Monologue From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia :

Exterior monolog: This is where the actor speaks to another person who is not in the performance space or to the audience.
Interior monolog: This is where the actor speaks as if to himself or herself. It is introspective and reveals the inner motives to the audience. This is also a common device in stream of consciousness writings. Frequently in modern theatre, the actor may deliver the monologue in an "aside" (or a sequence of asides).
Where the character delivering the monologue is alone on stage it may also be described as a 'soliloquy'. Writers such as Shakespeare used the soliloquy to great effect in order to express some of the personal thoughts and emotions of characters without specifically resorting to third-person narration.
It is a dramatic convention that soliloquies and asides cannot be heard or noticed by the other characters, even if they are delivered in their plain view.
A written monologue may contain stage directions for the performer, and might be preceded by information about the monologue's setting. (For example, Samuel Beckett's monologue, Krapp's Last Tape).
The monologue was a significant feature of French classical drama; the monologues of Racine have been highly prized by French actresses, including Rachel and Sarah Bernhardt.

monologuesearch.com

Mono Study

2004 * Monologue Study Pages: PreActing, Biomechanics, Method, BMplus *

act.vtheatre.net = mono + mono1 + mono2 pages

... on this page --

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[ for analysis in class ]

Linda: I'll be with you in a minute. Go on, Charley. I want to, just for a minute. I never had the chance to say good-bye. (Linda sits there, summoning herself) Forgive me, dear. I can't cry. I don't know what it is, but I can't cry. I don't understand it. Why did you ever do that? Help me, Willy, I can't cry. It seems to me that you're just on another trip. I keep expecting you. Willy, dear, I can't cry. Why did you do it? I search and search and I search, and I can't understand it, Willy. I made the last payment on the house today. Today, dear. And there'll be nobody home. (A sob rises in her throat) We're free and clear. (Sobbing more fully, released) We're free. We're free... we're free...

[ Death of a Salesman * Arthur Miller Character: Linda Loman Genre: Drama ]

LINDA. Then make Charley your father, Biff. You can't do that, can you? I don't say he's a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person. You called him crazy... no, a lot of people think he's lost his... balance. But you don't have to be very smart to know what his trouble is. The man is exhausted. A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man. He works for a company thirty-six years this March, opens up unheard-of territories to their trademark, and now in his old age they take his salary away. Are they any worse than his sons? When he brought them business, when he was young, they were glad to see him. But now his old friends, the old buyers that loved him so and always found some order to hand him in a pinch--they're all dead, retired. He used to be able to make six, seven calls a day in Boston. Now he takes his valises out of the car and puts them back and takes them out again and he's exhausted. Instead of walking he talks now. He drives seven hundred miles, and when he gets there no one knows him anymore, no one welcomes him. And what goes through a man's mind, driving seven hundred miles home without having earned a cent? Why shouldn't he talk to himself? Why? When he has to go to Charley and borrow fifty dollars a week and pretend to me that it's his pay? How long can that go on? How long? You see what I'm sitting here and waiting for? And you tell me he has no character? The man who never worked a day but for your benefit? When does he get the medal for that?

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"Dear God, I'm tired." (Sarah Miles) from the novel "The End of the Affair" by Graham Greene

I was having lunch with Maurice for the first time for two years-I had telephoned him and asked him to meet me-and my bus got held up in traffic at Stockwell and I was ten minutes late. I felt the fear of the moment I always felt in the old days, that something would happen to spoil the day, that he would be angry with me. But I had no desire to get in first now with my anger. Like a lot of other things the capacity of anger seems dead in me. I wanted to see him and ask him about Henry. Henry's been odd lately. It was strange of him to go out and drink in a pub with Maurice. Henry only drinks at home or at his club. I thought he might have talked to Maurice. Strange if he's worried about me. There's never been less cause for worry since we married first. But when I was with Maurice there didn't seem any other reason to be with him except to be with him. I found out nothing about Henry. Every now and then he tried to hurt me and he succeeded because he was really hurting himself, and I can't bear to watch him hurting himelf.
Have I broken that old promise, lunching with Maurice? A year ago I would have thought so, but I didn't think so now. I was very literal in those days because I was afraid, because I didn't know what it was all about, because I had no trust in love. We lunched at Rules and I was happy just being with him. Only for a little I was unhappy, saying good-bye to him above the grating I thought he was going to kiss me again, I longed for it, and then a fit of coughing took me and the moment passed. I knew, as he walked away, he was thinking all kinds of untrue things and he was hurt by them, and I was hurt because he was hurt.
I wanted to cry unobserved, and I went to the National Portrait Gallery, but it was student's day-there were too many people, so I went back to Maiden Lane and into the church that's always too dark to look at your neighbour. I sat there. It was quite empty except for me and a little man who came in and prayed quietly in a pew behind. I remembered the first time I had been in one of those churches and how I hated it. I didn't pray. I had prayed once too often. I said to God, as I might have said to my father, if I could ever have remembered having one, Dear God, I'm tired.

