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SO YOU WANNA BE AN ACTRESS?
(a one-act play)
CHARACTERS:
R.J.: a small time director hired to mentor JEANIE.
Once he was big; now he can’t find a job with any respectable theatre
company.
JEANIE: actress
wanna-be who, after losing her mother,
has decided to go to New York and become a stage star
SETTING:
JEANIE’S living room in her apartment
RJ:
Okay, so let’s get
started. You want to be a famous actress. I am your director and we’re
going to make this happen. If you’re going to make it up on the silver
stage, you must do everything I say. Everything.
JEANIE:
Got it.
RJ:
Do you have the check?
JEANIE:
Right here. Cashier’s
check, like you said.
RJ:
Excellent. This buys
you a one-week intensive, 24-7, acting blitz. We eat together, act
together, drink together, smoke together, sleep together, shower together.
We’ll get you ready for the big stage by next Saturday, or my name isn’t . .
.
JEANIE:
Do we really have to .
. .
RJ:
Yes. I am the
professional here, remember. I’m the one with credits off-off-Broadway, the
one whose done summer theatre.
JEANIE:
But I don’t smoke.
RJ:
You will learn, my
dear. Now, let’s practice the “entering the apartment in a depressed mood”
scene. This is very versatile. For some unknown reason, playwrights love
this scene. Okay, this is a little test. Let’s see what you’ve got: come
in the door and sit on the couch, depressed.
(JEANIE leaves and
enters, turns her head to the audience, and sits on the couch. She puts her
chin in her hands and makes a sad face. All this is done very
amateurishly.)
RJ:
How much did you pay
me? I need another thousand, right now.
JEANIE:
Was I that good?
RJ:
Write the check, write
the check, come on, come on. Okay, now let’s try that again. This time,
don’t act like a frigging cartoon character. Pretend . . . pretend your
mother has just died . . .
JEANIE:
But she just did,
remember? That’s why I came to New York. (JEANIE cries.)
RJ:
Yes! That’s good, but
you’re jumping ahead. Crying is usually on day three. Try to walk in and
do what you did right after you heard your mother died from a terrible
disease.
JEANIE:
Breast cancer.
RJ:
No, make it
decapitation in a car accident.
(JEANIE cries and
leaves. She enters, crying, slumped shoulders, shuffles to the couch and
falls onto it, crashing to the floor.)
RJ:
Much better. That
could pass as real. Next time, try to stay on the couch. It’s “over the
top” when you fall on the floor. Try it again.
(JEANIE cries. Comes
in, shuffles to the couch, falls on it, sobbing.)
RJ:
Now sit up and blow
your nose. Don’t look at me. Concentrate. Keep your focus straight
ahead. Think of your mother in extreme pain.
(JEANIE sobs louder.)
RJ:
Good, good. Now, pick
up the phone, pretend to dial, and ask for Roger.
JEANIE:
Who’s Roger?
RJ:
Your lover. Go on.
Focus.
JEANIE:
Is Roger there?
RJ:
Good. Now tell him you
need him.
JEANIE:
I need you.
RJ:
Tell him you’re going
crazy.
JEANIE:
I’m going crazy.
RJ:
Tell him you’re in such
a state that you must have him, you must feel his skin on your skin, body
against body. You have to drive out the memory of death and replace it with
human compassion.
JEANIE:
(looks stunned)
I want you to make love to me?
RJ:
It’s not a question!
It’s an assertion! An assertion of life!
JEANIE:
Get over here and screw
my eyes out.
RJ:
Too crude. Be
romantic, but direct.
JEANIE:
I need you, now. I
must have you, in the biblical sense.
RJ:
Close, but it doesn’t
quite work. Say you’re starving for love.
JEANIE:
You’re starving for
love.
RJ:
No, “I’m starving for
love.”
JEANIE:
Sorry. No, I’m
starving for love.
RJ:
You’re my only hope.
JEANIE:
I’m your only hope.
RJ:
No, no. Cut. This
isn’t working.
JEANIE:
Maybe I should take my
blouse off. (Pause.)
RJ:
That might work. Do
you usually take your blouse off when you’re depressed?
JEANIE:
No, but I’m wearing a
push-up bra. It might spice up the moment, you know.
RJ:
Tell you what, let’s
save that for the bedroom scene later tonight. Right now, let’s move on to
some improvisation. The key here, Jeanie, is to “transport” yourself into
whatever scene we work on. You make up your character as you go along. So,
I enter as a burned-out factory worker and you pretend to be my whore of a
wife, or my mistress addicted to coke, or my high school sweetie whose
weight has ballooned to 220 after having six kids. You get to choose, see.
That’s improv.
JEANIE:
But which one should I
be? I’m not overweight…
RJ:
You don’t have to BE
overweight, you have to ACT it. You’re an actor. You become other people,
live other lives. You could be a plumber, a lesbian, a president . . .
JEANIE:
So I’m no longer
Jeanie…
RJ:
Your job is to
“transform” Jeanie into other people. Think of it as “what if.” What if
you were 400 pounds? What would you feel like? What would you say? How
would you walk? Fart? Belch?
JEANIE:
I have to do all that?
RJ:
No, but you have to
think about it to portray the woman. Ready, I’ll start.
(RJ leaves and enters
as a factory worker, throwing stuff down.)
RJ:
Mildred? What’s for
supper? I’m frigging starving.
JEANIE:
(pretends to be fat,
puffed cheeks, arms held out at the sides)
Why RJ, you know I can’t move off the couch.
