Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 10: Slapstick and Circles

But what about Martha? Yes, Martha, briskly shuffling through the rooms of the Yardley grounds, taking care not to bump out of her assigned place (which is the corner) into the spotlight. Her time is paid for, but still given up to the people whose name is on the check. If Martha does not have the luxury of looking to the future, then her time is now. Now, the time is occupied by the Yardleys; Brother and Sister are in the now and they get all the action. This pushes Martha back to the past, but the past is the past and it lies in the ground, the eyes of its body, black sockets, and its interiors made the land of maggots and termites and dust. Where to go from now? No now means no time for Martha.
Unless we ask Laurent or Charlotte to hold their breaths out in the yard or, when they drift off in their booze-snooze, let them rest undisturbed. We can alot some space and time for the one whose time is documented on paper and receipt. Martha is given a gray hammock in the parlor, swaying a bit above the muck the ones in charge have left for picking up. Prop the flatulent lady up against a pillow or two in her nest and give her a stage prop to occupy her white, spatulate hands. A fashion magazine for her to fan a breeze against her rosy face. She gages the face of time and wonders if she might be able to go into one of the guest rooms, where she might be able to catch a soap opera on the air. Something she doesn't need a spatula for--it is practically fed to her through the larger than life television fuzz and buzz. A doctor to lay out a methodical diagnosis onto his patient's bed or an estranged grandson returning to his grandmother, who will not nag anymore, she promises. She is just beside herself with joy at the sight of her beautiful, wildly talented grandson, remorseful for his crimes (and it is most certainly a crime to forget your grandmother), a prodigal--no, a prodigy of a--boy! Yardleys are her children now. They have been prancing around her feet for several years.
As a lower character, would it not be funny to see her in a slapstick routine? A velvet ghost of the house pushes from underneath into her backside, towards the left, abruptly turning the hammock sideways until she topples out onto the tile floor. Weeeeeeeeeee!!! She has hit the ground elbow and hip first. Ouch! What is this?! Shakes her head, sucks in pockets of air that the Yardley siblings cannot get to if they tried at this point from outside. Martha rubs her elbow with the palm of the unscathed hand. Always, she has to take care of the Yardleys, she does not have the energy now to take care of herself. Can't I just BE for one goddamn second?! I promise that I don't need much--I hardly need anything! During her tumble the clasp of her necklace became stuck in the twisted ropes of the house and the thin gold chain detached itself, now hanging over a knot, a knot she feels in her back, with both strand ends dropping over the sides. Martha proceeds to reach for the necklace, hardly a statement piece, but something of great personal value, passed down from Mother. Marked as the twinkling evidence of her topple, it hangs glimmeringly between the lighting of mahogany urn lamps through hand sewn silk shades.
Unbounded Laughter sounds off from outside. Naturally, it is easy for Martha to think at first the bursts of delight in the distance are had at her expense. Martha forgets her entanglement is off the main set, making it nearly impossible for her to be a point of any relevance for the Yardleys. So, let them laugh. Taking the necklace in her hand, she is even able to laugh at herself breathily. She turns her hand, palm towards her face, and examines the gold chain and traces the bright metal with the fingers from her other hand. Martha communicates through the image back to Mother. Slim sliver of property, soft material, only a thin view to the past, but under the lamplight, it glistens nonetheless. Mother, forgive my carelessness. I must do better a better job of hanging on to you. Although she is tuned in to how silly the gesture might look from afar, she kisses the necklace before clasping the chain back together. Hang on tightly, Martha.

From the interior of the house, Charlotte is seen walking about with her hands slowly twisting in the air, laughing, in a warm panache, diving in and resurfacing these imaginary waves of music, tugged into the shore by agitated, tentacular impulses. Catherine Broussard will arrive today, so there are a few loose ends to Charlotte at the moment. Steps out of the glass doors onto the patio, the babble becomes familiar:
--You know, I think it's really important to know what motivates us, right?
Laurent:
--Does an actress need to know what motivates her?
--Laurent!
--Well, you see, she's always dispensable and it's not because she doesn't know--
--Oh, do not tell me that Brigitte Bardot was dispensable last night--
--Yes, she's a bombshell
Charlotte (her head nodding, smug):
--You see? You're wrong.
--I admit an actress can lift a film from a clumsily written script, if she brings enough to the part and draws from more dimensions.
--My words fall on silent ears--I mean deaf ears!…Whatever, it's a circle.
Laurent (walking into a defensive circle):
--Then she might bring too much into the screen, when the film's a sinking ship anyway, and then she only looks desperate.
--That's what--man! It's all a fucking circle that never ends!
--An actress needs to be able to submit to manipulation.
--She needs charisma! Don't undermine charisma!
--Shelly Duvall obviously didn't know what motivated her. Altman and Kubrick just pointed the frame to something almost "downsy," unknowing of itself, but yielding and so it worked toward an ultimate intension of dream and despondency.
--Bitch, I am not Shelly.
--Never said--
--Take it back. Martha! (shouting belligerently after a twirl towards the backdoors)
--What do you want?
--I want another drink. Christ almighty, won't somebody help me!?!
--Well, make it two. You're incorrigible.
--You're ignorant!
Laurent, ponderously--not torturous, but definitely with a twisted hand crunching in on Charlotte:
--I've changed my mind. One must know what the motivation is--even an actress must. Otherwise, the same choices will keep on being made and, without a shred of any clue, they will be made almost always, somehow, inadvertently against the artist.
--Oh, Laurent, darling, do you see me as an artist?
--No, I see you as an actress.
--(beaming, dancing on her toes) Oh, Laurent. You're the same as me, you know?
--I know.
--You see?!?
--(still walking his own circle next to Sister's twirl) Yes and especially right choices, but don't get so self-aware that you start criticizing your own performances.
--Right.
--That's just bad form, you see.
--Well, I'll never read the reviews.
--That is such an actress sort of response. Broussard is going to love you.
For the first time in this scene, Charlotte takes a seat. What if we come to know what motivates and carries us through to an end, but find it perhaps hideous? Oh, God, circles.