Maria Mason

Maria Mason is an actor, teacher, wife and mom—not necessarily in that order. A “journeyman,” she’s done summerstock, NYC showcases, regional theatre (in Boston, New Orleans) and camera gigs (TV pilots, films, and commercials)—playing romantic leads, dizzy dames, leaders, nurturers and rebels—even touring to Budapest and to Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia. Her favorite stage roles include Irish rebel Meg in “The Hostage,” lovestruck Olivia in “Twelfth Night,” gamine Belinda in “The Public Eye,” tap-dancing Dulcy in “The BoyFriend,” Annie Sullivan in “The Miracle Worker” (“Big Easy” Award for Best Actress), Lynn Fontanne of the legendary Lunt theatrical team in “The Celestials,” Agnes, the knitter, in “Dancing at Lughnasa” (“Big Easy” Best Ensemble), and Sonya in “Uncle Vanya.” She recently played Burt Reynolds’ wife in the feature film Deal. During her 16 years in New Orleans, she taught acting at Tulane University and the Southern Rep Theatre. After surviving Hurricane Katrina, she and her family now live in North Carolina.

MM: What kind of questions do you want to ask me so I can be brilliant here?

MB: [Laughs] You’re already brilliant. You can start by telling me how long you’ve been performing.

MM: Hmmm . . . First time? Fourth grade. Mrs. Pace’s class! In a little review. And this darling gal, Nancy Green, and I played twins. It was a 1920s Charleston little variety show. I knew that something had kicked in when Nancy and I flopped on the floor on our bellies, and paged through a picture book. We were supposed to be low focused—what a director would say now is “continuing the life.” I was reading through the catalogue, having inner monologue in character, wishing for my Christmas gifts, but I was very subtle, because I somehow knew that I wasn’t supposed to steal the scene. And it felt so real, my imagination was “on.”

My next performance that I recall, beyond a few dance recitals, was in the seventh grade when we were dramatizing our book reports, and Annie Sullivan or Helen Keller—one of them—was absent that day. So instead of just being the director of my project, I had to jump in and do Helen Keller. I had a great time: I was absolutely in the moment for the “water”/word miracle at the pump. That’s when my teacher, Patty Jones, said, “Maria, I think you’ve found your calling.”

But acting professionally? When I got that Equity card, two years after my MFA in Acting at UNC-Chapel Hill/PlayMakers Rep. Twenty-plus years of doing it.

MB: So can you tell me the first time you can remember being nervous?

MM: Oh, gosh, it was probably right back in fourth grade. I also remember one time in high school. I had the most brilliant high school English and Drama Club teacher, Tom Orr, who I’m still in touch with. And who is still brilliant. It’s not just me remembering him very fondly—he’s still cutting edge, super visionary.

We were doing an early autumn high school assembly about joining clubs. I was a little queen. I was super-involved, a super volunteer, doing all these award-winning one-acts and stuff. I had made up all this poetry about the Drama Club, which—this was in the pre-rap days—was pretty much rap. It was only me on the stage at that moment, directly addressing the audience, and I went totally blank—a good twenty-five seconds. It was awful.

That’s the worst case of nervousness I’ve ever had. Where the whole freakin’ audience knew.

MB: Do you know what you were telling yourself at the time?

MM: No. Yes! I remember I kept berating myself in the panic attack. I kept saying “You forgot???! Get back! Where am I? THINK! CONCENTRATE!” It was an endless litany of yelling at myself. In my mind’s eye, I kept seeing the piece of lined notebook paper with my pencil-scribbled rap/rhymes. I kept trying to find a pickup place. Finally I just jumped to the conclusion. And drat! I had some good stuff that no one would ever hear. But I had to get offstage!

I would see this panic in other people later, if anything would start to happen in a scene study class in New York, or in performance when other people have gotten that “Oh my God” look in their eyes.

Actually, it’s very easy to deal with: you just take a deep breath, look down at the table or the floor or whatever your character is doing, and just continue. And you calm down—you pour the tea, or you put the phone receiver down, and your imagination will certainly save you. But you’ve got to breathe. You are “filling in, in character” as you recover. Hopefully the audience can sense the wonderful energy. It’s nothing to be afraid of.

MB: Is there anything you can think when you’re in character that diminishes the nervousness?

MM: I think it’s a two-step process. You have to acknowledge that the actor part of you is a small percentage of your brain . . . because, hopefully, the larger percentage engaged in performance is the character. You’re going, “Oh my God! I’ve screwed up,” or “So and so has yet to enter,” or whatever. So you don’t try to fight that. You breathe. The actor part of you then steps back, and you allow yourself to think in character. You go into an activity as the character, and something interesting will happen.

Here’s an example: in the Scottish play [Macbeth], I was playing Lady McDuff, and there's a beautiful scene, where she’s tending to her children. That’s the set-up. Then a dear friend comes in to warn her: “They're coming; they’re coming!” And she starts to rally her little chicks.

And the murderers don’t come on. And they don’t come on. And they don’t come on. It was intense, because the adrenaline was flying. You’re going to get killed! You know that they’re out to get your husband; he’s probably already dead. So you’re trying to flee. And in those days, I guess like in Iraq today—all wars, frankly—the marauders raped and pillaged and impregnated. And if you were a woman, you were in really bad shape. You would have almost rather died than be a victim. And you’ve got to save the children first! Anyway, the adrenalin from the character was flying.

And then the adrenalin from me as the actor, is going: “Oh my God, where are the murderers? This is the plot point. This is a scene closer. An act closer.” So I just screwed around. I gathered my two young sons to me, hugged and hussled them out, away! I clung to my baby [a doll], then hid her in the trunk. I would stall the men. But when they hadn't come yet, I thought, I’ll hide in the trunk with her.

That’s when the men came in. One had to drag me away from the trunk, because then I was frantically trying to put the lid on to hide her! It was horror— the audience jumped too! Later, of course, you have the most brilliant solutions. I know an absolutely gorgeous Celtic lullaby from 500 A.D. or something. Later, I thought, “Oh my God! If I had just spent that crazy time to softly sing my baby to sleep, and then hid her in the trunk. . . what an interesting, intense two-stanza vamp!”

I mean, there’s always a way that you can make situations work. But I think the short answer . . . Sorry I’m so loquacious . . . The short answer is take a breath as the actor, just acknowledge the shit and carry on as the character.