Theatre games are improvisation and revolve around a who, what and where. They have just 3 rules:
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1. Always take your first thought (don’t edit)
2. Accept the offer (When another player presents an idea, go with it!)
3. No creative blocking (If you or another player establish a who, what or where don’t contradict it)

Example:
1st Player: “I love the dessert – the heat and the sand between my toes.”
2nd Player: “Are you crazy – we’re standing on a snow bank!”
The second player engaged in creative blocking and also did not accept her partner’s offer. This might get an immediate laugh, but neither the players or the audience know where they are and what could have been a scene that builds and grows falls flat. Worse – the audience sees that the players are competing rather than working together. As with most theatre, it mimics real life!

There are many books on the market that describe a variety of theatre games including my book, We The Storytellers, the second half of which is an acting course.





 
 
 
 
 

1. Do not memorize “words”. The actor first “memorizes” the thought progression of each scene. Memory work must always include scenes as whole units, not isolated lines or speeches.
   
   
2. When working with some one else, memorize cues as well as lines. Again it is more important to know what is happening than what is being said.
   
   
3. Break down each subdivision or thought change of your text into individual beats titling them with a central core verb (For instance, “Making a phone call or “Questioning William about last night”). This will also help you memorize the thought progression of the scene.
   
   
4. Some actors find it best to memorize lines without trying to put any emotion or interpretation behind them. This will help the actor avoid “rehearsing” interpretations which may make your delivery wooden and keep you from thinking about what you are saying. Your interpretations may change and grow as you work on your text.
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5. All memory work should strive for word-for-word exactness. Do not allow paraphrasing or ad libbing, even at early off-book rehearsals. It will invariably end up being memorized at some level. (This is a highly subjective statement, but seems proven in practice.) Know that you will have the skills of improvisation to fall back on, if necessary, in performance as your audience has not seen your script.
   
   
6. Memorize lines in a short amount of time – never more than a week. Set deadlines and keep them. Long rehearsal periods of “getting off books” results in an uneven finished product and large gaps in character development.
   
   
7. I find memorizing a text in chunks or paragraphs helpful. A paragraph may include more than one beat. Learn paragraph one then two then one and two together then three then one, two, three together and so forth. This gives me confidence that I am progressing with the memorization of the text.
   
   
8. In your final stages of rehearsing do it on your feet and out loud. Some actors find it helpful to rehearse in different spaces so as not to become reliant on visual cues in the rehearsal space unless the rehearsal space is also the performance space.
   
   

Most important when presenting memorized material – keep breathing deeply. This literally helps the memory by providing increased oxygen to the brain. And while breathing keep your body “alive” – move, use pause as if you intend it and focus on what is happening in your story or monologue until the words return (and they will!)

​An actor is never out of work – just between engagements
 
I was twenty-one, stuck in California, and out of money – staying with my friends, Norman and Pete. They had a suburban house and lifestyle and thought my theatre experiences were exotic, giving them stories to tell their office colleagues.

Their TV was a handy surface on which to set my peanut butter sandwich and Let’s Make A Deal was just coming on. I'd caught snatches of this quiz show before. It was perfect. It required absolutely no skill or knowledge from its contestants. There were no tests or auditions; I only needed some idiotic prop or costume to take with me to trade for a prize. It had to be something that would attract the attention of those responsible for choosing contestants. The show didn’t give out money but at least it had the potential of awarding something saleable. Monty, the host, strode onto the set and applause erupted. I flicked the volume down thinking, "What an awful job that must be; still, he has the gleaming white teeth and the pompadour hair, not to mention the obvious shoulder pads in his suit, so I guess he was destined for it."

I thought of myself, at the time, as a serious actor, one who didn’t happen to have a job at the moment. Actually, I hadn't had a job for the last two months of moments. I'd hoped that the touring show that brought me from New York to Los Angeles and promptly closed would reopen, but that looked less likely every day. I had friends, contacts, and opportunities in New York but no money to get back there.

Norman and Pete had put me up in their home for nearly a month and now Pete's Mum was coming to visit them. It was time for me to move out of their guest room. I didn't even have enough money left to pay for the peanut butter I was eating. So, a game show was my obvious next step.

Let's Make A Deal would be taping at the end of the week and would choose the contestants from the throng waiting outside the studio. "I need a prop," I thought, "something to trade. Which of my host’s ugly lamps will they miss the least? No, there'll be a million lamps, I need something that will stand out."

It was Pete who gave me the idea. He came home from the Launderette that evening and said,
 
"Look what I've got -- cleaning rags for the next ten years! This sheet got caught on the spin thingy and ripped right down the middle."  Norman answered,
 
"And you brought it home? Like we need cleaning rags?  Into the garbage!" 
 
Norman and Pete were good people but imagination challenged. There were, of course, a million things you could do with a torn sheet. With sudden inspiration I grabbed this particular torn sheet, got some felt markers and a wire coat hanger, and enlisted the help of the others to fashion a giant envelope complete with drawn on stamp and flap and a straightened coat hanger across my shoulders to square it off. We addressed it to the television studio and when the pins were in place it fit me perfectly. The studio moguls couldn't refuse such an imposing letter addressed to them, could they?
    