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"Have pity on me" from "The Lark" by Jean Anouilh

Then I'll start at the beginning. It's always nicer at the beginning. I'll begin with my father's house when I was very small. (Runs to join her family) I live here happy enough with my mother, my brothers, and my father. (She dances downstage, clapping her hands.) I'm in the meadow now, watching my sheep. I am not thinking of anything. It is the first time I hear the Voices. I wasn't thinking of anything. I know only that God is good and that He keeps me pure and safe in this little corner of the earth near Domremy. This one little piece of French earth that has not yet been destroyed by English invaders.(Makes childish thrusts with an imaginary sword, and stops suddenly as if someone has pulled her back.) Then, suddenly, someone behind me touched my shoulder. I know very well that no one is behind me. I turn and there is a great blinding light in the shadow of me. The Voice is grave and sweet and I was frightened. But I didn't tell anybody. I don't know why. Then came the second time. It was the noon Angelus. A light came over the sun and was stronger than the sun. There he was. I saw him. An angel in a beautiful clean robe that must have been ironed by somebody very careful. He had two great white wings. He didn't tell me his name that day, but later I found out e was Monseigneur the Blessed Saint Michael.
Blessed Saint Michael, excuse me, but you are in the wrong village. I am Joan, an ignorant girl, my father's daughter--(pauses, listens) I can't save France. I don't even know how to ride a horse. To you people the Sire de Beaudricourt is only a country squire, but to us he is master here. He would never take me to Dauphin, I've never even bowed to him--
Then the Blessed Saint Michael and Saint Catherine would come along with me, and if that wasn't enough Saint Marguerite would go, too. (Turns back as if to listen to Saint Michael) But when the army captains lose a battle-and they lose a great many-they can go to sleep at night. I could never send men to their death. Forgive me, Blessed Saint Michael, but I must go home now--(But she doesn't move.) Oh, Blessed Saint Michael, have pity on me. Have pity, Messire. (She moves back to the trial simply.) Well, he didn't. And that was the day I was saddled with France. And my work.

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Joan's History from The Messenger: The Story of Joan Of Arc by Andrew Birkin and Luc Besson

I was about eight years old. It was a beautiful spring day. I was in the forest taking a short cut home when the wind started blowing in the trees -- such a strange sound -- almost like words -- as if someone was calling... The second time was many years later. It was autumn, and I was coming back from church when suddenly the same violent wind started to blow again... Everything was moving so fast -- the wind -- the clouds -- I couldn't move! Then suddenly a shape appeared in the middle of the sky...
(Joan's eyes fill with tears)I was so frightened... he was so -- so here...I realized then that he had chosen me, but I didn't understand what it was I had to do...What was my mission? To help my country? But how could I do that? I was only a poor girl who knew nothing about riding or making war... so I decided to wait and not to speak to anyone about it. I didn't wait long. One day I was going to Mass, like I do every day, when the same strange wind started blowing again...Everything was suddenly made clear to me. God was finally calling me. He had a mission for me -- a message to deliver...
He said that I have to save France from her enemies and give her back to God, and He told me that I -- Jeanne -- will lead you to the altar at Rheims to be crowned King of France. All you have to do now is put your trust in me.

