This passage is adapted from Nina Revoyr, The Age of Dreaming. ©2008 by Nina Revoyr. The narrator describes acting in silent films in the early 1900s. Moran owns the production company that employs the narrator. This has been adapted to match EST difficulty.

It is a source of great amusement, when one contemplates it from the vantage point of years hence, to contemplate the primitive nature of our early endeavors. In those first two cinematic works of mine, all interior scenes were captured on outdoor sets belonging to the Line company, with naught but canvases suspended above to diffuse the sun's harsh rays. Though every copy of Jamestown Junction has long since vanished into the mists of time, one might observe, were the film still extant, a peculiar stirring of the papers upon my desk during an office scene, occasioned by a mysterious zephyr. And in the very next tableau, a shadow would flit across the corner, born of the canvas as it danced in the breeze. Such were the circumstances of our filmmaking then, and wanting the convenience of artificial illumination, we forever found ourselves in a mad dash to wrap the day's shooting ere the shadows grew overlong.

When an unseasonal heat wave descended upon us in late May, Moran summoned great blocks of ice and had them arrayed about the sets, with mighty fans positioned behind to waft the cooled air towards the actors. And if the heavens opened up and the rains came, all work would cease, and we would hasten to sequester every stick of furniture and each prop beneath the scant permanent roofs the complex afforded. Yet despite these manifold challenges, the company's spirits remained undimmed. Though we toiled, it seemed more akin to sport, and one could scarce comprehend the prodigious stroke of good fortune that had so suddenly graced our lives.

Throughout the creation of both cinematic works, Hanako served as my constant mentor, a role I enthusiastically embraced. The gulf between my untutored amateurism and her seasoned mastery of the thespian arts was laid bare from the first. She was, I daresay, the paramount influence upon my development as an actor.

"You play to no audience," she remarked to me one day in her native tongue, as I gesticulated grandly to convey my grief at a comrade's demise. "Unlike the theater, you needn't project as though straining to reach the unfortunate soul in the hindmost row. Imagine, instead, the camera as your sole confidant."

On a separate occasion, when perhaps I had been too restrained in my portrayal, Hanako approached me after Moran called "cut." "Your body is your brush," quoth she, "and you the painter. Think on the pantomime—expressing through the physical what eludes the verbal. And in your face, your eyes, there lies a wealth of meaning. Those orbs alone speak volumes."

Moran concurred with a nod, despite his incomprehension of our discourse, and I made the necessary adjustments to my performance. Hanako's influence extended beyond my own acting, encompassing the arrangement of props and even the blocking of other players, to an extent that surprised me given Moran's directorial authority. Yet each of her suggestions served only to enhance the pictures. Between her guidance and Moran's vision, I gradually began to apprehend the requisite skills of this new medium. The shift from the theater, so reliant upon the spoken word, proved a far greater challenge than anticipated; indeed, scores of stage performers, even those who harbored no disdain for the nascent art of the moving picture, found themselves ill-equipped to make the transition. Hanako Minatoya numbered among the rare few who commanded equal prowess in both realms. Daily, I studied at the feet of a true mistress of her craft.

On days when our presence was not required on set, Hanako and I would strike out into the hills, a riot of color greeting us at every turn— brodiaea: a type of flowering plant">brodiaea, lupine, and lilac jostling with the gossamer-petalled California poppy. The sheer beauty of the landscape, with its crisp air, glittering sea, and scented breezes, beggared belief. To drink in such wonders in the company of an artist I had long held in the highest esteem was an experience beyond compare.

During one such perambulation, our discourse turned to a celebrated actor of the day. Hanako's estimation of the gentleman caught me quite off guard. "He is little more than a face for the fan publications," she scoffed. "A true actor he is not."

"How do you mean?" I inquired, though I shared her assessment.

"One struggles to distinguish any variety in his performances. He remains unwaveringly himself, the reason for which is plain. To convey a convincing fiction, an actor must possess inner substance. One cannot externalize what one lacks within. His talent is but a fraction of an artist such as yourself."

Her praise left me deeply moved and quite at a loss for words. Hanako, however, continued her discourse on the merits and failings of various performers, seemingly unaware of the impact of her compliment.

