What makes an actor great?
There is a compelling moment in American Psycho (2000) when Christian Bale stares into the camera, about to break the fourth wall, except that he doesn’t. With his peering brown eyes, fixated on an emptiness that only his character can familiarize, he catches you in a weird one-way street hypnosis. Feels like a cry for help, just before his imminent crumble. Yet, in the end, there is no ending. One of those stories where you want to grab the collar of the said protagonist in order to force him into therapy, please, and if possible, overhear the session. There are so many doubts (uncleared), so many aha-moments (unoccured), so many back stories (unpeeled)—you wonder, if only the character could speak to me.
The same thing happens in Natalie Portman’s menacing character in Black Swan (2010). After spending close to two hours with her, you want to hug her and tell her that it’s alright; she will be fine. Not a big deal. Life is such and sus. She doesn’t have to literally kill her peace of mind for something that doesn’t even last long enough. What the fuck is perfection anyway other than a myth heralded by idiots with vacuum bigger than Vredefort? All her ambitions can’t match her descent into madness. Poor thing. Her character is so consumed by itself—yes, it—that there is no space for you, as an audience, to build a rapport with her. And when it gets too much, you tell yourself that it’s Natalie, not Nina, up there on the screen. Natalie is sweet (with others) and kind (to herself).
In more ways than one, the greatest onscreen performances require a level of crazy that is not easily available. Performative art demands commitment of the highest order. At the risk of coldness, we know why Heath Ledger’s role as Joker remains unmatched. Even by the superlative likes of Joaquin Phoenix. Perhaps, we, the commoners—balancing a tray of popcorns, samosa and cola on the other side of the big screen—aren’t supposed to understand the grief an actor goes through to reach their peak. The Dark Knight (2008) was Heath’s peak. Everything else would have been a downhill from there. He had come a long way from shooting himself awkwardly in Monster’s Ball (2000) to becoming a cinematic legends 8 years later. That arc can’t be described in words with utmost justice. Sorry.
However, it’s unfair to suggest that an actor has to portray an outrageously disturbed figure to achieve greatness. There are ample examples of actors who were remarkably subtle. Morgan Freeman is a classic fit here: his voice deserves a filmography of its own. Others have to try harder, maybe. Last year, Margot Robbie delivered her finest performance ever in the epic Babylon (2022) while being cute, funny, sexy, smart, dumb, odd and heartbreaking—all at once. She was there on the screen throughout the movie but got royally overlooked by the Academy. Anthony Hopkins was visible for about 15 minutes in The Silence of the Lambs (1991) and still bagged an Oscar.
Which brings you to the question: do awards define greatness?
The resounding answer would be no. Fuck them.
An actor suffers temporarily. They perform for eternity. Whatever they put out for the world to see, the world would peek forever. This equation dictates how much is an actor willing to pour out of herself to reach a stage where they are completely hollow. There is nothing left to give anymore. It’s a point of no return. That, to me, is greatness. Very few want to do this. Very very very few manage to do this. And when they do, they stare at you blankly, locked in a staring contest that you are bound to lose, leaving you with a thousand questions that shall remain unanswered.