Norman and Pete drove me to the television studio in Burbank and left me there. Left me with six hundred others (the count was announced on a loudspeaker). They were all standing in the studio parking lot with their elephant-foot ashtrays and their deformed garden gnomes. I looked around, taking in my competition. There was an old car seat that glowed in the dark, a full-sized paper machete replica of Donald Duck, a rainbow-painted toilet bowl on wheels, the widest range of drop-dead designer lamps ever gathered in one place, and one man dressed as a Scottish highlander apparently prepared to trade his bag pipes. I was in good company. We were marshaled into long lines, about fifteen hopeful dealers deep as four men walked slowly in front of us occasionally choosing a contestant.
   
I stepped into line next to some small native Los Angeleans with elbows they had sharpened for the occasion. Luckily, I had an advantage. At 6' 2", with coat hanger enhanced shoulders, I was still quite noticeable even when prodded to the rear. I saw one of the men responsible for the choosing straining to read my envelope. I shouldered my way forward and the man said,
 
"Hey, that's good. OK, you're number 36. Here's your ticket." 
 
I, in my envelope, was now one of the forty who would sit on the prize floor section of the studio audience. Of course, there's only time for about six people to "make a deal" in the half hour allotted, so another hurdle remained.

I was given an aisle seat and my good fortune persisted as Monty, now full size and more intimidating than he was on a 21-inch screen, approached me. "What's this?" he said, eyeing the enormous envelope sitting upright in the chair. I held my breath trying not to notice his shock of hair that appeared to have a life of its own perched above those glittering teeth. A glance at Monty's eyes told me he was somewhere far from this studio but had put himself on automatic pilot set at high enthusiasm. He looked electrically wired as he said,
 
"Is this a letter addressed to us?"
 
The envelope and I regained our composure. We nodded yes as we rose to our full height. He responded with,
 
"My, this must have cost a fortune in postage."
 
The studio audience laughed on cue. His voice rose in pitch and volume as he asked,
 
"Now, would you be willing to trade this envelope for that mysterious, wrapped gift on the table? "
 
I found myself matching his energy level.    
 
"Yes, I'll trade!"
 
The studio audience was electronically prompted to outdo us both, and a kind of frenzy took over. There was a drum roll, and the gift was unwrapped.
   
It was a set of encyclopedias. I tried to maintain a show of enthusiasm as I thought, "Who in God's name will buy that? And in any case would the sale provide enough to get me back to New York?"  However, it had been an experience. I was still poor, but now I thought, "I will be knowledgeable and poor."
    
I began to relax into a spectator role, but I had never watched the end of this show. Therefore, it came as a surprise to me when Monty said,
 
"Now... which two of tonight's charming contestants shall I choose to try for the grand prize?"
 
I thought, "This guy is a very powerful man." I shifted back into frenzied contestant mode and tried to catch his eye.  He toyed with us,
 
"Which of you brilliant six folks could bear to trade your first prize for what is behind one of those three doors?"
 
I glanced around at my now extremely alert companions and then as I trained an intense gaze on our host, I heard him say,
 
"Will the gentleman who brought the stuffed bird of unknown species and the individual who arrived by special delivery post please come forward?"
 
On the signal from the electric sign, the audience broke into wildly excited applause. The stuffed birdman and I made an amusing pair - he at about 5'8" trying to appear cool with a large, multicolored, obviously dead, bird under his arm and I, towering over him, in my now crumpled envelope with the thoroughly smudged zip code. We waited in suspended time to point at our chosen door as the prospective prizes were described.
    
Behind one of the doors there was a living room suite of furniture. I thought, "Heaven forbid - that would be next to impossible to sell even in the unlikely event that it was attractive." Behind another door there was a full-size plaster cow. In my crazed state of mind I considered, "If it's mechanized, I may get back to New York City yet." The remaining door had five sets of brand name towels. "Bingo. Those will probably sell and if not, at least, I can live with them."
    
My bird fancier colleague was summoned to join Monty in the spotlight. His arm floated up into a pointing position as the studio music rose toward a crescendo.  Unsteadily and in slow motion his finger wavered between door number one and door number three. Then his arm moving like a bicycle on a gravel road aimed itself at door number one and locked in.
    
​Door number one slid back and revealed the suite of furniture, which was more hideous than my worst imaginings. He was thrilled. The audience was ecstatic.
    
Monty gestured for me to join him. He took a dramatic pause and said,
 
"What would you do with old plaster Bessie if it happens that you choose her as a prize? She'd make a stunning addition to any front garden especially accompanied by pink flamingos."
 
I mumbled something inane, which was mercifully masked by the audience's laughter at our host's wit. As the laughter died down my arm began to twitch in anticipation of its task. It rose to pointing position and aimed itself squarely and decisively at door three. I couldn't have moved it if I had wanted to. The door began to slide open, and I thought I heard a soft mechanized moo.
    
But no. There were the thick brightly colored towels - reds, yellows and oranges displayed like a glorious sunset. It was my turn to be thrilled but just as my relief and excitement reached its peak the towels magically moved away to unveil a state of the art, color coordinated washer and dryer.
    
Alleluia, I nearly shouted aloud, Utilities will sell!

by Sally Armour Wotton