In Performance Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by JV Mercanti

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without written permission, except by a newspaper or magazine reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.

  Published in 2013 by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books

  An Imprint of Hal Leonard Corporation

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  Printed in the United States of America

  Book design by Mark Lerner

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available upon request.

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  Contents

  Preface

  Introduction: Approaching the Monologue

  MEN’S MONOLOGUES

  The Drunken City

  by Adam Bock

  Mercy

  by Laura Cahill

  From Up Here

  by Liz Flahive

  Milk Like Sugar

  by Kirsten Greenidge

  Six Degrees of Separation

  by John Guare

  Bachelorette

  by Leslye Headland

  Hit the Wall

  by Ike Holter

  Water by the Spoonful

  by Quiara Alegría

  The Vandal

  by Hamish Linklater

  The Vandal

  by Hamish Linklater

  Ella

  by Dano Madden

  The Four of Us

  by Itamar Moses

  Jailbait

  by Deirdre O’Connor

  Wild

  by Crystal Skillman

  Victoria Martin: Math Team Queen

  by Kathryn Walat

  WOMEN’S MONOLOGUES

  The Drunken City

  by Adam Bock

  Full Bloom

  by Suzanne Bradbeer

  All New People

  by Zach Braff

  Mercy

  by Laura Cahill

  Lascivious Something

  by Shelia Callaghan

  Almost, Maine

  by John Cariani

  Snow Day

  by Eliza Clark

  From Up Here

  by Liz Flahive

  Milk Like Sugar

  by Kirsten Greenidge

  Bachelorette

  by Leslye Headland

  4000 Miles

  by Amy Herzog

  Speech and Debate

  by Stephen Karam

  Well

  by Lisa Kron

  Brooklyn Boy

  by Donald Margulies

  Victoria Martin: Math Team Queen

  by Kathryn Walat

  Acknowledgments

  Play Sources and Acknowledgments

  Preface

  One of the best auditions I’ve ever seen was for Roundabout Theatre Company’s 2001 revival of Stephen Sondheim and James Goldman’s musical Follies. Jim Carnahan, the casting director, and I had called in Judith Ivey for the role of Sally Durant Plummer. If you don’t know who Judith Ivey is, please Google her immediately. You have most likely seen her in something on stage, in film, or on television. You might also have seen a play that she’s directed. She is a prolific artist. The role of Sally Durant Plummer is fragile and complex. Sally has been married to Buddy for years and years, but all that time she has been pining for the love of Ben Stone, who is (unhappily) married to Sally’s former best friend, Phyllis. Sally is going crazy with love and desire that has been burning for over twenty years.

  Ms. Ivey was asked to prepare a cut from Sally’s famous first-act song “In Buddy’s Eyes,” an aria through which she tries to convince Ben that she’s deliriously happy in her life with Buddy. She was also asked to prepare a short scene. Present in the room for the audition were Stephen Sondheim, the composer and lyricist; Matthew Warchus, the director; Todd Haimes, artistic director; Jim Carnahan, casting director; Paul Ford, the accompanist; a reader; and myself.

  Walking into the room as herself, Ms. Ivey conversed with Mr. Warchus and Mr. Sondheim about her career and, very briefly, about the character. She then took a moment with Paul Ford to discuss the music. Following that, she came to the center of the playing space, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared herself to begin. In that moment of preparation, which truly lasted no longer than a breath, her body changed, her physicality changed, the very air around her seemed to change. She took the character into her body. Ms. Ivey then opened her eyes, nodded at Mr. Ford, and began to sing.

  Ms. Ivey executed the song with specificity, a rich but contained emotional connection to the material, a strong objective, carefully thought-out actions, and a deep understanding of this woman and her love. She went directly from the song to the scene, completely off-book (lines memorized), and when she finished—the room was silent. Mr. Sondheim had tears in his eyes. Mr. Warchus didn’t have a word of direction to give her. It was not that Ms. Ivey had provided us with a complete performance. No, not at all. She had shown us the possibility of what she could create. She had shown us the potential of her Sally Durant Plummer. Her point of view was clear, consistent, and deeply, deeply affecting.

  “Thank you, Judith. That was wonderful,” Matthew Warchus finally said.

  “I really love Sally,” she responded, “But I was wondering if you might also consider me for the role of Phyllis. I’ve prepared that material as well.”

  “Of course I would. Would you like a few minutes to go outside and prepare?” he asked.

  “No. No, that’s all right. I can do it right now,” she responded.

  And after saying this, Ms. Ivey closed her eyes. She very slowly turned away from us, put her hair up in a tight bun, and turned around to face the room. It took no longer than thirty seconds, but once again her body, her posture, the way she related to the air around her, had changed. The aura of the room shifted with her. Once again, she nodded at Paul Ford at the piano, and she fearlessly launched into the Phyllis Stone material.

