We always talk about emotion, about stage truth, about that spark that transforms an actor into their character. But there is something that holds all of that together, something the audience never sees: memory. That silent tool that allows the words to flow, the character to come to life, the magic to happen. How do actors manage to memorize pages and pages of text? The answer is as diverse as the performers themselves. And there, in that diversity, lies the true richness of the craft.
In theater, memory is a matter of survival. There is no "cut," no "another take." Forgetting a line on stage is a real challenge that demands immediate resources to get out of trouble without the audience ever noticing. That's why the theater actor doesn't just learn the text: they inhabit it. They live it. In film and television, the landscape changes. If you forget, you repeat the scene. But that doesn't make it easier: the actor must deliver the same emotional intensity in every take, even if they've repeated the scene twenty times. And there, memory becomes muscular, emotional, almost instinctive.
Each actor has their own ritual. A friend of mine with years of television experience shared his with me: he copies the script by hand, over and over. As he writes it out loud, he activates the visual, the kinesthetic, the auditory. Three or four repetitions and the text is engraved. By writing it, he discovers rhythms and nuances that he would never find with a simple reading. Other actors link their lines to physical actions: a gesture, a movement, a pause. The body becomes a map of the text. And when the actor understands what their character is saying, why they say it, and what they are after, the text becomes a dramatic necessity. The brain retains it easily because it is no longer mechanical: it is organic.
In radio, the teleprompter is common. The actor works only with their voice, and with it, they must give everything. That is where radio experience becomes formative: the actor who comes from radio has developed the craft of bringing a text to life from the very first reading, of finding emotion and rhythm without needing to memorize. That immediacy is a gift. In television, the teleprompter also appears, especially in fast-paced productions. But the real challenge is reading and interpreting at the same time. Not every actor achieves that synchronicity. Many end up simply reading, lifeless, without intention. The audience perceives it and thinks they are bad, but they aren't: they are reading without weaving interpretation into every word. And that disconnection is felt.
Some have photographic memory; they visualize the entire script. Others, with auditory memory, retain dialogues after hearing them just a couple of times. But experience shows that the true mnemonic resource is identification with the character. When an actor loves what they do, when they deeply understand their character, the text flows effortlessly. There is even room for improvisation, because the words are no longer a script to remember, but a natural extension of the character's life.
I've been able to observe this deep understanding of the acting craft up close thanks to my sporadic collaborations with "Cine Profano," an audiovisual project that was born on YouTube and social media, but with the aspiration to transcend them, to one day reach the movie theaters of Havana and the world. It was founded by Katerine Arias, who serves as producer, and she was immediately joined by Rubén Wong as artistic director and screenwriter, setting the aesthetic line for all the work. They count on the essential collaboration of actor and director Jorge Molina, internationally recognized within independent Cuban cinema, alongside figures like Miguel Coyula and Carlos Lechuga. And, of course, with actors of great trajectory like Aramís Delgado, René de la Cruz, Bárbaro Marín, Félix Beatón, and Jorge Rivera, whom I've watched work on shoots such as "El instituto de la partida" and "El odio de Dios."
Precisely, having shared filming sets with performers of this caliber has allowed me to understand that memory is not an end, but a means to reach the stage truth. And behind every word we hear, there are hours of study, of rehearsal, of creative strategies that performers deploy so that the text seems to come from their very soul at the exact right moment. The next time you watch a play, a movie, or one of their audiovisual pieces, remember: behind that magic lies a universe of techniques, sweat, and passion. And that, in the end, the best method is the one that allows the actor to disappear so that only the character remains.
Thank you for reading, friends of the Town Square Community. This is just a glimpse into the enormous work that happens when the cameras turn off and the curtain falls. A big hug to all of you who understand that, behind every unforgettable performance, there are hours of craft, underlined scripts, and a passion that isn't seen but is felt. See you in the next one.
