created another sensation on the stage, a sensation infinitely greater and more powerful and unaccompanied by ludicrous incidents. It happened during his performance of Sir Giles Overreach. With such marvellous fidelity did he portray the mad fury of the character that Mrs. Glover, who was acting with him, became so frightened that she fainted away on the stage, and Mrs. Horn, another actress, staggered to a chair, burst into tears, and was unable to continue her part.
Macready had a severe "fright" whilst playing at Drury Lane - though, truth to tell, it did not take place immediately on the stage, but in the green-room. He was preparing to "go on" in a play entitled "Retribution," at Covent Garden, and whilst in the green-room he amused himself by a little private rehearsal of his part which included, amongst other things, the brandishing of a heavy battle-axe. The budding tragedian put rather too much energy into his performance of the feat, for the axe glided out of his hands, and dashing into a huge pier-glass valued at £100, smashed it to atoms. It is not altogether surprising to learn that during his subsequent performance he remained almost paralysed by the fright this accident caused him.
Terrible must have been the shock to those who happened to be on the stage at the time when John Palmer gave up the ghost in full view of the audience. Palmer was appearing as the "Stranger" in Liverpool when news was brought him of the death of his second son. The play was stopped and the theatre remained closed for some short time. On the 2nd of August, 1798, he resolved to re-appear, and though still suffering from the effects of the sad intelligence he endeavoured to go through his part. However, when he had to relate to Steinfort the sad story of his domestic afflictions, the painful recollection of the past overmastered him, and uttering the words "There is another and a better world," in an awe-struck tone of voice, he fell down on the stage a corpse.
To come to more modern times Mr. Henry Irving was once the victim of a somewhat serious fright whilst playing in "Faust." In the first scene, it will be remembered, he was accustomed to disappear ceiling-wards in company with Faust. The two seated on a sliding panel were drawn rapidly upwards by the stage hands and vanished as the curtain descended amidst clouds of smoke and red fire. One evening just as the representative of Mephistopheles was preparing for his ascent, the apparatus struck him violently on the head, fortunately without serious results, but with sufficient force to upset his nervous system for the remainder of the evening. Mr. Bancroft narrowly escaped being stunned by a curtain roller once, and most of your leading actors and actresses have at times been the victims of misadventures, fortunately for themselves, as well as for the playgoing public, innocent of serious consequences.
Of "stage frights" proper, Miss Ellen Terry, than whom few are more qualified to speak on the subject, thus describes a seizure: "You are standing apparently quite well, and in your right mind, when you suddenly feel as if your tongue had become dislocated, and was lying powerless in your mouth. Cold shivers begin to creep downwards from the nape of your neck and all up you at the same time, until they seem to meet in the small of your back. About this time you feel as if a centipede, all of whose feet had been carefully iced, had begun to run about in the roots of your hair. Your next agreeable sensation is the breaking out of a cold perspiration all over you. Then you feel as though somebody had cut the muscles at the back of your knees; your mouth begins slowly to open without giving utterance to a single sound, and your eyes seem inclined to jump out of your head over the footlights. At this period it is as well to get off the stage as quickly as possible you are far beyond the hope of any human help." Truly a thrilling and mysterious disorder! Not the least curious feature in connection with it is its liability to recur even after one has trod the stage for years.
Familiarity with the public does not seem to exercise a deterrent effect. Those once subject to the peculiar malade imaginairre do not grow innured to its attacks in after life. Each fresh "first night" brings with it the old feeling of dread, and the audience is faced with that nervous shrinking which is erroneously supposed to be the special perogatives of budding actors and selfconscious amateurs. Nothing could be more erroneous. Even Garrick was susceptible to its influence. We are told that when he made his first appearance as "Richard the Third," the great actor walked boldly on to the stage with every sign of confidence, but as soon as he faced his audience he was utterly disconcerted and for some moments remained perfectly silent, unable to utter a single word.
