| rev:text
| - No class will ever feel this good. Or this bad.
"I'll follow you anywhere, Michèle. I'd be lost without you," a student proclaims during the opening class exercise. Overwhelmingly moved, Michèle replies: "I believe you, hun. I know. Thank you. You have no idea what that means to me."
On another night Michèle asks a student, "Where would you be without this room?" To which the student snaps back, "In the gutter, Michèle. That's where my life was headed. In the gutter." "Or worse," she says. "Yes. I'd be dead, Michèle. I'd be dead." "Maybe, hun. Maybe," she coos softly, and we all feel the weight of this.
Through sobs, a voice rings out: "I've never known a love like this. This work saved my life!" The voice is mine and I mean it. I look at Michèle with a broken reverence and gratitude; I love her SO much. She smiles back at me and I feel the empathy I've longed for since childhood. This place is my home. These people are my family. I owe everything to Michèle.
Reading this, I imagine you have alarm bells going off; words like cult and brainwash flashing. But for us, we never questioned what we were saying when it came to pledging our devotion. It felt instinctual and we were almost always praised for it. The room fosters a kind of group-think ignorance and boiling frog effect that makes the crazy look sane. It's packaged alongside an intoxicating love and acceptance that has the strongest of minds making excuses for the most toxic behavior. We look to each other; the hysteria blocking all common sense.
Michèle carries herself with an inhuman amount of certainty. Ideas about life are stated as facts; no shred of doubt. She'll tell you who you are with unmatched authority: "You hate all women, hun. You can say it." "But I don't hate all women." "Really? We all saw it in your body. Didn't everyone see that?" A wave of hands rise. "It's okay, hun. How many in here hate other women?" More hands. "See. You're not alone. But it's especially strong in you. And you know why? Because of your mother, hun." To which the student concedes, and we all agree: Michèle is a genius.
But like a psychic, Michèle uses vague assessments and the power of suggestion to seduce. Trust is built early on and we take her word as gospel. We cut our hair. We quit drinking. Quit having sex. Have more sex. Confront sexual abusers. Cut ties with family. Leave our partners. All because Michèle says it will make us better artists. Better people. We hand the reigns over because no one in our lives speaks with this kind of command and love. When it comes to acting, we rely solely on her to tell us if it's truthful, if it's false, if we're in ego-land, if it's the best acting we've ever done. We don't know, until she tells us. Our autonomy is lost. She's the only arbiter of the truth.
During my last class (although I didn't know that at the time), I booked a job that was causing me to miss the last two classes of the month. I wrote an e-mail to the studio explaining the situation, saying I was sad and that I'd be there in spirit. A little while later, Michèle called me: "I'm worried," she says with a big sigh. "Why are you worried?" I ask. "Why am I worried, Devon?" She challenges. "I don't know...are you worried that I'm missing class?" "DEVON! Do you think I'm worried that you're missing class?!" "No, no. Of course not," I stammer. "Why am I worried?" "Um, is it because I didn't call you personally?" "DEVON! Do you think I'm worried because you didn't call?" "No, no." Stupid me. I remember recently she said I was obsessed with celebrity, so perhaps it's that. "You're worried that I'm already obsessed with celebrity," I state, knowing that recycling her own words is often the only way to get through these confrontations. "Yes, Devon. You knew that, didn't you? You're already in the clouds. That e-mail you sent had no consciousness in it. That means you won't be conscious during the job. You won't do good work on the set. You won't be listening to the other actors. You're pretending that you haven't grown." My first reaction is to contest: all I've been thinking about is how excited I am to do good work on this job. Do the kind of acting she taught me. But after 3 years, I've learned not to argue. "You're right," I say. "I love you, Devon," she says. "I'm in the middle of teaching the Toronto class right now, do you think I want to be making this call? I know you will not be happy on the job like this. If you'd said even once in your e-mail that you wanted to Skype into class, I would know you were in a good place, but you didn't. I feel better now though, do you?" "Yes. Thank you so much." I force my voice to sound choked up, to show how grateful I am. I'm scared she'll call me out for being fake, but she doesn't. We hang up and I feel sick. I had no idea I was in a bad place. Thank god I have Michèle to tell me. And then, for a moment, everything's clear: this isn't about me. This is about her. It's always been about her.
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