Upper School Play: Clue

(The performances are March 16 and 17)

We will do monologues, scene and movement work. Prepare ONE of the following monologues:

A. Monologue Female

There, dear, you mustn’t apologize. You couldn’t know, of course. It seems so plausible. You fancy your husband in an atmosphere of perpetual temptation, in a backstage world full of beautiful sirens without scruples or morals. One actress, you suppose, is more dangerous than a hundred ordinary women. You hate us and fear us. None understands that better than your husband, who is evidently a very cunning lawyer. And so he plays on your fear and jealousy to regain the love you deny him. He writes a letter and leaves it behind him on the desk. Trust a lawyer never to do that unintentionally. He orders flowers for me by telephone in the morning and probably cancels the order the moment he reaches his office. By the way, hasn’t he a lock of my hair? Yes. They bribe my hair-dresser to steal from me. It is a wonder I have any hair left at all.

B. Monologue Male

I ate them.

That’s right. I ate the divorce papers, Carly. I ate them with ketchup. And they were good…

So goooood.

You probably want me to get serious about our divorce. The thing is you always called our marriage a joke. So let’s use logic here: If A) we never had a serious marriage then B) we can’t have a serious divorce.

No. We can’t.

The whole thing’s a farce, Carly – a farce that tastes good with ketchup.

I mean, wasn’t it last week, your dad asked you the reason you walked down that aisle with me, and you said “for the exercise.”

Ha, ha. That’s funny.

You’re a funny girl, Carly. And I’m not crying, I’m laughing

C. Monologue – Either

Fine, be that way. I don’t care anymore. I just want to say it.

Hoyt, I love you. I know you don’t love me. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s your smell.

But I can’t take it anymore. It’s ruining my life.

I wake up in the mornings in a cold sweat. I have no appetite. I can’t concentrate.

I am totally unproductive.

There are millions of mal-nourished, HIV positive orphans in Africa. MILLIONS!

And I can do nothing but lie in my bed for hours and stare at the ceiling.

I’ve tried everything I can think of.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror every morning.

And I tell myself you are self-absorbed and whiney and immature and that you only like social-climbing airheads. I tell myself you kick puppies for fun and nothing happens. Nothing works.

I still feel like I’m going to have a heart attack every time you speak to me.