And Charles Matthews went through a very similar experience, though in his case the terrible hooting and irreverent guffaws with which he was received were no doubt mainly responsible for his sudden loss of speech. Matthews was engaged to appear in "The Citizen," during the engagement of Miss Farren, afterwards Countess of Derby. Not only were his stage clothes grotesque, but they were too small for the tall, thin lad. Added to these drawbacks, too, he possessed a very feeble and peculiar voice and an ignorance of stage gestures, scarcely surprising in a boy of seventeen. Miss Farren, on the other hand, was a women of elegant stage presence and easy and accomplished manners, and the notion of Matthews making love to her was so grotesque that it tickled the fancy of the audience, who roared and shouted such comforting and cheering remarks as "Where's your other half?" and recommended Miss Farren to hold her breath or she would puff him off the stage. Little wonder that under the circumstances the raw untrained youth should have been seized with "stage fright," with the natural result that he first of all remained tongue-tied and then burst into tears.
Mr. Edward Terry tells me that he has frequently suffered from "stage fright," so much so, he says, "that in my early days, if playing with the smallest kind of 'star,' I could scarcely speak my words. On the first night of a play at the Gaiety I so dreaded the reception (on my return from tour) that I had to get the stage-manager to tell me the first word of my part. Even now I am always nervous, and I don't believe in those actors who are not."
Miss Clara Jecks says, "I am, like many others, very nervous on the production of a new piece, but the only fright I have experienced is when I have seen my father in front." May Miss Jecks be happily spared a fright more terrible!
Mr. Rutland Barrington, writes, "I have never had 'stage fright' proper since the first night I ever appeared on the stage, when I was so upset with the glare of the footlights, that for what seemed about an hour I could not speak." Mr. Barrington adds, "I've often made a 'fright' of myself, but I suppose that don't count." Perish the thought!
Fortunate Miss Maude Millett says that she has escaped the enemy, whilst Miss Norreys qualifies her repudiation of any such weakness, with the somewhat enigmatical postscript: "As a rule I am too nervous to be conscious of anything in particular, except - and that is the great exception - that the critics are in front on a first night and I want them to be pleased with me. And I grow more and more nervous every year, so I should not be in the least surprised if sometime I should lose whatever sort of nervous courage I now possess." I am sure I may venture to answer for the stony-hearted critics in this matter. Miss Norreys need not lose courage. The stern arbiters of her dramatic fate dare not venture to say one harsh word about her after so charming a confession.
Mr. William Terriss must be numbered among the victims of the actors' foe, but fortunately the results of his momentary forgetfulness have been humourous rather than painful. Whilst acting at the Adelphi in "The Harbour Lights," he had to speak the "tag" which ran as follows: "Straight before us like two stars of hope we see the Harbour Lights." One evening, however, he invested the brief sentence with an original - and from the author's point of view altogether unintended meaning - by exclaiming: "Straight before us like two bars of soap we see the Harbour Lights." In his earlier days Mr. Terriss played at the old Gallery of Illustrations.
On one occasion he took part in "The Porter's Knot," when, under the influence of an excess of dramatic zeal and an attack of nervousness combined, he rendered the simple sentence "I saw him painfully wheeling a load too heavy for his strength," into "I saw him painfully wheeling a strength too heavy for his load," an achievement which by reason of its very novelty should have excited the enthusiasm of his audience - but which probably conduced merely to their irreverent hilarity.
Mr. Charles Gollette writes me: "The only instance of 'stage fright' I can remember - and that can hardly be called 'fright' - occurred to me at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, Tottenham Street, in 1869. I had been playing for over 100 consecutive nights in a comedietta called "A Winning Hazard," and had to commence the piece with a speech of about six lines. One evening I walked on the stage and down to the footlights to begin as usual when from some unaccountable cause my memory as far as the speech was concerned, became an absolute blank, nor could I even remember the purport so as to be able to substitute my own words. In an agony of embarrassment I wandered hopelessly about the stage, until Mr. H. W. Montgomery, who was waiting in the wings for me to give him his cue to come on, made some trivial observation, and in a second, and like a flash of lightning, my memory returned. I was in excellent health at the time and had no anxieties." Even Homer nods at times.
To conclude, Miss Ellen Terry was once seized with "fright" whilst appearing in "The Governor's Wife," but summoning all her strength and what remained of her senses she managed to drag herself off the stage and to seize a book. A few moments' rest enabled her to recover, when she returned to the stage and continued her part.
With these interesting instances of momentary embarrassment before them, the timid stage neophyte may well take courage, for should he fail to perform his allotted task on the stage he will have the consolation of knowing that he does not stand alone but fails in very distinguished company.