  It was astonishing. Not a false note was sung or uttered. Ivey had such a deep understanding of the cold facade Phyllis wears in order to cover up her breaking heart. Phyllis is the polar opposite of Sally: cool, controlled, calculating, and hard.

  Ms. Ivey thanked us for the opportunity. We thanked her for her work. The room remained still and silent for a while after she left.

  Without a doubt, Mr. Warchus knew he must cast her in the show. She landed the role of Sally Durant Plummer.

  It was clear that Ms. Ivey did a very thorough study of the text in preparation for this audition. She understood who these characters were; how they thought; why they spoke the way they did, using language in their own specific ways. She understood how they moved, where they held their weight, how they related to the space around them. Most importantly, she understood the characters’ objectives (what they wanted) and how to use the other person in the scene to get what she wanted.

  You can achieve the same level of performance as Ms. Ivey if you put the requisite amount of work into your monologue, ask yourself the right questions (or the questions I ask you to examine following each of the pieces in this book), and activate your imagination.

  Introduction: Approaching the Monologue

  Actors are interpretive storytellers. We often forget that.

  You take the words the writer has given
you and process them through your own unique instrument (your mind, your body, your imagination, and, hopefully, your heart and your soul), and you turn those words into action—into doing. I’m sure you’ve been taught by this point in your career that acting is doing. As a teacher, acting coach, and director, I am constantly asking the questions “What are you doing?” and “Why are you doing that?”

  I’m also always asking the question “What does that mean?”

  Most beginning actors think that memorizing the lines is enough. Or that emoting is enough. As I tell my undergraduate students, acting is hard work, and it’s more than just memorizing lines and saying them out loud. It takes emotional connection, analytical skill, a relationship to language, and an understanding of human behavior and relationships to turn the written word into honest, believable action. It also takes rehearsal. Rehearsing a monologue is tricky business, because you don’t physically have a partner in front of you to work off of, react to, and actually affect. Oftentimes you’ll find yourself staring at an empty chair, saying the lines out loud over and over. Hopefully, what follows will help you deepen your rehearsal process and activate your imagination.

  You’re reading this book because you’re looking for an audition piece. It might be for a non-equity or community-theater production, an undergraduate or graduate program, or a professional meeting with an agent or a casting director. It may even be for an EPA.1 Whatever the case, you’re looking for a piece that—I hope—you feel you connect with on some level; that expresses a particular essence of you; that shows off your sense of humor or sense of self; and that, above all, tells a story you want to tell.

  Your monologue choice tells the person (or sometimes the numerous people) behind the table something about you. Certainly it lets us know that you can stand in front of an audience, comfortable in your own body, and perform. It tells us you can open your mouth and speak someone else’s words with comfort, confidence, and a sense of ease. It lets us know whether or not you have the ability to project or modify your voice depending on the requirements of the space.

  More than that, your monologue choice tells us something about who you are as a person. Your monologue can tell us the type of things you respond to emotionally, intellectually, and humorously. After all, we’re going under the assumption that you put a lot of time and care in finding a piece that you wanted to perform. You took the time to commit said piece to memory and to heart. You took the time to practice it over and over again, translating the author’s words into your own. You’ve imbued it with your sense of humor, understanding, compassion, pain, and so on. More than just telling us whether or not you can act—and a monologue is by no means the only arbiter of this—the monologue helps us decide if we like you as a person, if you’re someone we want to work with, study with, teach, and hire.

  The monologue is, then, a reflection of you. What do you want us to know about you? This is why not every monologue works for every actor. Choose carefully. If it doesn’t feel right, it most likely isn’t. If you think it’s a possibility, commit to the piece, do all of the work you can on it, and then perform it for people whose opinions you trust—not just people who tell you everything you do is wonderful (as nice as it is to have those people around). Ask someone who can be honest and helpfully critical.

  Our first impulse is to ask, “Did you like it? How was I?”

  Unfortunately, “like” is subjective. I can not like something and yet still be affected by it. Instead, ask questions such as the following: “What did you learn about me from that? What do you think it says about who I am? What was the story? Could you tell what my objective was? Who was I? Did I take you on a journey?”

  Then take it to a more businesslike level from there: “What am I selling? Does it play to my strengths? What weaknesses are on display in this piece? Does it seem ‘type’-appropriate? Did I display a sense of strength as well as vulnerability?”

  I will discuss some of these issues further in the pages that follow. However, it’s important for an actor of any age to realize that you are selling yourself, and so you need to think like a businessperson. Play to your strengths and overcome your weaknesses. And if you can’t overcome your weaknesses, learn how to cover them up!