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"Prison Forever" from Antigone by Sophocles

Tomb, bridal chamber, prison forever
Dug in rock, it is to you I am going
To join my people, that great number that have died,
Whom in their death Persephone received.
I am the last of them and I go down
In the worst death of all-for I have not lived
The due term of my life. But when I come
To that other world my hope is strong
That my coming will be welcome to my father,
And dear to you, my mother, and dear to you,
My brother deeply loved. For when you died,
With my own hands I washed and dressed you all,
And poured the lustral offerings on your graves.
And now, Polyneices, it was for such care of your body
That I have earned these wages.
Yet those who think rightly will think I did right
In honoring you. Had I been a mother
Of children, and my husband been dead and rotten,
I would not have taken this weary task upon me
Against the will of the city. What law backs me when I say this?
I will tell you:
If my husband were dead, I might have had another,
And child from another man, if I lost the first.
But when father and mother both were hidden in death
No brother's life would bloom for me again.
That is law under which I gave you precedence,
My dearest brother, and that is why Creon thinks me
Wrong, even a criminal, and now takes me
By the hand and leads me away,
Unbedded, without bridal, without share
In marriage and in nurturing children;
As lonely as you see me, without friends;
With fate against me I go into the vault of death
While still alive. What law of God have I broken?
Why should I still look to the gods in misery?
Whom should I summon as an ally? For indeed
Because of piety I was called impious.
If this procedding is good in the god's eyes,
I shall know my sin, once I have suffered.
But if Creon and his people are the wrongdoers
Let their suffering be no worse than the injustice
They are meting out to me.

Monologues for women

~ Comedic monologues ~

Tartuffe - Moliere: (Dorina) -Act I, Scene II

Dorina: Her case is nothing, though, beside her son's!
To see him, you would say he's ten times worse!
His conduct in our late unpleasantness [1]
Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage
In service of his king; but now he's like
A man besotted, since he's been so taken
With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves him
A hundred times as much as mother, son,
Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secrets
And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience.
He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart
Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly;
At table he must have the seat of honour,
While with delight our master sees him eat
As much as six men could; we must give up
The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches,
('tis a servant speaking) [2]
Master exclaims: "God bless you!"--Oh, he dotes
Upon him! he's his universe, his hero;
He's lost in constant admiration, quotes him
On all occasions, takes his trifling acts
For wonders, and his words for oracles.
The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on't,
He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue,
Gets money from him all the time by canting,
And takes upon himself to carp at us.
Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey
Makes it his business to instruct us too;
He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us,
And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches.
The wretch, the other day, tore up a kerchief
That he had found, pressed in the 'Golden Legend',
Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingle
The devil's finery with holy things.

SGANARELLE: If you knew the man as I do, you would find it no hard matter to believe. I have no proof as yet. You know that I was ordered to start before him, and we have had no talk together since his arrival; but it is as a kind of warning that I tell you, inter nos, that you see in Don Juan, my master, one of the greatest scoundrels that ever trod the earth; a madman, a dog, a demon, a Turk, a heretic who believes neither in heaven, saints, God, nor devil; who spends his life like a regular brute, an epicurean hog; a true Sardanapalus, who shuts up his ears against all the admonitions that can be made to him, and who laughs at everything we believe in. You say that he has married your mistress; believe me, in order to satisfy his passion, he would have done more, and married along with her not only yourself, but her dog and her cat into the bargain. A marriage is nothing to him: it is the grand snare he makes use of to catch the fair sex. He is a wholesale marriage-monger; gentlewomen, young girls, middle-class women, peasant lasses, nothing is either too hot or too cold for him; and if I were to tell you the names of all those he has married in different places, the chapter would last from now till midnight. You seem surprised, and you grow pale; yet this is but a mere outline of the man, and to make a finished portrait we should require many more vigorous touches. Let it be sufficient that the wrath of Heaven must sooner or later make an end of him. He cannot escape; and it would be better for me to belong to the devil than to him. I am the witness of so much evil that I could wish him to be I don't know where. But if a great lord is also a wicked man, it is a terrible thing. I must be faithful to him, whatever I may think; in me fear takes the place of zeal, curbs my feelings, and often compels me to applaud what I most detest.-- Here he is, coming for a walk in this palace; let us part. But, listen: I have told you this in all frankness, and it has slipped rather quickly out of my mouth; but, if anything of what I have said should reach his ears, I would stoutly maintain that you have told a lie.

