My Drama School Was Cultish: the Dark Side of Intensive, Ideological Training
*No AI has been used to write this article. All words are my own.*
Take an intensive training environment with a rigid methodology, fill it with young, ambitious artists, and you create the conditions for something more than a creative program. Something a little… cultish.
That was my drama school. And there are many others like it.
I’ve had far too much experience with high-control coaching environments. I’m talking about “break you down to build you up” models and ideological programs promising transformation and success — usually led by an authority figure who claims to have all the answers.
As an actor and a dedicated student of personal development, I’ve bumped into these models a lot, whether in acting workshops or the oftentimes fundamentalist teachings of those within the self-help space.
Inspired by recent writing from Dr. Lissa Rankin on exploitation in the self-help industry, I’ve found myself reflecting again on the prevalence of cultish systems. This is a topic I’ve touched on before in a post called Be Careful Who You Listen To.
This time, I want to go deeper — specifically, through sharing my personal experience in a training environment that felt more than a little cult-like.
An Introduction to The Science of Acting
My introduction to fundamentalist systems began in 2011.
As an 18-year old, fresh out of school, I ventured across the globe to London. I was auditioning for drama schools — but more than that, I was searching for healing.
This was probably the most vulnerable time in my life. Living alone for the first time, and with awful mental health, I struggled with an eating disorder and bouts of self-harm. I was also recovering from an attempt to take my own life just 18 months earlier. It was a perfect time to get drawn into an environment promising structure, clarity, and change.
I started as a full-time student at a school then called “The Academy of the Science of Acting and Directing.” For four years, I was trained in an intensive institution founded by controversial Russian teacher and director, Sam Kogan.
The school was defined by a highly psychological theory called The Science of Acting. Inspired by the teachings of Stanislavski, it works from the basis that behaviour is driven by motives and purposes that are largely unconscious. The bulk of the technique is about defining these motives for characters — but also for yourself, the premise being: How can you know a character if you don’t know yourself?
Emphasis was on students developing constant awareness and on “finishing-off thinking”: bringing clarity to prominent habits of thought, including traumatic events, so as to neutralize their emotional impact within our consciousness (“seeing is undoing”). We were expected to realign our thoughts and behaviour with purposes that were said to be natural to our being before societal programming, e.g. to believe life is simple, to have a purpose to do our best, and even a purpose to procreate.
Our understanding of the origins of thought took us back to Freudian concepts to do with parental relations and how this influences our most shameful thoughts, our core beliefs about sex, life, belonging, and self, and our dominant purposes in life. The theory took us incredibly deep into the human psyche.
We became very good at it. Students joked that our degree was in psychology, not acting. And I think it’s accurate to say the development of awareness often superseded the fact that we were ultimately there to learn the art of performance.
It’s worth noting that the average student was in their early 20s. I was 18–22 during my time at the Academy — barely an adult.
Now, before I progress, let me say that I had some of my favourite years at the Academy. I made the best of friends — bonded through deep inner work and creating some of the highest quality theatre I’ve ever witnessed. There was the benefit of daily yoga, and the joy of getting to take singing, dance, and acrobatics classes on a weekly basis. I healed in many ways, developed a strong sense of personal responsibility, and I genuinely learned how to act and direct well. For this, I am grateful.
The problem was not so much The Science of Acting theory, but the way personal transformation became weaponized within a high-control environment.
The Formation of Hypervigilance
Classes regularly revolved around students “sharing” (talking about their thought patterns and blocks), guided by a tutor who would readily point out aspects of your thinking and behaviour that you couldn’t see (“invisible thinking”). In fact, tutors pointed out your sloppy thinking whether you liked it or not — which is a quick way to become hypervigilant about your own behaviour.
Tears were common. And if the vulnerability of having your soul exposed to a class of peers wasn’t enough, a camcorder would capture everything so that we — and anybody else who cared to — could review it later. In fact, it was mandatory to review footage (a required 5–10 hours each week).
Almost all behaviour became evidence of an underlying purpose: to lose yourself, to want to be rejected, or quite simply: to want to fail.
“Failing” — or “having a purpose to fail” — became the thing we learned to judge and to fear.
Failing could look like: reveling in suffering, accidentally leaving a dirty plate in the Green Room, wearing an item of clothing that attracted attention, or indulging in habits of thought that we were expected to have “finished off.”
Pressure built to have awareness at all times, almost as though it were a competition. It didn’t take long to adopt the “aware” persona modelled by older students, defined by a passive, unreadable presence and a conservative dress code that played into traditional gender roles (shirts for men; vintage swing skirts, cardigans, and heels for women).
In this way, awareness became somewhat performative, as we weren’t really given the time and grace to feel our feelings and integrate change at our own pace. Instead, healing became moralized, where you were either “aware” or “failing” — nothing in between.
There was a right and wrong way to think and to behave, and I know I wasn’t the only one anxious about getting it wrong. Because you would be told — and often, you’d be caught totally unawares.
