Try to imagine the perfectly prepared actor at an audition—not just from the viewpoint of being physically psyched to give it one's all, but with regard to the skills, talents, and preparations that tend to result in successful auditions. Quality pictures and resumes are standard staples; knowledge of unions, contracts, and the business of "the business" are as well. Delivering sizzling cold readings is another. Having a stylistically varied, well-researched, highly rehearsed portfolio of strong, attention-grabbing monologues that are deliverable upon demand, however, is key.
Of all the mighty arrows in the actor's quiver, the monologue is also, possibly, the peskiest chore of all—the timeless, time-consuming bane of the thespian's existence. Just discovering that one standout monologue that really works for you—more than one, ideally—is a process that can drive even the most driven of actors to distraction. Knowing who might ask to see a monologue, when and why they might ask for one, and what casters hope to glean from seeing one—these are inexact, complex questions that have long bedeviled and challenged the actor.
Not too long ago, there were at least some basic ground rules. You should always have a few one-to-two-minute monologues, including a comedic piece and a serious piece, at the ready. You should always count on doing your monologue at the top of an audition. You should always deliver your monologue toward a fixed point anywhere in the room. You should just do the monologue—don't explain it, make excuses for it, or defend it.
The problem is, old saws grow dull, often giving way to new ways of thinking. And when it comes to monologues, there's no longer any one correct way to proceed anymore. Everyone in the business works differently: Some stage directors will request that you do your monologue in the middle of an audition, or perhaps near the end when they wish to ascertain a deeper sense of your range or to see how you do when given an adjustment. Many casters will never even ask for one—they openly despise them—and while you can always offer to do one, whether this will actually result in something positive for you is about as certain as next week's weather.
Indeed, all the work that you put into finding, rehearsing, and polishing up your monologues may matter very little when it comes to the roles you ultimately receive. Yet, in an ever-changing industry, to be caught without one is to be wholly unprepared. What is needed, instead, are some new guidelines: some new, up-to-date hints and clues for moving through the monologue mania. And here they are.
To gain further insight into all things solo-spoken, Back Stage interviewed 11 stage directors, casting directors, artistic directors, and producers, exploring their opinions on—and uses for—monologues in today's hurly-burly audition scene. Some of their views may surprise you; others may confirm what you already knew. And don't be discouraged by the seeming lack of consensus. Ours is a vastly diverse industry in which very little is hard and fast. What is important is that the actor aim to be perfectly prepared.
Mining for Monologues: Read, Read, Read
It's inarguable that the most difficult part of wading through the monologue morass is simply finding one—one that most favorably displays your acting chops. Everyone Back Stage spoke with strongly suggested that reading plays on a daily, constant basis is virtually the only way to discover effective monologues, and that all the known shortcuts—say, dashing into your local bookstore and snatching up anthologies of monologues from plays you haven't read or plan to read—are ultimately short-term solutions doomed to failure. Many interviewees suggested they could actually discern between those who have done their "monologue homework" and those who have merely memorized and moved on.
"Actors have got to realize that there's a dramaturgical reason why a playwright has chosen to have a character speak uninterruptedly," says Jordan Thaler, head of casting for the Joseph Papp Public Theater. "Without someone on the outside to direct the actor—and let's remember, when the actor is learning a monologue, they essentially function as their own director—it becomes even more important that they actually read the play to understand its context. And when reading the play, there are so many questions that should be asked: How does the monologue fit into the play? How does the monologue work when extracted from the play? What are the differences in the rhythm of the monologue when it has to stand alone?"
These questions, Thaler says, suggest a broader thesis: "Acting choices in monologues cannot work without being based on context. Sometimes actors make them into little plays, forgetting they are part of a scene—unless they were written to stand alone, which is a little different. When you turn a monologue into a playlet, you lose the opportunity to provide clues about the play it's from—which is, when you think about it, what the actor should not be doing. They should be in the world of the play, not outside of it."
And here's a general note: Whatever monologues you choose, by all means avoid, at any time, seeming canned or disconnected emotionally from the material, no matter how many times you perform it. After all, if you emotionally check out, what's to compel a caster to emotionally check in?
"What drives me crazy is when actors do a brilliant reading of a monologue, but there's no reality underneath it—nothing that connects the performer to the material at all," says Mark Plesent, producing director of The Working Theater. "The last thing anyone wants to sit through is a forced 'great' reading of a 'great' monologue."
Dan Wackerman, artistic director of the Peccadillo Theater Company, finds that "many actors have what I call a 'pet monologue' that they've been doing for a very long time and it gives you nothing after a while."
