Old mimes never die, they just get a little more silent.
There was a time–’67, ’68, around then–when there was still some modicum of respect for mimery. It was still seen as the ultimate expression of physical acting. Legitimate theater and film actors, up to John Wayne and Charles Bronson, used to come to me and beg: show me how to better command my instrument. Meaning, of course, their body. The actor’s primary means of expression. I blame Brando. I blame Dean. I blame all the lies perpetuated by the false idea that experience, rather than imagination and honesty to the moment, is the primary means by which an actor best embodies his or her character. I blame Ken Kesey and the democratization of the acid trip.
In France, of course, it took longer for mimery to be relegated to the TJ Maxx of history. And while one could successfully argue that they have had some misses: Gerard Depardieu as sex symbol, Ornette Coleman as dinner music, this scorn is usually heaped upon them by Americans, for whom Jack Black’s one-trick coke-fueled sweat-fest is still, as they say, good stuff. America, who gave us Euro-Disney.
I was one of the first recipients of an NEA grant. I studied with Marceau. I brought Gerald Ford to tears. I made Anwar Sadat clap his hands with joy like a small child. And now?
I find myself at these artists’ gatherings and the question arises: what is it that you do?
I speak without words, I tell them. I embody humanity, my humble form become the sum total of human experience–the struggle under the oppressive weight of consciousness, the sense that all about you are invisible barriers, no seeming way to escape their bounds, I speak of being tugged along by forces beyond your control, of the transcendent beauty of smelling a single delicate rose’s bouquet. I tell them all of this, and what do they say in turn?
Oh shit, they say. Look! He’s a fucking mime.
And then they laugh like a pack of ravening hyenas as I walk to the door, collect my invisible coat, hat and umbrella, and return to my room at the YMCA.