This passage is adapted from Nina Revoyr, The Age of Dreaming. ©2008 by Nina Revoyr. The narrator describes acting in silent films in the early 1900s. Moran owns the production company that employs the narrator. This has been adapted to match EST difficulty.

It is a source of great amusement, when one contemplates it from the vantage point of years hence, to contemplate the primitive nature of our early endeavors. In those first two cinematic works of mine, all interior scenes were captured on outdoor sets belonging to the Line company, with naught but canvases suspended above to diffuse the sun's harsh rays. Though every copy of Jamestown Junction has long since vanished into the mists of time, one might observe, were the film still extant, a peculiar stirring of the papers upon my desk during an office scene, occasioned by a mysterious zephyr. And in the very next tableau, a shadow would flit across the corner, born of the canvas as it danced in the breeze. Such were the circumstances of our filmmaking then, and wanting the convenience of artificial illumination, we forever found ourselves in a mad dash to wrap the day's shooting ere the shadows grew overlong.

When an unseasonal heat wave descended upon us in late May, Moran summoned great blocks of ice and had them arrayed about the sets, with mighty fans positioned behind to waft the cooled air towards the actors. And if the heavens opened up and the rains came, all work would cease, and we would hasten to sequester every stick of furniture and each prop beneath the scant permanent roofs the complex afforded. Yet despite these manifold challenges, the company's spirits remained undimmed. Though we toiled, it seemed more akin to sport, and one could scarce comprehend the prodigious stroke of good fortune that had so suddenly graced our lives.

Throughout the creation of both cinematic works, Hanako served as my constant mentor, a role I enthusiastically embraced. The gulf between my untutored amateurism and her seasoned mastery of the thespian arts was laid bare from the first. She was, I daresay, the paramount influence upon my development as an actor.

"You play to no audience," she remarked to me one day in her native tongue, as I gesticulated grandly to convey my grief at a comrade's demise. "Unlike the theater, you needn't project as though straining to reach the unfortunate soul in the hindmost row. Imagine, instead, the camera as your sole confidant."

On a separate occasion, when perhaps I had been too restrained in my portrayal, Hanako approached me after Moran called "cut." "Your body is your brush," quoth she, "and you the painter. Think on the pantomime—expressing through the physical what eludes the verbal. And in your face, your eyes, there lies a wealth of meaning. Those orbs alone speak volumes."

Moran concurred with a nod, despite his incomprehension of our discourse, and I made the necessary adjustments to my performance. Hanako's influence extended beyond my own acting, encompassing the arrangement of props and even the blocking of other players, to an extent that surprised me given Moran's directorial authority. Yet each of her suggestions served only to enhance the pictures. Between her guidance and Moran's vision, I gradually began to apprehend the requisite skills of this new medium. The shift from the theater, so reliant upon the spoken word, proved a far greater challenge than anticipated; indeed, scores of stage performers, even those who harbored no disdain for the nascent art of the moving picture, found themselves ill-equipped to make the transition. Hanako Minatoya numbered among the rare few who commanded equal prowess in both realms. Daily, I studied at the feet of a true mistress of her craft.

On days when our presence was not required on set, Hanako and I would strike out into the hills, a riot of color greeting us at every turn— brodiaea: a type of flowering plant">brodiaea, lupine, and lilac jostling with the gossamer-petalled California poppy. The sheer beauty of the landscape, with its crisp air, glittering sea, and scented breezes, beggared belief. To drink in such wonders in the company of an artist I had long held in the highest esteem was an experience beyond compare.

During one such perambulation, our discourse turned to a celebrated actor of the day. Hanako's estimation of the gentleman caught me quite off guard. "He is little more than a face for the fan publications," she scoffed. "A true actor he is not."

"How do you mean?" I inquired, though I shared her assessment.

"One struggles to distinguish any variety in his performances. He remains unwaveringly himself, the reason for which is plain. To convey a convincing fiction, an actor must possess inner substance. One cannot externalize what one lacks within. His talent is but a fraction of an artist such as yourself."

Her praise left me deeply moved and quite at a loss for words. Hanako, however, continued her discourse on the merits and failings of various performers, seemingly unaware of the impact of her compliment.