A. J. DANIELS.
THE THEATRE MAGAZINE
Vol. IV., No. 46 - New York, December, 1904
Stage Fright and Its Horrors
"It's no use, Ellen. I'm flummuxed." Edmund Kean, after a vain struggle with a new part in a London theatre, while his wife from the wings womanfully prompted him, thus defined stage fright. "Flummuxed" to Edmund Kean was a superlative. It presented the greatest heights of elation flung in one cruel second to the lowest depths of despair, as the topmost boulder of a towering Alp is carried in a swift, demonaic slide to the soundless depths of a crevasse. More wordily, though not more expressively, a writer has described stage fright as "A nervous convulsion peculiar to the stage," and adds, "The sufferers from which cannot describe its symptoms." Perhaps the descriptions are not commensurate with the sufferings, but they are sometimes picturesque.
Maxine Elliott's dark eyes grow darker with reminiscent horror and her face pales at the mention of a first night, especially a first night in New York. "I would rather be run over by a locomotive," she says, and Virginia Harned, with the same note of terror in her voice, says, "I would rather be torn limb from limb."
David Warfield can eat nothing the day of an opening, and Wilton Lackaye never takes any nourishment except soup for twenty-four hours before the awful event. "What's the use?" he says, with a shrug that invokes memories of certain useless meals within the limit set by his nature, or the nature of his nervousness.
Max Figman says, "On the day of an opening I am a fit subject for an ambulance." Anna Held says : "I am always nervous in a new part. I tremble. So! You see? I feel that I am what you call a frost. I stammer and sing stupidly always, and my dresses seem weighted with lead. I am a silly amateur at a first night."
Marie Dressler made her audience shout with delight when she made her entrance recently at her debut at Weber & Ziegfeld's music hall, this because, with one grave look about the house, she dropped to her knees and began picking up potatoes. "The fact is," said Miss Dressler, "when I saw the audience I forgot my lines, and I began picking up potatoes to give me time to remember them. Since it brought a laugh we have kept on with it, but the truth is it was an accidental hit due to stage fright."
Mrs. Fiske, writing some time ago in the Critic on this subject, said: "One actor is stimulated by the excitement of a first night performance to do his best, and all the conditions of such an event seem to inspire his most artistic efforts. On the other hand, another actor is depressed by the excitement of such an event, and fails utterly in a character those attributes that study, ability and purpose may have promised."
Mrs. Fiske admitted that she belonged to the latter unfortunate class, and had passed through strange experiences in consequence. She continued: "To a player unhappily affected on a first night, the conditions seem to be abnormal, and they are destructive of confidence and a weight on the spirit. The excitement, the preliminary hurry, the worry over things that may go wrong, and the general nervousness - for even the players who pass through the ordeal successfully are themselves nervous before the play begins - all these things have a dispiriting, depressing and benumbing effect. The player who on a first night may be rendered inefficient by the peculiar influences of the occasion, may subsequently show the very best that is in him. Thus the temporary weakness must be accidental rather than a characteristic fault."
J. E. Dodson is the only actor the writer has ever known who denies an intimate and painful acquaintance with stage fright, and Mr. Dodson admits that he is anxious about the verdict of the uncertain public. Stage fright, though, that dread paralysis of all the functions, he says he has not known for many years, not, in fact since Arthur Wing Pinero, the playwright, cured him, by a little carefully administered philosophy. The playwright met the actor the day before Mr. Dodson was to appear in a new play of Mr. Pinero's. "How do you feel about your part, Doddie?" inquired Mr. Pinero. "I-I-O, I don't know," Mr. Dodson answered in manifest fear of what the morrow might bring to him. "Don't you know your part?" "Oh, yes." "And don't you know your 'business?'" "Yes." "Don't you know exactly what you are going to do, and when you are going to do it?" "Certainly." "Then what are you worrying about ?" "Truly," Mr. Dodson said, "what was I worrying about? And from that time I have never known stage fright. Anxiety? Yes, for we never know what the verdict of the public will be. But stage fright, I believe, is largely due to being somewhat unprepared, uncertain, to trusting too much to the inspiration of the moment, which is as safe as embarking on a ship with rotten timbers. The cure for stage fright I have found is to be sure of everything you are going to do."
