Unpacking a Monologue

Here is a neat trick!

Every now and then actors have to go fishing for a monologue to perform, for auditions or acting class or what have you. This can lead to a funny sort of desperation. There's not a whole lot of really good monologues to be found in plays, and the ones that do exist tend to be way over done (if I ever here that stupid "to the moon and back again" speech, I'll just go nuts!) Eventually the actor starts eyeballing dialogue that is almost a monologue. The actor takes all the lines of Character #1, omits the lines of Character #2, fudges a few words to cover any awkward, jarring transitions in the resulting monologue and WHAMMO! Instant monologue.

Well, you can do the exact opposite as a playwright. Start with a good monologue and turn it into dialogue!

When I've done this, it's been for the very good reason that theatre can easily become static: talking heads, arbitrary blocking, and a whole lot of nothing going on on stage. To an audience inundated with television and film, sitting in a cold dark room listening to Joe Actor ramble on about the time he saw his dad shoot the horses (or whatever) can be interminable! Long monologues can be as difficult to perform as they are to watch.

The push and pull of conversation can turn a one-sided dull-fest into dynamic, engaging story-telling. At least, that's my theory. Let me put my own neck on the chopping block, and we'll see if my theory is born out in fact. Here's a rough draft of Melanie's confession from my play Torrid Affaire:

MELANIE: Nathan and I want different things. (pause) That's bullshit. Like saying "creative differences." We spent so much time on the road, playing shitholes. Shitholes for a cut of the door and the occasional free drink. It got to the point where I had to drive the van, because Nathan and the guys were so fucked-up. I had to stay sober because no one else would. Yeah, I know. Wah. Poor Melanie. But believe me ... I was holding that band together all through Peoria, Chicago, Waukeegan, Milwaukee; up to Canada and back. I was the den mother while my boyfriend and my bandmates lived their mockery of a rock and roll lifestyle for nine months.

This goes on for a full page. Yikes!

Now here's the version in the final script, with sequitur interjections by the other characters:

MELANIE: I’m glad never got married.

MOLLY: What happened?

MELANIE: Nathan and I want different things. (pause) That’s bullshit.
Like saying “creative differences.”

MOLLY: You had a band together. You
were real good.

MELANIE: We spent so much time on the road, playing shitholes. For a cut of the door and the occasional free drink. I had to stay sober because no one else would. Yeah I know. Wah. Poor Melanie. But believe me . . . I was holding that band together all through Illinois, Wisconsin, up to Canada and back. I was the den mother while my boyfriend and my bandmates lived their mockery of a rock and roll lifestyle for nine months.

CHARLENE: Unbelievable.

(You may note that I made some other edits in Melanie's speech. There comes a point where I go through a draft of the script and start distilling things down. "Peoria, Chicago, Waukeegan, Milwaukee; up to Canada and back" becomes "Illinois, Wisconsin, up to Canada and back." This is difficult for me to do, but I'm getting better at it.)

The thing to do when unpacking a monologue is to find points where you can insert prompts from the other characters: Questions, acknowledgements, comments, whatever. They just have to be sequitur. In other words, they can't be random or distracting. They must contribute to the story continuing on. These prompts can sometimes be taken from the monologue itself.

In monologue, Sally says "Five years ago I divorced my husband and ran away with a circus midget named arthur."

The dialogue goes like this:

SALLY: Five years ago ...

BARBARA: ... You divorced Dan.

SALLY: Yeah.

BARBARA: And you ran away with ... what was that circus midget's name?

Sally: Arthur.

I know this seems pretty cheesey, but it works!