This passage is adapted from Nina Revoyr, The Age of Dreaming. ©2008 by Nina Revoyr. The narrator describes acting in silent films in the early 1900s. Moran owns the production company that employs the narrator. This has been adapted to match EST difficulty.

It is a source of great amusement, when one contemplates it from the vantage point of years hence, to contemplate the primitive nature of our early endeavors. In those first two cinematic works of mine, all interior scenes were captured on outdoor sets belonging to the Line company, with naught but canvases suspended above to diffuse the sun's harsh rays. Though every copy of Jamestown Junction has long since vanished into the mists of time, one might observe, were the film still extant, a peculiar stirring of the papers upon my desk during an office scene, occasioned by a mysterious zephyr. And in the very next tableau, a shadow would flit across the corner, born of the canvas as it danced in the breeze. Such were the circumstances of our filmmaking then, and wanting the convenience of artificial illumination, we forever found ourselves in a mad dash to wrap the day's shooting ere the shadows grew overlong.

When an unseasonal heat wave descended upon us in late May, Moran summoned great blocks of ice and had them arrayed about the sets, with mighty fans positioned behind to waft the cooled air towards the actors. And if the heavens opened up and the rains came, all work would cease, and we would hasten to sequester every stick of furniture and each prop beneath the scant permanent roofs the complex afforded. Yet despite these manifold challenges, the company's spirits remained undimmed. Though we toiled, it seemed more akin to sport, and one could scarce comprehend the prodigious stroke of good fortune that had so suddenly graced our lives.

Throughout the creation of both cinematic works, Hanako served as my constant mentor, a role I enthusiastically embraced. The gulf between my untutored amateurism and her seasoned mastery of the thespian arts was laid bare from the first. She was, I daresay, the paramount influence upon my development as an actor.

"You play to no audience," she remarked to me one day in her native tongue, as I gesticulated grandly to convey my grief at a comrade's demise. "Unlike the theater, you needn't project as though straining to reach the unfortunate soul in the hindmost row. Imagine, instead, the camera as your sole confidant."

On a separate occasion, when perhaps I had been too restrained in my portrayal, Hanako approached me after Moran called "cut." "Your body is your brush," quoth she, "and you the painter. Think on the pantomime—expressing through the physical what eludes the verbal. And in your face, your eyes, there lies a wealth of meaning. Those orbs alone speak volumes."

Moran concurred with a nod, despite his incomprehension of our discourse, and I made the necessary adjustments to my performance. Hanako's influence extended beyond my own acting, encompassing the arrangement of props and even the blocking of other players, to an extent that surprised me given Moran's directorial authority. Yet each of her suggestions served only to enhance the pictures. Between her guidance and Moran's vision, I gradually began to apprehend the requisite skills of this new medium. The shift from the theater, so reliant upon the spoken word, proved a far greater challenge than anticipated; indeed, scores of stage performers, even those who harbored no disdain for the nascent art of the moving picture, found themselves ill-equipped to make the transition. Hanako Minatoya numbered among the rare few who commanded equal prowess in both realms. Daily, I studied at the feet of a true mistress of her craft.

On days when our presence was not required on set, Hanako and I would strike out into the hills, a riot of color greeting us at every turn— brodiaea: a type of flowering plant">brodiaea, lupine, and lilac jostling with the gossamer-petalled California poppy. The sheer beauty of the landscape, with its crisp air, glittering sea, and scented breezes, beggared belief. To drink in such wonders in the company of an artist I had long held in the highest esteem was an experience beyond compare.

During one such perambulation, our discourse turned to a celebrated actor of the day. Hanako's estimation of the gentleman caught me quite off guard. "He is little more than a face for the fan publications," she scoffed. "A true actor he is not."

"How do you mean?" I inquired, though I shared her assessment.

"One struggles to distinguish any variety in his performances. He remains unwaveringly himself, the reason for which is plain. To convey a convincing fiction, an actor must possess inner substance. One cannot externalize what one lacks within. His talent is but a fraction of an artist such as yourself."

Her praise left me deeply moved and quite at a loss for words. Hanako, however, continued her discourse on the merits and failings of various performers, seemingly unaware of the impact of her compliment.