  So, you’re a storyteller, an interpreter, and a businessperson. I told you acting was hard work. Pursue this career with an open heart and a tough skin, because for all the applause you’ll receive, you’ll also receive a lot of criticism and rejection. You have no control over why you did or didn’t get cast. You do have control over your performance in the room. Focus on telling the story, a story you connect deeply to, and that’s a safe and sure foundation.

  Now let’s begin.

  Why Monologues?

  Monologues give us a sense of your skill level and your personality.

  As a professional casting director, I can think of only two instances in which I’ve asked actors to prepare a monologue for an audition. The first was when casting the Broadway production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical The Woman in White, directed by Trevor Nunn. All the actors coming into the room, whether auditioning for a leading role or a place in the ensemble, were asked to prepare music from the show, a contrasting song of their choice, and a Shakespearean monologue. Mr. Nunn, a Shakespearean expert, used the monologue as a way to get to know the actors, direct them, and gauge their ability to handle language and to play objectives and actions. I received a number of calls from agents, managers, and actors saying that they were uncomfortable with Shakespeare and maybe they shouldn’t come in. However, I assured them this was the way Mr. Nunn worked, and he wouldn’t be judging the actors’ ability to handle the language requirements of Shakespeare but rather their ability to tell a story and take direction.

  The second instance was when casting the Broadway revival of Cyrano de Bergerac. David Leveaux, the director, asked the men coming in for smaller roles, such as the poets and the soldiers, to prepare a classical monologue. In this instance, casting was dependent on the actors’ ability to handle classical language. We were also able to assign understudy roles from these auditions because, based on the actors’ monologue choice, we had a sense of who they were and of their technical and emotional abilities.

  Now, that’s two instances of using monologues in a more than fifteen-year career in casting. Truth to tell, I don’t like monologue auditions. Although they give me a sense of who you are, they don’t tell me if you can really act. I know some great actors who are terrible with monologues and vice versa.

  Nonetheless, as a college professor, I’ve learned that monologues are very important. Actors use them to audition for a program; we use them for season auditions within the department; and most importantly, my graduating seniors are asked to perform their monologues when they meet with agents and managers after their showcases.

  Why? For all the reasons I’ve previously stated: Do you have the ability to speak with confidence and clarity? Do you have the ability to create a two-minute storytelling and emotional arc? Are you comfortable in your body? Can you play an objective? Can you play an action? Are you in control of your emotional life? Are you someone I want to spend time and work with? A monologue lets us know WHO YOU ARE. So it’s important that you know who you are. And you don’t have to be one thing, but again, know your strengths.

  There appears to be an unwritten rule in schools that urges people away from “storytelling” monologues. In my experience, though, people are at their most active, engaged, and emotionally connected when they are sharing a personal experience with me. In this book you will find storytelling monologues for this very reason. What you must keep in mind in the performing of them is that we tell stories for a reason. Through these stories, the characters are trying to tell us something about themselves. Therefore, you’re telling us something about you when you perform it. It’s up to you to decide what that is, but make certain you feel emotionally connected to the piece and tha
t you keep it active and engaged with a clear objective.

  Now, in the monologues that don’t necessarily contain an obvious “story,” what do I mean by “storytelling”? I mean you are giving us a brief glimpse into the larger story of that character. You are living out the experience of—bringing to life—a very specific instance in the life of that character. Your plotting of that experience still needs to have a beginning, middle, and end. You must chart your emotional arc for these pieces just as you would if it were a traditional story. Take us on a journey, just the same. Surprise us.

  CAUTION: Try not to beat us over the head by living in one extreme emotion for two minutes and simply playing one tactic the entire time. If you do this, we will stop listening and your monologue will become monotonous.

  Choosing a Monologue

  I hope you’ve come to this book as a starting point. The best way to choose a monologue is to read plays. Read lots and lots of plays. Read every play you can get your hands on. Watch movies and television shows. Searching for—and preparing—monologues requires lots of work. Also, it’s your job.

  Why should you do all this work? The reasons are plenty, but let me expound a few of them.

  1. Playwrights are the reason we, as theater professionals, exist. It is our job to honor their work while bringing it to life. You will soon find yourself gravitating to a certain writer or writers. You will want to perform their work. You will seek out productions of theirs wherever you are in the country or the world. You will, eventually, want to work with this playwright and help create new work or revive previous work. You will want to interpret and tell their stories. And—if you move to a city like New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago—you will most likely come into contact with them at one point in time and you can speak with them about their work with knowledge and breadth.

  Conversely, there will be writers you find you don’t connect with at all. If this is the case, do not use monologues from their work. You need to love the piece on some very basic level. So even if you can’t define why you’re not a fan, move on. Pick up the play a few months or years later and read it again. Maybe you’ll come at it from a different perspective and it will connect with you. It may never.