Quite contrary was this view of John Coleman, the English actor, who said : "Try to imagine awakening after a heavy night spent with cheap, sparkling brown sherry, gin and bitters, red heart rum and fusel oil, whiskey and British brandy, opium and Epsom salts, your head splitting, your eyes bloodshot, your nostrils choked, your mouth baked in a redhot oven, limbs paralyzed, muscles corrugated, vertebrae dislocated, tongue tied in a knot, cold, fever, bronchitis, influenza, delirium, and despair, all combined with acute susceptibility and perfect consciousness. Realize, if you can, that at that instant the prompter's bell rings to take up the curtain, and that you are airing your idiocy before the British public and the lady of your love to boot, then you may perhaps form some faint idea of the first phase of this diabolical malady. And now, oh stage struck aspirant, if you wish to know an infallible remedy for stage fright, here is one never known to fail. Don't go on the stage."
Equally harrowing is the picture drawn by Ellen Terry. "You are standing apparently quiet and in your right mind, when you suddenly feel as if your tongue had become dislocated and was lying powerless in your mouth. Cold shivers begin to creep downward from the nape of your neck and all up you at the same time, until they seem to meet in the small of your back. About this time you begin to feel as if a centipede, all of whose feet had been carefully iced, had begun to run about the roots of your hair. Your next agreeable sensation is the breaking out of cold perspiration all over you. Then you feel as though somebody had cut the muscles at the back of your knees, your mouth begins slowly to open without giving utterance to a single sound, and your eyes seem inclined to jump out of your head over the footlights. At this period it is well to get off the stage as quickly as possible - you are far beyond the hope of any human help."
On one occasion charming Miss Terry followed literally this advice of hers, for having reached the period when she was "beyond the hope of any human help," she dragged herself off the stage, seized the prompt book, called for a glass of water as a first aid to articulation, walked back upon the stage and was again Ellen Terry. Less fortunate was the late William Terriss, who, endeavoring to speak the line, "Straight before us like two stars of hope we saw the harbor lights," substituted thus unhappily: "Straight before us like two bars of soap we saw the harbor lights."
Stage fright, it has been pointed out, is of two varieties. That which is so common as to be nearly universal is the nervousness incident to opening in a new play or a new city, especially in a metropolis whose verdict is fateful. The other is due to some sudden shock or temporary mental or physical incapacity. Dr. Carleton Simon, the neurologist, says that stage fright manifests itself in one of three forms, either by loss of memory as in the case cited of Miss Terry; of substitution, as in Mr. Terriss' transformation of "stars of hope" to "bars of soap," and of impediment of speech, which locks lost words in the throat and turns the key of temporary paralysis upon them.
Stage fright affects different temperaments in the same degree, but with different outward symptoms," said Dr. Simon to the writer recently. The nervous, emotional temperament, of which Mrs. Leslie Carter is an example, usually manifests it by a deadly pallor. The blood rushes from the surface of the body to the internal organs, leaving the skin ghastly. Persons of this type often suffer from loss of memory, or, to use a stageism, 'go up in their lines.' The heart seems to miss a beat. There is a temporary psychical paralysis affecting first the mind and later the body. "The phlegmatic type, to which William Gillette seems to belong, shows stage fright first by the symptom of a flushed face. The blood rushes from the brain to the surface of the body. The mouth seems parched and the tongue thickens. There is increased heart action, a tension of the features and contraction of the muscles of the throat. Resultant, of course, is embarrassment of speech, shown especially by the substitution of one word for another."
Among our woman stars, Julia Marlowe is not exempt from stage fright. The young actress described her symptoms to the writer as follows: "My hands are always cold when I am on the stage, but the form of stage fright that makes a player forget his lines I have never had. I have grown more and more anxious about a production as I have grown older, and realize the tremendousness of the undertaking. As a child, when I played a sailor boy, and afterwards Sir Joseph Porter in 'Pinafore,' writing my lines on my cuffs, I was not in the least nervous. I was bold with the over-confidence of a child. In my first eight years on the stage I played thirty parts, all Shakespearean or the classic drama. I was youthful and over-confident, having no notion of the magnitude of the meaning of Shakespeare's splendid lines. But when I played Juliet last month in New York, I was terribly anxious the first night. An artist has at the back of his head a perfect knowledge of what he intends to do, and that does not mean that he will be mechanical, but he is not sure that the audience will like what he intends to do, and this is the secret of stage fright."
ADA PATTERSON.
| Author: Don Gillan, www.stagebeauty.net. |
| Primary Sources: As indicated. |
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