The man, who was cooking pork belly and pickled cabbage, talked on and on. Shang Yechu analyzed and organized his thoughts point by point, and gradually began to feel a little confused about Xiao Yue.
According to the story of "pork belly fried with sauerkraut," the prototype of the granddaughter—let's call her Xiaoyue for now—is someone who has lived in a poor, noisy, and repressive environment for a long time, to the point that she suffers from neurasthenia and is irritable and easily angered. Yet, she is also surprisingly stable at heart, studious, and polite, a good child praised by all her elders.
How can there be such contradictory people in the world?
After a long chat with Wuhuarou and Pan-fried Sauerkraut, Shang Yechu looked at her notebook, which was filled with notes, and still didn't know how to write this biographical sketch.
How can a person experience a life completely opposite to their own?
The debate between the Method, Approach, and Expressionist schools of performance is a well-worn topic. If Shang Yechu were to summarize the advantages of each, they would be: one is "authenticity," one is "skill," and one is "stability."
The authenticity of method acting, that genuine immersion in the role, that spiritual communion with the character, is enough to leave any viewer in awe. Shang Yechu has studied the performances of some actors skilled in this approach and must admit that their performances are truly a great art.
The ingenuity of the method acting approach lies in its benefit to the actor. For example, if a character in a play dies of their boyfriend or girlfriend, but the actor is actually single and unable to empathize, they can recall the emotions they felt when a loved one died. Grandparents, parents, and other family members taking turns acting out the tragedy is far more emotionally impactful than the death of a boyfriend or girlfriend. This kind of performance is very moving, and most moments of "explosive acting" actually fall into this category.
The stability of performance acting is a commercial advantage. Everyone is different, and life is full of experiences. Even the best actor cannot achieve a soul-stirring connection with every character, nor can they be lucky enough to find an "emotional substitute" every time. There are always more ordinary people than ordinary people in this world.
Stability is essentially about familiarity. Repeating something a thousand times can turn an ordinary person into a genius. Performance-oriented actors accumulate rich acting experience, integrating corresponding performance templates and engraving them in their memory. They can then use them whenever needed. Their voice, facial expressions, and micro-movements all have a set of practiced patterns.
This pattern is particularly common in comedy performances. With the exception of a very few comedy masters, most comedians' performances are formulaic and formulaic, relying on exaggerated body language, signature tone of voice, and facial expressions to create a trademark performance style. Even without showing their face, if the comedian is famous enough, audiences can easily guess who they are based on their signature tone of voice.
The shortcomings of expressionism are obvious: it's prone to clichés, its performances tend to be monotonous, and it easily leads to audience fatigue—a long-standing criticism. However, its strengths are equally prominent: expressionist performances resemble mass-produced works by skilled workers; while not art, they are at least passable. And commercial works—passable is enough; what more can you ask for?
In fact, many highly experienced performance actors can outperform the inconsistent performances of the first two groups. These actors are precisely the backbone of commercial film and television productions.
Shang Yechu knew her own limitations. Her performance was a blend of expressionism and method acting. It relied on a wealth of experience to build her acting skills, coupled with her extremely dedicated and meticulous interpretation.
Whether it's the courtesan Mianmian, or Xiao Fengque and Princess Pingzhao, they are all characters living under a facade, not outwardly expressing their emotions. They are both themselves and "actors." On rare occasions when emotions are released, Shang Yechu can also cleverly use the method acting technique of emotional substitution.
By sheer coincidence, and by sheer luck, it actually aligned perfectly with Shang Yechu's path!
It's like casting a baker to play a baker, an assassin to play an assassin, or a piano teacher to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. After several productions, Shang Yechu's performance has become effortless, masterful, and exquisite. The vast majority of viewers didn't notice anything amiss; on the contrary, they praised Shang Yechu's superb acting skills.
The good news is that the protagonist of the spy drama script written by Zheng Bohan is a spy. In other words, she is still a character living under a disguise.
This means that 99% of the time, Shang Yechu can portray the spy exceptionally well, without any audience members noticing any flaws or feeling pulled out of the story. On the contrary, they will praise Shang Yechu's acting skills as natural and effortless. Only in that 1% of moments will Shang Yechu hastily reveal his performative side.
Zheng Bohan wanted that one percent.
Ji Juntao also asked Shang Yechu to explore that one percent.
The one percent that Shang Ye had been desperately seeking but could not obtain, the hidden pain that had always been there, was also that one percent.
A flaw in acting is like an elephant in the room; Shang Yechu is aware of its existence but doesn't know how to get rid of it.
It's always worth trying the experiential approach. Shang Yechu had read many books on acting and had some prior experience in her past life, so she wasn't exactly at a loss.
Experiencing Xiaoyue's emotions is not possible for the time being, but experiencing Xiaoyue's living environment is still possible.
Shang Yechu scrolled through her chat history with Wuhuaroujiansauerkraut, and read through her notes again, deciding to start with the simplest one.
Xiao Yue had lived for years surrounded by the mute woman's singing—in other words, noise. Shang Yechu decided to create some noise for himself.
Shang Yechu searched for a bunch of "the worst songs in history" and "eight types of environmental noise that are unbearable" on Zhihu and Pi Station, and then opened Listening Cloud Music and stuffed all these rubbish into his playlist.
Shang Yechu named the playlist "Qingyun Ladder" and was about to turn the volume up to the maximum when he suddenly remembered that this shabby guesthouse was not very soundproof.
One should be tough on oneself. Shang Yechu took out her earphones, plugged them in, and turned the volume up to the maximum—so high that the system would display a warning that "this volume may damage hearing," before putting on the earphones.
Shang Yechu originally planned to try for five minutes first, but after only two minutes, she was sweating profusely and ripped off her headphones!
What kind of torture is this?!
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