May 3rd, 1999—just another typical Monday.
After clocking out from Red Penguin, Matthew grabbed a cab and made it to the Los Angeles School of Performing Arts in North Hollywood just before 9 AM. Today was the first day of the acting class he had signed up for.
He pushed open the classroom door and stepped inside. Since he'd come straight from work, he arrived a bit late. The spacious room already had a dozen or so students standing around.
There were no desks or chairs, just a massive mirror mounted on the wall opposite the door.
As Matthew walked in, he quickly glanced at the others. A few faces looked vaguely familiar—maybe he'd seen them in Hollywood films before. If they seemed familiar to him, they probably had roles in big movies. That got him thinking—should he try to build connections here? After all, every network starts with a single link.
He quietly joined the group. A few people glanced at him curiously but quickly looked away when they didn't recognize him.
Starting a conversation with a stranger is an art. Making small talk for no reason could backfire, so Matthew stayed silent. Just then, the classroom door opened again and a man walked in carrying a folder.
He was a bald white guy, well past fifty, with a calm and commanding presence.
"Ahem." The man cleared his throat deliberately to grab everyone's attention, then smiled slightly. "Good morning, everyone."
Judging by his age, he obviously wasn't a fellow student—he had to be an instructor.
Sure enough, he introduced himself. "My name is David Astor. I'll be one of your acting coaches."
"I'd love to get to know all of you," he continued, "but there's no rush. I've set aside a special segment for introductions."
David didn't waste time. "You're all here to learn acting or to improve your skills. You've got six months—and I promise, I won't waste your time with useless chatter."
He walked forward a few steps, stopping about four meters from the group. "I didn't go to USC Film School or CalArts or any prestigious program. I'm not what you'd call a textbook-trained actor. From what I gather, neither are most of you. So, in that sense, we're alike. Just regular working actors grinding it out in this business. The only difference is—I've been doing this for over forty years."
Matthew felt reassured. As someone who came into this the unorthodox way, learning from a non-academic actor seemed more his speed. All those fancy acting theories felt out of reach to him. This, on the other hand, might actually work.
David continued, "I'm happy to share everything I've learned over the years. Most of what I know comes from hands-on experience, trial and error on set. Sure, basic knowledge helps, but to become a truly good actor, you've got to build your skills and insights over time."
Everyone listened intently. No doubt they all carried dreams of becoming stars.
"If someone tells you that acting can be judged objectively," David said, raising an eyebrow, "ignore them—they're full of crap. Acting is always a matter of taste. Sure, there's a mainstream opinion about who's good. That's why everyone agrees Dustin Hoffman is a great actor. But if you don't like him? That's fine. Maybe you're just... a little eccentric."
He clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough talk. Let's get to work!"
His eyes swept across the room. "There are fourteen of you. Pair up. When it's your turn, introduce yourselves, then perform a short scene based on the script I'll give you. Improv is encouraged. Let's see what you can do."
"You've got three minutes to partner up."
As soon as he finished, Matthew turned to the girl next to him and said politely, "Hi, want to pair up?"
She looked at him. Matthew smiled—bright and friendly, instantly likable.
"Sure," she nodded.
Most people were choosing whoever was nearby—no one was making a big deal of it.
Matthew offered his hand. "I'm Matthew Horner, from Texas."
She smiled too. "Rachel McAdams, from Canada."
Her facial features were a bit sharp, but when she smiled, a pair of charming dimples appeared. She wasn't stunningly beautiful, but her smile had a kind of warmth that made people feel at ease.
The fourteen students quickly broke into seven pairs. David handed out identical scripts to each duo, giving them just five minutes to read through and discuss. Then he called up the first pair—two guys in their early twenties.
"Begin."
After quick introductions, the short-haired guy started. "Where were you last night? I called you. Why didn't you pick up?"
The long-haired guy shrugged, looking awkward. "My wife wouldn't let me. I couldn't get out!"
The short-haired guy remained still, barely reacting. "I waited for you at the bar all night."
"I didn't want to bail, man. But she said if I went out drinking with you again, she'd break my legs…"
The scene ended quickly. Matthew watched and then leaned toward Rachel, whispering, "Who do you think did better?"
"The long-haired one," she said casually.
"Yeah, I thought so too," Matthew nodded.
He wasn't trained, but he could tell the long-haired guy's performance felt more alive—though he couldn't quite explain why.
David walked up to the actors. "That felt stiff," he said bluntly. "Very wooden."
He turned to the short-haired actor. "Dialogue isn't just about the words. Your body language matters too." He made a dramatic face and gesture. "You barely moved, didn't even fidget. Just stood there staring—that's why your performance felt so flat."
Matthew suddenly understood. That guy had stood like a statue the whole time. No wonder it seemed so dull.
David then addressed the long-haired actor. "You brought more energy. I saw your desire to perform—that's a good thing. Keep that up."
Now it all made sense to Matthew. The difference between the two wasn't in what they said, but how they used their bodies to say it.
"Scenes like this—open dialogue—are everywhere in film and TV," David said to the whole class. "They seem easy, but they're not. Try walking a little, raising your head, frowning, pouting, gesturing—use your body to shape the mood. Avoid staying stiff and overly serious. Whether you're the lead or just a two-line background role, physical expression helps bring it to life."
Matthew mentally filed away every word.
It was clear now—David wasn't about lofty theory. He focused on real-world practice. No deep dives into "freeing your true self" or debates between method acting and classical technique. Just honest, simple skills.
For someone like Matthew, who hadn't studied acting formally and didn't have a strong academic background, this was the kind of hands-on learning that actually made sense.
If the class had started with heavy theory, he would've been totally lost.
The next pair went up—a guy and a girl. Their scene had no lines. David instructed them to play siblings reacting to the sister's murder.
When the scene began, the girl stood frozen in place, face twisted in grief, repeatedly calling out to God while sobbing uncontrollably.
She cried like she had actually lost her sister.
The guy, in contrast, started with disbelief—some anger, some confusion—then transitioned to restrained sadness. His facial muscles twitched, and his jaw trembled. The small details in his head and mouth movements hinted at deep sorrow.
David stepped forward to give feedback. "You both did well—better than I expected. But I preferred the second performance."
Matthew scratched his head. By normal standards, the girl's breakdown seemed more realistic.
"Let me remind you," David said, "this is acting. And acting serves the script, the show, or the film."
"When you get scenes like this," he continued, "don't cry too soon—unless the role specifically calls for it. You want to build tension, make the audience feel the emotion rising. Start with disbelief, then express sorrow in your voice and face—hold the tears. Then, when the moment hits, let it out. But make sure the level of sadness fits the story. Don't act like they've already died before the audience even knows what's going on."
He waved his hand. "Alright. Next pair."
As the actors returned to their spots, another duo stepped up—and before long, it was Matthew and Rachel's turn.