Missionary Monologues: Aim for Appropriateness
It's a well-known fact that many actors learn new monologues in advance of auditions for specific roles, industry folk, or companies. That might lead one to assume that the monologues they select are always appropriate, correct?
"Not so!" exclaims director Russell Treyz, currently at the helm of Off-Off-Broadway's "Acts of Providence" at the Sande Shurin Theatre. Best known as the co-author and director of the Harry Chapin-inspired musical, "Cotton Patch Gospel," Treyz has extensive regional theatre credits as an actor, director, and casting director, and finds performers far too frequently lack a sharp enough sense of whom (or what) they are auditioning for.
"Monologues can be very important in many kinds of auditions, and people need to dig wherever they need to dig in order to find them. But when I'm casting for a season, an actor really should have a monologue on hand that is actually from something in that season—at least something close to one of the characters the actor thinks he's right for." Treyz cites the example of one actor he knows who possesses "six monologues in his pocket, ready to go at any time, varying from Shakespeare to contemporary—and I hear he's trying to get himself up to 12, so when someone says, 'Can you give me another color?' another color is right there at his beck and call. What drives me absolutely buggo is when people come in, do their standard monologue, and you're sitting there looking at the plays you're doing that season—or that moment—and you wonder how the monologue relates."
Some of the best monologues, adds Mark Plesent, are delivered by actors who "actually study the company's mission or look at the director's work or learn something about the play or the playwright and then figure out what to bring in from there. When you audition for The Working Theater—we do original work about working people—you should probably bring in a monologue that is somewhat edgier than what you would bring in if you were auditioning for the Pearl. That's not to say that people have to come in doing Willy Loman monologues for us to be interested, but you should have a general awareness of a company's mission. It shows you genuinely want the role."
Another tip, says casting director Liz Woodman of Liz Woodman Casting, is to be exceedingly careful that in your desire to deliver a memorable monologue, you don't bring in something so wild or egregious in style or content that you risk alienating the person you are auditioning for. "Actors should pick monologues they feel very comfortable with—but no rapes, no murders, no killing of animals," she says. "There's a monologue in 'Talking With'—an all-monologue play—in which the character kills an animal. I remember a time back in the '80s when that play was really on the radar and I used to hear that same monologue all the time. Well, I'm a cat lover. It didn't exactly endear the actor to me."
A final piece of advice comes from Jordan Thaler. "There aren't common mistakes in the selection of monologues so much as, I think, missed opportunities. From an actor's point of view, first and foremost, it has to be material that shows them off. But there's more. There has to be a kind of understanding that the Roundabout and the Public just don't produce the same kinds of plays, so it's really helpful to at least acknowledge that through the actor's choice of material. Not to do so is ignorant, especially when what you really want to do is to give an educated audition."
Classifying the Classics, Capturing the Contemporary
So now you've read every American play since Clyde Fitch, and you've identified and selected one—better yet, three or four or more—monologues that you have memorized, burrowed into, thoroughly rehearsed, and can confidently deliver whenever asked to do so in an audition. All the monologues, obviously, are modern. What of the old saw: One should have at least one classical monologue as well as a contemporary monologue? While perhaps a little less important to casters in general, the idea still holds a great deal of water in many circles, particularly with those companies who specialize in doing classical work. After all, it's one thing to ace a David Mamet aria with just the right scatological staccato. It's quite another to put iambic pentameter to the pavement.
"I always ask for a classical and a contemporary monologue when I audition people," says Scott Cargle, artistic director of The Shakespeare Project, which mounts open-air productions of the Bard, "because I don't want the actor to feel that they—or we—are limited in our approach. And if I don't happen to want to see what you did at RADA [the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London], I want to be able to see something other than that."
Echoing what was said earlier about appropriateness, Cargle also suggests that it's helpful, particularly with companies engaged in classical material, to understand what their work is really about. "I always ask people to look at me when they audition for us, and to use me as they deliver their monologue. The reason for that is because the actor has to use the audience when performing with us—he has to treat them like another character—because we're outside and if you don't use them, you'll lose them. If you come in and show me you can only look at a fixed point somewhere, you're not going to work for one of our shows." Finally, Cargle suggests that having a superlative Shakespeare technique is not necessarily the only thing he looks for in a classical monologue. "For me," he says, "anything that uses poetry is okay. It doesn't have to be Shakespeare. It could be T.S. Eliot. Ben Jonson will do."
Contrasting with Cargle, however, is Jeffrey Horowitz, artistic director of Theatre for a New Audience. "Most directors we work with don't use monologues at all. That's not to say that, generally speaking, they are not very important. When Sir Peter Hall was working with us, I remember him saying to people in auditions, 'May I see something you know?' and if you've already done Hamlet, you'd really be a fool not to show it."