There was the time I was told I had “little boy thinking” (I never wore those Timberland boots again). Another time, my male tutor interrupted me mid-conversation to point out that I needed to do more work on my purpose to be strong, because it still manifested in my legs being muscular.
And it wasn’t just the tutors — students learned to police others’ behaviour.
There was the time a student outed me in class for being “devious” because I accidentally packed her teapot with my belongings when I moved apartments.
Then there was teaching practice.
Third year students in the directing stream were required to prepare a 30-minute lesson on an element of the Science of Acting theory to present to the rest of the school. Everybody in attendance provided feedback.
What ensued was what I can only describe as an opportunity for students to take revenge on the teaching student — because if attention was on somebody else failing, we were left in peace.
Why these sessions went unmonitored, I cannot say. But I resent the torrent of criticism I was subjected to in a moment of vulnerability, and for an exercise I didn’t even want to complete:
“She looked like she had a stick up her butt the whole time.” (This was met with much laughter.)
And, “She dresses like an old maid.”
I could go on…
I wonder now where the line is between awareness and perpetual self-consciousness? What started as introversion became a sense of constantly being watched; of wondering what you might be doing that you couldn’t see, but which most certainly wasn’t okay.
No Idols (Except Sam Kogan)
The intensive structure of the Academy included mandatory daily cold baths and 12–16 hour work days. Mornings started with yoga at 8:30 and wrapped with meditation at 5 before an evening of rehearsals that could finish as late (or early) as 3 AM. Yes, you read that correctly.
Permanently cold, wet hair and functioning on 4 hours of sleep was the norm. Yet you’d get called out for “losing yourself” if you nodded off in class, and I once got suspended for over-sleeping twice in a row.
For behaviour was punishable. You could expect fines for something as simple as not completing your country walks (we were required to rack up 50–100 miles per year for mental clarity). Unlucky students received a note on the bulletin board publicly shaming them for behaviour associated with failing. And suspension wasn’t uncommon and could be severe — such as two students suspended for an entire term because they had an affair.
The school’s reasoning was that punishment helped students develop personal responsibility. But I can’t help but see it as forced compliance using fear and shame — ironic, considering one of their founding principals is students’ learning to think for themselves (“No idols”).
Do What We Say, Don’t Lose Yourself
Many newcomers to the Academy shared a concern about becoming a blank slate through the process of integrating the Science of Acting technique. Would finishing-off thinking cause them to lose their personality?
This concern was often laughed off — “Of course you won’t lose who you are.” But with all the pieces of myself I’ve had to recover over the years, I wonder…
There was a strict list of rules called the “Dos and Don’ts.” Hair had to be neutral, make-up, tattoos and jewellery were banned, men couldn’t wear shorts — even in summer — and women were expected to wear dresses and skirts. Pants were only permitted during yoga and movement classes. Why? We were told jeans demonstrated a purpose to attract attention due to their figure-hugging nature — an egotistical purpose associated with making others fail by encouraging them to think about us.
By my second year, I had traded in my bohemian style for a wardrobe full of skirts, dresses, cardigans, and heels that I would never have ordinarily chosen to wear.
Other “Don’ts” included no reading magazines, no listening to music — both seen as “getting lost in trivia” — and no “belonging,” i.e. distracting your peers with meaningless chatter, causing you and them to fail.
The things I loved slowly fell away… Music, my favourite TV shows, fashion, and writing.
I was told not to write — I can’t even remember why? Something to do with being “hard to get” by preferring to express myself through this medium.
It took me a long time to return to writing after graduating. “Failing” became such a visceral anxiety and I learned to be ashamed of anything I had been told was bad for me.
Dress style was one thing — but it was the prejudice towards my sexuality and values that cut deepest.
The Science of I-Know-You-Better-Than-You-Know-Yourself
As somebody attracted to the same sex, I was strongly discouraged from dating women.
“Go down on men, not women,” was said to a fellow student who was same-sex attracted.
As with many facets of my expression, I learned to tie my sexual identity with shame and failure. The going narrative was that by dating women, I was losing myself from the love I had for my father and my desire to stay faithful to him.
So I solely dated men — overriding my authenticity in favour of a relational style that I was told was natural to my being.
We were gendered to the point of sexism — yet women’s experiences were undermined. When I shared an anxiety about needing to lock up the school by myself in the dead of night, my fear was reduced to a purpose to be raped (as a sex fantasy).
I was encouraged to eat meat because by being vegetarian I was hiding “vicious thoughts.” As a now ethical vegan, I deeply regret the fact that I submitted to pressure and neglected my morals. But I shouldn’t have been surprised — Religion was also dismissed. The Science of Acting seemed the only moral standing one could subscribe to.
And then there was the gaslighting.