This passage is adapted from Nina Revoyr, The Age of Dreaming. ©2008 by Nina Revoyr. The narrator describes acting in silent films in the early 1900s. Moran owns the production company that employs the narrator. This has been adapted to match EST difficulty.

It is a source of great amusement, when one contemplates it from the vantage point of years hence, to contemplate the primitive nature of our early endeavors. In those first two cinematic works of mine, all interior scenes were captured on outdoor sets belonging to the company, with naught but canvases suspended above to diffuse the sun's harsh rays. Though every copy of Jamestown Junction has long since vanished into the mists of time, one might observe, were the film still extant, a peculiar stirring of the papers upon my desk during an office scene, occasioned by a mysterious zephyr. And in the very next tableau, a shadow would flit across the corner, born of the canvas as it danced in the breeze. Such were the circumstances of our filmmaking then, and wanting the convenience of artificial illumination, we forever found ourselves in a mad dash to wrap the day's shooting ere the shadows grew overlong.

When an unseasonal heat wave descended upon us in late May, Moran summoned great blocks of ice and had them arrayed about the sets, with mighty fans positioned behind to waft the cooled air towards the actors. And if the heavens opened up and the rains came, all work would cease, and we would hasten to sequester every stick of furniture and each prop beneath the scant permanent roofs the complex afforded. Yet despite these manifold challenges, the company's spirits remained undimmed. Though we toiled, it seemed more akin to sport, and one could scarce comprehend the prodigious stroke of good fortune that had so suddenly graced our lives.

Throughout the creation of both cinematic works, Hanako served as my constant mentor, a role I enthusiastically embraced. The gulf between my untutored amateurism and her seasoned mastery of the thespian arts was laid bare from the first. She was, I daresay, the paramount influence upon my development as an actor.

"You play to no audience," she remarked to me one day in her native tongue, as I gesticulated grandly to convey my grief at a comrade's demise. "Unlike the theater, you needn't project as though straining to reach the unfortunate soul in the hindmost row. Imagine, instead, the camera as your sole confidant."

On a separate occasion, when perhaps I had been too restrained in my portrayal, Hanako approached me after Moran called "cut." "Your body is your brush," quoth she, "and you the painter. Think on the pantomime—expressing through the physical what eludes the verbal. And in your face, your eyes, there lies a wealth of meaning. Those orbs alone speak volumes."

Moran concurred with a nod, despite his incomprehension of our discourse, and I made the necessary adjustments to my performance. Hanako's influence extended beyond my own acting, encompassing the arrangement of props and even the blocking of other players, to an extent that surprised me given Moran's directorial authority. Yet each of her suggestions served only to enhance the pictures. Between her guidance and Moran's vision, I gradually began to apprehend the requisite skills of this new medium. The shift from the theater, so reliant upon the spoken word, proved a far greater challenge than anticipated; indeed, scores of stage performers, even those who harbored no disdain for the nascent art of the moving picture, found themselves ill-equipped to make the transition. Hanako Minatoya numbered among the rare few who commanded equal prowess in both realms. Daily, I studied at the feet of a true mistress of her craft.

On days when our presence was not required on set, Hanako and I would strike out into the hills, a riot of color greeting us at every turn— brodiaea: a type of flowering plant">brodiaea, lupine, and lilac jostling with the gossamer-petalled California poppy. The sheer beauty of the landscape, with its crisp air, glittering sea, and scented breezes, beggared belief. To drink in such wonders in the company of an artist I had long held in the highest esteem was an experience beyond compare.

During one such perambulation, our discourse turned to a celebrated actor of the day. Hanako's estimation of the gentleman caught me quite off guard. "He is little more than a face for the fan publications," she scoffed. "A true actor he is not."

"How do you mean?" I inquired, though I shared her assessment.

"One struggles to distinguish any variety in his performances. He remains unwaveringly himself, the reason for which is plain. To convey a convincing fiction, an actor must possess inner substance. One cannot externalize what one lacks within. His talent is but a fraction of an artist such as yourself."

Her praise left me deeply moved and quite at a loss for words. Hanako, however, continued her discourse on the merits and failings of various performers, seemingly unaware of the impact of her compliment.

