Method by Kate Stewart
For any creative who lives for their passion and bleeds some for their vision. And for those who endure it with them, this one is for you.
Listen to the Method playlist on Spotify
Method acting—a range of training and rehearsal techniques that seek to encourage sincere and emotionally expressive performances, as formulated by a number of different theater practitioners.
When taken to extremes, this type of acting can sometimes wreak havoc on health and personal relationships.
ACT I
“All the world’s a stage…”—William Shakespeare
Mila
Rolling my forehead on the door, I take deep breaths to both calm and anchor myself.
“Mila, please.” His tone is guttural, and I feel every ounce of reciprocal pain. We are thin hearts trying to break through thick walls. I peek through the hole and can’t see him but hear the unmistakable clank of a bottle hitting the porch below. “Open the door, baby,” his plea is a mournful whimper. “You promised.”
I answer him with silence, a silence he deserves. The silence he punished me with when I didn’t deserve it. Though his suffering is ripping me apart, I’ve been aching for him for months, desperate to break through the barricade he carefully constructed, the bricks he laid, that I allowed him to lay, between us. Those walls, they’re still there. He’s no longer my husband, he is the aftermath. What’s left of the man on my porch is the evidence of a job well done and the cause of our demise.
“YOU FUCKING PROMISED ME,” he rages, slapping the door with his palm, and I jump back stifling a yelp.
“You’re my Dame. Or have you forgotten…have you forgotten?” His last word cracks as we collectively fall apart on opposite sides of our old universe.
Choking on tears, I shake my head, fighting the battle to remain idle. The cure to his ache isn’t an open door, it’s the closing of another. I can’t make him see it, and he’s too caught up in the charade to see it for himself.
I hear the faint unscrewing of the cap. “This makes you a liar, you know,” he spouts sarcastically. “It makes you a fucking liar,” he snaps. “You were the only one…the only left that I trusted.”
He smacks the door again. “Mila… Open. This. Fucking. Door!”
“Go home,” I finally answer, my voice filled with lingering weakness. “Just go. You aren’t wanted here.”
“Not without you.”
Gathering my resolve, I manage to steady my voice. “You need to leave. Now.”
Glass shatters as he releases a string of curses. I hear shuffling and his weight falls against the door before he pounds against it. “You can’t do this! You can’t fucking do this, Mila! I won’t let you do this! You’re my wife,” he cries out hoarsely, “and you love me.”
Unable to take another second, I race through the cottage and lock myself in the bathroom. Cell phone in hand, I weigh the consequences of calling the police. I can’t do it to him, no matter how angry I am. I shoot off a quick text and wait, sitting with my back to the door, rocking in indecision while humming softly, my arms wrapped around me. He doesn’t let up, he doesn’t stop, he just keeps pounding on the door—on my heart, on the ghost of us. Agonizing minutes later, I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel, doors open then close, and muffled words are spoken before a scuffle ensues.
“Get the fuck away from me! She’s my wife!” The voices grow louder, but his is the only one I hear, and the hurt in it is enough to end me. “Goddammit Mila, don’t do this! You promised me!”
Rocking back and forth, I do my best to self soothe as sobs pour out of me, tears fall endlessly, and my heart finally erupts. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper as his cries pierce the air.
“MILA!”
FOUR MONTHS AGO
Casey and Bonnie Morning Radio Show
Casey: Oh, my God, Bon, not Blake West.
Bonnie: I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.
Casey: The world has lost one of our brightest stars today. Blake West was reported to have been found dead early this morning at his home in Venice Beach.
Bonnie: No, Casey, no! He was our boy!
Casey: Neighbors say music was blaring from his condo, and when police arrived due to the complaint, the door was unlocked. Speculation is that the cause of death was suicide.
Bonnie: Horrible. So horrible. I loved Blake. Why would he do that?
Casey: Blake has been in and out of headlines in the last few years. Between his divorce last year to former co-star Amanda George and his last two films tanking, he’s had a rough go of it.
Bonnie: I knew things were tough for him, but damn, Casey, this is our man. I can’t believe he’s gone.
Casey: Me too, Bon. I’m at a loss, Hollywood. More details to come.
Lucas
Eulogies are bullshit. One should never be able to sum up a person’s life with a few sentences. I make a mental note to tell my wife I don’t want a single word uttered at my funeral. The people who mourn for me shouldn’t be reminded of who I was or what I meant to them—they shouldn’t have to be. Maybe that’s cynical, but this whole funeral has been a shitshow since we arrived at the church this morning. It just goes to show how fucked up our world is. Lately, no one seems to know anything about anyone. A slew of recent scandals has rocked these hills into something unrecognizable. Mock shock and outrage have made everyone a hypocrite. The unearthing of these evil deeds has escalated into a landslide and perception is more skewed than ever. In Hollywood, transparency is an illusion. In our current world, pride is becoming scarce. Even with the notion that everyone is striving to be better, to perfect their craft, to be a part of something synonymous with legendary, it’s only for the sake of the game.