A particular tutor was obsessed with pointing out how devious I was. On one occasion, I had written and directed a comedic skit that I was accused of plagiarizing from an existing YouTube clip. I knew I hadn’t. But after getting roasted for it in class for about 20 minutes (“You just don’t want to see it,” being the implication), I broke down — I felt as though I were going insane. Could it be that I shouldn’t trust my own mind?
Now, I know the truth.
That tutor never changed his mind about it. In fact, he took the issue to his next class. What resulted was a 15-minute recording I was made to watch where multiple second-year students gave examples of behaviour I exhibited that demonstrated my purpose to make others fail.
Sometimes, I wonder if tutors just made things up… Either way, they had no issue crossing boundaries or leaving you to wonder occasionally about your own sanity.
A Superiority Complex
The Academy was like a giant family, all of us speaking the same language, together for up to 18 hours each day.
To belong to the Science of Acting bubble felt special. Our psychological know-how gave us a superior edge (I know better than you). Because the school positioned itself as the authority on behaviour, truth, and acting, it became easy to “other” anybody beyond the Academy walls.
This began with our family — a hot topic given the focus on the origins of thought and behaviour. Separation from family bonds was encouraged as students’ negative motivations were often attributed to familial belonging. Wanting to belong with your mum seemed one of the worst things you could do. So while we were the enlightened ones, our family became the enemy.
Even the acting industry became the enemy — full of people who didn’t really know what they were doing. As a fellow Australian, I was once asked what I thought of Nicole Kidman.
“She’s a bit mad, isn’t she?” was the tutor’s prompt. Her supposed lack of awareness was more damning than her abilities — never mind the fact that she is one of the world’s most in-demand actresses.
While we were being superior, others got on with their lives and survived just fine simply by being themselves.
We graduated with a sense of having risen above the ranks of the general population — but really, we just had to readapt to living within it. I had the rude awakening of reimmersing with those we were taught to condescend for their lack of self-awareness, but who were often more successful or held more power in the entertainment industry.
Tutors had to be Science of Acting graduates, so naturally, students were encouraged to return as teachers (hence teaching practice). We took roles in the office, taught the occasional class, and returned to direct plays.
There’s no issue in this fundamentally — but it did create a loop of sorts, when graduates should have been pushed out the door and encouraged to fly.
Seeing Is Undoing (The Aftermath)
When I left the Academy in mid–2015, I graduated with confidence. This faded rather quickly when confronted with real life and a creative industry that called for more than discipline and heavy cognition.
For I had become a blank slate: I no longer knew who I was beyond the ability to psychoanalyze my own mind. And while I knew how to analyze a script, I had lost a lot of my artistry — the messy, uninhibited inner life that drew me to create in the first place.
It took seeing a therapist and discovering that I lived with severe social anxiety to begin understanding the consequences of training in such a psychoanalytical environment.
For the good that came of my personal growth during my time at the Academy, there was an equal amount of damage I needed to undo — and which I’m still undoing 10 years later.
I have always had a predisposition to feeling not good enough — but this was strengthened in an institution that was constantly policing behaviour. I learned to self-monitor to earn belonging. Self-consciousness deepened. And I still battle with a constant and paralyzing sense that others are always scrutinizing me.
I have a hard time letting myself be and I struggle not to over-analyze everything. “What if I’m failing?” sits in my system like a weight, causing me to harshly judge myself for things that are simply… human.
Everything is my fault — and here’s where the technique gets dangerous. Because if I’m always obsessing over the purpose behind my own actions, there’s no keeping others accountable. Injustice and abuse becomes another opportunity for me to gaslight myself.
Even in writing this article, I hear a voice asking me what my purpose is — do I want to lose myself from my responsibilities? Am I making others fail?
I was young and malleable when I found the Academy. And because I learned to doubt myself, I continued to seek out other people’s authority in the years following graduation. I’d bounce from one program or coach to another, each with a promise of ‘Do this, and you’ll be fixed,’ or ‘This will change your life!’
It took one too many of these programs to realize that I’m done listening to others’ often-radical interpretations of how I need to live my life in order to be happy and successful.
The only sure thing is my inner compass.
The Academy taught me to filter life through being right — acting, dressing, speaking, thinking, and behaving correctly. But this left no room for personal truth.
My saving grace has been learning how to do things my way — a reclamation of self that has taken years.
I believe a lot of great art wouldn’t exist without the imperfect, outlandish individuals who express without filtering. As such, I came to see that I am the most interesting thing about my art. Because it’s my integrity and uniqueness — not my self-awareness — that creates interesting work.
I hate dresses — I admitted that to myself two years ago — and I finally feel as though I am beginning to find my style again. (Although, I still anticipate remarks pointing out the purpose behind my choice of expression.)
I’ve allowed myself to adore music again, and to revel in the joy of listening for hours without feeling as though I am losing myself.
I’ve rekindled my love for reading.
I have a girlfriend.
And I have learned to write again.
Did this piece resonate with you?
I’d love to hear your thoughts — or for you to share it with someone who might relate.
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