This passage is adapted from Nina Revoyr, The Age of Dreaming. ©2008 by Nina Revoyr. The narrator describes acting in silent films in the early 1900s. Moran owns the production company that employs the narrator. This has been adapted to match EST difficulty.

It is a source of great amusement, when one contemplates it from the vantage point of years hence, to contemplate the primitive nature of our early endeavors. In those first two cinematic works of mine, all interior scenes were captured on outdoor sets belonging to the Line company, with naught but canvases suspended above to diffuse the sun's harsh rays. Though every copy of Jamestown Junction has long since vanished into the mists of time, one might observe, were the film still extant, a peculiar stirring of the papers upon my desk during an office scene, occasioned by a mysterious zephyr. And in the very next tableau, a shadow would flit across the corner, born of the canvas as it danced in the breeze. Such were the circumstances of our filmmaking then, and wanting the convenience of artificial illumination, we forever found ourselves in a mad dash to wrap the day's shooting ere the shadows grew overlong.

When an unseasonal heat wave descended upon us in late May, Moran summoned great blocks of ice and had them arrayed about the sets, with mighty fans positioned behind to waft the cooled air towards the actors. And if the heavens opened up and the rains came, all work would cease, and we would hasten to sequester every stick of furniture and each prop beneath the scant permanent roofs the complex afforded. Yet despite these manifold challenges, the company's spirits remained undimmed. Though we toiled, it seemed more akin to sport, and one could scarce comprehend the prodigious stroke of good fortune that had so suddenly graced our lives.

Throughout the creation of both cinematic works, Hanako served as my constant mentor, a role I enthusiastically embraced. The gulf between my untutored amateurism and her seasoned mastery of the thespian arts was laid bare from the first. She was, I daresay, the paramount influence upon my development as an actor.

"You play to no audience," she remarked to me one day in her native tongue, as I gesticulated grandly to convey my grief at a comrade's demise. "Unlike the theater, you needn't project as though straining to reach the unfortunate soul in the hindmost row. Imagine, instead, the camera as your sole confidant."

On a separate occasion, when perhaps I had been too restrained in my portrayal, Hanako approached me after Moran called "cut." "Your body is your brush," quoth she, "and you the painter. Think on the pantomime—expressing through the physical what eludes the verbal. And in your face, your eyes, there lies a wealth of meaning. Those orbs alone speak volumes."

Moran concurred with a nod, despite his incomprehension of our discourse, and I made the necessary adjustments to my performance. Hanako's influence extended beyond my own acting, encompassing the arrangement of props and even the blocking of other players, to an extent that surprised me given Moran's directorial authority. Yet each of her suggestions served only to enhance the pictures. Between her guidance and Moran's vision, I gradually began to apprehend the requisite skills of this new medium. The shift from the theater, so reliant upon the spoken word, proved a far greater challenge than anticipated; indeed, scores of stage performers, even those who harbored no disdain for the nascent art of the moving picture, found themselves ill-equipped to make the transition. Hanako Minatoya numbered among the rare few who commanded equal prowess in both realms. Daily, I studied at the feet of a true mistress of her craft.

On days when our presence was not required on set, Hanako and I would strike out into the hills, a riot of color greeting us at every turn— brodiaea: a type of flowering plant">brodiaea, lupine, and lilac jostling with the gossamer-petalled California poppy. The sheer beauty of the landscape, with its crisp air, glittering sea, and scented breezes, beggared belief. To drink in such wonders in the company of an artist I had long held in the highest esteem was an experience beyond compare.

During one such perambulation, our discourse turned to a celebrated actor of the day. Hanako's estimation of the gentleman caught me quite off guard. "He is little more than a face for the fan publications," she scoffed. "A true actor he is not."

"How do you mean?" I inquired, though I shared her assessment.

"One struggles to distinguish any variety in his performances. He remains unwaveringly himself, the reason for which is plain. To convey a convincing fiction, an actor must possess inner substance. One cannot externalize what one lacks within. His talent is but a fraction of an artist such as yourself."

Her praise left me deeply moved and quite at a loss for words. Hanako, however, continued her discourse on the merits and failings of various performers, seemingly unaware of the impact of her compliment.