RJ:
Listen, bitch, when I
get home after sweating for 10 hours, breaking my back in 100 degree heat, I
want my supper.
JEANIE:
But . . .
RJ:
No damn but’s. Yours
is so big you could but all day long and never lose five pounds. Now, get
me a cold beer.
JEANIE:
BBBBe glad to.
(JEANIE gets up with
difficulty, walks bow-legged over to fridge, gets beer and gives it to RJ.)
JEANIE:
I’ll order a pizza just
the way you like it. How about that?
RJ:
Get out of my way. I
can’t see the football game.
JEANIE:
Oh, how are the Lugnuts
doing?
RJ:
Lugnuts?
JEANIE:
Do they have any
homeruns yet?
RJ:
You are one pathetic,
fat bitch, you know that?
JEANIE:
Am I really that good?
Really?
RJ:
Cut. Cut. Jeanie, you
have to stay in character.
JEANIE:
Oh, I’m sorry. I
thought you were giving me a compliment. I’ll never get this.
RJ:
Look, it’s day one.
This is to be expected. It’s not like you will “get this” instantly.
Acting takes practice. It takes focus. It takes drive. By Saturday,
you’ll be better than Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, and Meryl Streep all
put together.
JEANIE:
You’re just saying that
to make me feel better.
RJ:
Did it?
JEANIE:
Yes.
RJ:
Acting! The power to
alter moods, ideas, behavior all by using the “instrument of the body.”
That was pretty good for a first time. Let’s go to stage two, which puts a
different kind of pressure on you. In this scene, you are in charge and I
“respond/feed off” your character. I’m the boss in my office, and you’re
meeting with me to ask for a raise. Okay? Okay. Stand there. 5, 6, 7, 8,
go.
JEANIE:
Knock, knock.
RJ:
Come in.
JEANIE:
Hello, Mr. R.J. . .
Cheapskate.
RJ:
Yeah, what is it? I’m
pretty busy here.
JEANIE:
As you know, I’ve
worked for … Badpay, Inc. for seven years and I’ve never had a raise.
Never.
RJ:
So?
JEANIE:
Well, I think it’s
about time, you know. I need more money.
(RJ laughs loudly.)
JEANIE:
Mr. Cheapskate, why are
you laughing?
RJ:
You got me with that
one. Very funny.
JEANIE:
No, I’m serious. I
need a raise. I must have a raise, or else.
RJ:
Or else what?
JEANIE:
Or else, I’ll, I’ll,
I’ll kill you.
RJ:
Miss
Flatliner, is that
a threat?
JEANIE:
No, it’s a promise.
You either give me 25 cents more an hour, or you’ll be six feet under by
next Tuesday.
RJ:
But. . .
JEANIE:
No but’s. This is
between you and me, and I’ll expect to see that raise, or else. Mark my
words, Cheapskate. (JEANIE leaves.)
RJ:
But . . .
JEANIE:
How’d I do?
RJ:
My girl, you’re coming
alive there. You’re showing some potential now.
JEANIE:
It felt good to be
another person. I never talk that way, normally.
RJ:
But that’s acting:
pretending to be someone else until you’re not sure who you are. The best
actors are frigging robots, really.
Okay, let’s try one
more improv before a dinner break. This will stretch your imaginative
powers.
In this scene, I will
play your lover, asking for your hand in marriage. Let’s see what kind of
sexual energy you can muster. You sit on the couch and I’ll enter the room.
(JEANIE lays
seductively on the couch. RJ enters.)
RJ:
Carla, we need to talk.
JEANIE:
What is it?
(RJ sits on the couch
and JEANIE snuggles up to him, putting one hand between his legs.)
RJ:
I was wondering . . .
JEANIE:
I adore you. No, I
worship you. No, I love you with all my heart and soul. Kiss me.
(They kiss
passionately.)
RJ:
Wait a minute.
JEANIE:
What?
RJ:
You can’t do that.
JEANIE:
We’ve done a lot more
than that, my love.
RJ:
No, I mean . . .
JEANIE:
You want me, you know
it. And I’m ready for you. I can already feel you deep inside me. I’ll
swallow you whole. Take me.
RJ:
Cut.
JEANIE:
You can cut, slice,
strip, do whatever you want. I’m still all yours. Feel this throbbing
heart. (She puts his hand on her breast.)
RJ:
Oh god. (They kiss
while he unbuckles his belt to his pants. Jeanie stands up abruptly.)
JEANIE:
So, how was that?
RJ:
How was what?
JEANIE:
How did I do? Acting?
RJ:
Oh, fair. You lost me
there for a minute, but that’s something we can work on later, before bed.
Okay, well, Jeanie, I think we’re off to an excellent start. Let’s take a
dinner break.
JEANIE:
I really do love you.
RJ:
You do?
JEANIE:
Come here. (They
kiss long but then JEANIE breaks away.)
JEANIE:
Cut and take. Did you
feel it? Wow, just like it was real. I love this acting crap. Thanks,
RJ. I’ll see you at 7:00 then, after dinner? Bye. (She leaves.)
RJ:
But Jeanie . . .
(He notices his belt undone and rebelts as the lights go out.)
So You Wanna Be An Actress?
(a one-act play by David James)
David James
P.O. Box 721
Linden, MI
48451
(810)
735-4547
dljames@oaklandcc.edu
David James
teaches English for Oakland Community College. His most recent chapbook of
poems is titled I WILL PEEL THIS MASK OFF, published by March Street Press,
2004. His one-act plays have been produced off-Broadway in New York, at the
Nantucket Theatre in Massachusetts and in Michigan.
Copyright: 2004
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