The Frank Twist: When the Actress Doesn't Act

There’s a brilliant scene in The Sopranos where Tony is talking to Carmela on the phone.

“I had one of my Coach Molinaro dreams.” He says.

“Were you unprepared again?” She responds.

In these two lines, the audience knows that this is a recurring dream for Tony and he knows exactly what it means.

So, I had one of my Frank Dreams…and I know exactly what it means.

A Frank Dream is basically your classic “Actor’s Nightmare” but with a twist. So, not only is the actor faced with the reality that they’re about to perform in front of an audience and have no idea what the fuck their lines are, an event that soaks the dreamer with anxiety, terror, and frustration, but then throw in The Frank twist, which adds elements of severe disappointment that highlights excuses, exposes cover ups, and throws in a severe bullshit meter that leaves the dreamer to face the deep truths of their very being. It’s the moment when the mentor looks through the mentee with their magnifying glass and reads them like no one else can.

A Frank Dream is always the same. The only variations are the location, what I’m wearing, and whether or not the frustration component greatly diminishes my ability to speak, walk or have any sort of control over my body. It starts when I show up to a theater and I hear Frank’s voice and realize, mother fucker, I think I’m supposed to be rehearsing right now. Frank then notices my existence but pretends I’m not there. He’ll then glance at me once in a while with massive disapproval in his dark, Italian eyes. And I know I’ve let him down. So, I run backstage and pray that my script will magically appear. You know, the script I’ve never seen before. And I can see Frank’s shadow, his tall physique and bow-legs pulling me into feelings of utter shame, guilt, and humiliation. Much like Tony Soprano, I’m unprepared. I’m unprepared at the thing I dream most of doing in my life.

I was 22 years old the first day I Walked into The Working Stage Theater. I had already talked myself down from three mini-panic attacks during the drive from Palos Verdes to Hollywood. With my fear of getting lost, the discomfort of having just moved into my boyfriend’s parent’s house after living on my own after graduation, and meeting a group of probably the best actors in the world, I came close to ditching the whole idea and turning back around. A common pattern for me. Bailing on opportunities, slamming the doors that are left ajar only to be stuck once again in my tiny world.

With a fresh Theater degree from Emerson College, I was beginning to notice that having that document meant absolutely nothing. The auditioning process for commercials made me want to run back to my childhood bedroom, turn out all the lights, lay on the hardwood floor, and blast The Smiths. I simply hated the game. The cattle calls, the way my lazy eyelid looked on the monitor, the inability to really listen to my scene partner as the distractions and insecurities saturated my entire being. This wasn’t acting to me. This was hours of waiting with self-doubt and many trips to the bathroom only to be called on and judged as you spit out one line about laundry detergent. Why do people do this? Is this what it’s really all about? To be an actor? Because this right here was total bullshit. I longed for theater again. Theater was my second home. Give me a black wooden box to sit on and the smell of paint and I could transform. I could finally let go of my Hali Disorders and incorporate all of their weirdnesses into authentic characters, freeing myself of their negativity and using them only for good…to shape, mold, and create someone else.

Having survived the drive to Hollywood after sweating off my makeup, I parked on Gardner St. and walked towards a group of people standing outside and under a blue awning with The Working Stage in white letters.

Walking into the space, there it was. The smell of paint, the clinking of props. Home.

Following everyone into the theater, I was freaked out. Not the, I’m getting lost on the freeway freaked out, but the insecure and vulnerable freaked out. What if I sucked? What if I have to perform today, on my first day, and I realize that I actually can’t do this? What if that children’s agent I went to when I was 8 had it right? That I needed more training?

“Proceed!”

Jarred out of my self-deprecation, I hear a loud voice from a man sitting in the front row, his legs stretched out and hands clasped on his stomach.

A guy sitting in the row ahead of me turned around and said, “That’s Frank. Don’t let him scare you.”

It took three Sundays at the Working Stage for Frank to notice me. This was a person who needed to sniff you out, from afar. You had to earn his trust, put in your time, pay your dues. And I did. Every Sunday from 12-5 I was there…reading scenes, writing scripts, performing in plays, learning the lighting and sound booth, assistant directing.

Working with Frank was like a therapy session. He was tough and wouldn’t let you get away with shit. He was good at what he did and I trusted him and wanted to do my very best for him. I learned more from him about acting than I had from any of the others…the long list of others who I was told were professionals but wound up teaching me how to embrace the role of a pubic hair, or how to scream the word “fuck” until you started crying.

Frank was so good at dissecting me…cutting through the bullshit and directly into the core of who I was. If I didn’t know my lines, it was bad news.

“You’re getting lazy!” he’d say in a sing-songy voice.

“No, I just-“

“Just is not a word. Just is an excuse.” He’d say with a glare followed by a laugh.

“Proceed! Even if you don’t know it, improv it. Figure it out. What does the character want? What’s in the way?”

We were tight, Frank and I. I’d go out to eat with him, I’d stay at his house, play with his dogs.

“I’m gonna make you a star.” He said one night after the closing of a show.

Even if it was bullshit, just hearing those words from someone like him made my life complete.

And then, on a Friday night, a show night, I arrived at the theater to find out that Frank’s wife had suddenly died. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. What? What?

And then, it was over. The Working Stage was over. It was a split second when everything changed. No more theater, no more Frank. It was like a breakup that I had no control over. There was no closure…something I realized I don’t handle well. I’m a closure needing type of gal and when it doesn’t happen, I start to go a little nuts. I’d do drive-bys on Gardner St. to see if Frank was there but he never was. Then other people started using the theater. Other people were in my home. Should I run in and tell them that the picture over the toilet is me? Would that mean anything to them?

It took a lot of years. And my life took a lot of different directions. Frank and I did reconnect for a play I co-wrote that ran for a bit at The Working Stage. He also let me host my mom’s surprise 60th birthday party there.

But the Frank Dreams, they’re often and they’re vivid. It’s a message…a strong, Italian, New York, aggressive Frank message. “Why the fuck aren’t you acting? Why are you not being real with yourself about it? Are you lazy? Are you afraid? What the fuck are you doing with your life? I thought this was everything to you and you’re just pissing it away because you’re scared. Cut the bullshit and get to work. No more excuses.”

I recently received a FB post from Frank saying that The Working Stage will be closing for good at the end of this month. A celebration at the theater is occurring and I’ll be there. I need to be there. One more time with Frank in my old home just to cut through the bullshit. Wait, not “just”. To cut through the bullshit and pull the actress out. She needs to come out.

Hali Morell is a teacher, writer, actress, and knitter of scarves. She lives in Southern California with her husband and beloved cat, Louie. She co-founded "The Missing Peace: Self-Discovery Through Storytelling" with her partner, Robin Hanson, where she helps folks tell and celebrate their personal stories. To sign-up for The Missing Peace workshops and salons or read more of Hali's memoir, click the links.