PYOTR: Listen, when I set off to come here, I mean here in the large sense, to this town, ten days ago, I made up my mind, of course, to assume a character. It would have been best to have done without anything, to have kept one's own character, wouldn't it? There is no better dodge than one's own character, because no one believes in it. I meant, I must own, to assume the part of a fool, because it is easier to be a fool than to act one's own character; but as a fool is after all something extreme, and anything extreme excites curiosity, I ended by sticking to my own character. And what is my own character? The golden mean: neither wise nor foolish, rather stupid, and dropped from the moon, as sensible people say here, isn't that it? Ah, you agree—I'm very glad; I knew beforehand that it was your own opinion. . . . You needn't trouble, I am not annoyed, and I didn't describe myself in that way to get a flattering contradiction from you—no, you're not stupid, you're clever. ... Ah! you're smiling again! . . . I've blundered once more. You would not have said "you're clever," granted; I'll let it pass anyway. Passons, as papa says, and, in parenthesis, don't be vexed with my verbosity. By the way, I always say a lot, that is, use a great many words and talk very fast, and I never speak well. And why do I use so many words, and why do I never speak well? Because I don't know how to speak. People who can speak well, speak briefly. So that I am stupid, am I not? But as this gift of stupidity is natural to me, why shouldn't I make skilful use of it? And I do make use of it. It's true that as I came here, I did think, at first, of being silent. But you know silence is a great talent, and therefore incongruous for me, and secondly silence would be risky, anyway. So I made up my mind finally that it would be best to talk, but to talk stupidly—that is, to talk and talk and talk—to be in a tremendous hurry to explain things, and in the end to get muddled in my own explanations, so that my listener would walk away without hearing the end, with a shrug, or, better still, with a curse. You succeed straight off in persuading them of your simplicity, in boring them and in being incomprehensible—three advantages all at once! Do you suppose anybody will suspect you of mysterious designs after that? Why, every one of them would take it as a personal affront if anyone were to say I had secret designs. And I sometimes amuse them too, and that's priceless. Why, they're ready to forgive me everything now, just because the clever fellow who used to publish manifestoes out there turns out to be stupider than themselves—that's so, isn't it? From your smile I see you approve.

[ THE POSSESSED A monologue from the novel by Fyodor Dostoevsky * from The Possessed. Trans. Constance Garnett. New York: Macmillian Company, 1916. ]

Tasks

2. Create a complete characterization through vocal and physical expression.

3. Compare and contrast plays of three different dramatic forms, e.g. tragedy, comedy, absurdist, etc.

4. Format:
The monologue may be a soliloquy or a long speech from a play in which another person or other people are supposed to be on stage; however, the contestants will deliver the lines of only one character. Makeup, costumes, lighting, props, and music will not be permitted. Ordinary school clothing should be worn. If needed, one chair will be provided. The only introduction permitted will be the name of the play and the author, the character portrayed, and the act and scene numbers from which the selection is taken.

2005: Total Acting & Total Directing *

The 25th Hour

S Lee

No, Fuck You
written by David Benioff, from his novel

(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written Fuck You!)
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in caf¨¦s, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.
Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
(He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)

Monologues for men
~ Ancient Drama monologues~
Hippolytus - Euripides: (Hippolytus) text available

~ Drama monologues~
Notes from underground - Feodor Dostoevsky: (Man) text available
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer-M. Twain: (Huck Finn) text available
The fall of the house of Usher - Poe: (Usher) text available

~ Comedy monologues~
Volpone-Ben Jonson: (Mosca) text available
http://www.geocities.com/akatsavou/monologue_en.html

... THE PLAYWRITING SEMINARS > STRUCTURE > MONOLOGUES :

Think of the monologue as an operatic aria: when the emotion and complexity of a character's Subtext becomes overwhelming, a monologue is a great solution. And it tells a story -- either of an event that happened or an emotional development. Ideally, it does both of these at the same time.

...

Damnation! - Drama. Frank Wedekind. 1 m. 
Pandora's Box - Comedy/Drama. Frank Wedekind. 1 m. 
Spring Awakening - Comedy/Drama. Frank Wedekind. 1 m. 
Spring Awakening - Drama. Frank Wedekind. 1 m. 
Spring Awakening - Drama. Frank Wedekind. 1 f. 

from theatrehistory.com/plays/monologues

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