Horowitz offers actors some keen advice for those frustrated by a simple fact: While new plays are constantly being written, there are a finite number of plays in the classical canon, meaning there's a limited number of monologues to choose from or develop. Indeed, many classical monologue warhorses—soliloquies from "Hamlet," "Macbeth," and the like—are hoary to the extreme.
"I agree that certain classical monologues come into the audition room a lot," he says. "But the monologue that has been seen many times before is not necessarily going to act as a strike against the actor if the actor does it well. Not everyone feels this way, but it's how well the monologue is done—not which monologue is done—that is crucial."
To Look or Not to Look, That Is the Question
Cargle's insistence that actors use him when they deliver their monologues also brings up a source of division among those Back Stage interviewed: Some casters absolutely refuse to allow actors to "use them"—to deliver their monologues to them—in an audition, whereas others virtually demand the opposite.
Consider, for example, the staunchly reasoned views of film and television casting director Todd Thaler (brother of Jordan). He says that he generally doesn't use monologues at all when interviewing actors, but if one wishes to do one for him—or if Thaler wishes to hear some lines—he has vowed never to "tell people to get up and go to the other side of the room and do their piece. Some casting people say 'don't use me' because I think it puts a layer of added responsibility on them to act appropriately and to respond to what the actor is doing. But for me—particularly if someone chooses to do a monologue that tells a story—why wouldn't I want to be the recipient? In that moment, I have no responsibility but to listen. When they get sent to the other side of the room, there's an expectation that they're acting for points—a grade, a reward—and then the actor kicks into 'actor mode,' which is too presentational, too broad, and too theatrical. For film and television, it's the antithesis of what you want—film and television is all about being very real and truthful. People that only deliver monologues to a fixed spot—they start looking like android automatons after a while, and I defy anyone to convince me that that's how people talk to other people. There should be no restrictions on the actor in terms of their focus in the room."
But now, just for a difference of opinion, there are the equally well-reasoned thoughts of Liz Woodman. She suggests the actor "always, always ask" before doing the monologue whether the person wants to be "used" or not, and to be prepared to deliver it either way. "Some people don't mind being used, but I do. If I can't concentrate on what they're doing as an actor—if they're trying to get me involved emotionally—then I really can't evaluate them at all. I just find it far too distracting and I don't want them to do it."
Woodman's position is less fervently seconded by John Yearley, co-artistic director of the Pipeline Theatre Company, which produced an evening of monologues—"Gratuitous Nudity"—in 2000 and is among those behind Nicholas Devine's "Curve," currently at the Pelican Studio. "I don't mind seeing monologues if an actor wants to do one; it can show off somebody's strengths and/or reveal their weaknesses very, very quickly. But please, don't address me directly. It was a mistake I used to make when I was an actor. If I have to remember who you are, and who I am in the context of you addressing me, and if I have to remember what it is that 'we're' talking about, it's just too much. People who really want to 'use you' misunderstand what a monologue is supposed to be."
Monologue Mélange: Putting Pen to Personality
Okay, okay, enough with the head scratching, the frantic searching, and the feeling that you'll never come up with the monologue that's strong enough, smart enough, and unique enough to properly capture your theatrical essence. In fact, you've elected to bite the bullet and create your own monologue. To begin, these come in three basic forms: Monologues cobbled together from dialogue bits in which the other characters are "stripped out" of radically reshaped text; monologues conjured out of whole cloth, timed to about a minute and structured like a one-act play; and monologues developed through the techniques employed by performance artists—people accustomed to getting viability from the unconventional. All have their points, problems, and pitfalls.
"I really like monologues, first of all," says Robin Whitehouse, artistic director of FatChance Productions, newly installed in their Ground Floor Theatre in the West Village. An actor, writer, and director, Whitehouse has worked on film as well as on stage, and says she has developed a keen overview of the monologue mélange. "I think people end up writing their own monologues because they just can't find really good ones. I remember once I was waiting to audition for something and I was out in the hallway and all excited about the 'amazing one-minute monologue' I was going to do, until I realized the person in the audition room was doing the same monologue. And look, the same monologues tend to be done all the time, especially among women. There's a play, "Cowboy Mouth," with a monologue I've heard about a billion times. People should be more encouraged to write their own."
But, she says, writing talent, to say the least, helps. "It's not good to have a bad monologue; so, if you have no ability to write at all, don't do it. Pick something from somewhere, even something from a movie. You can always take scene dialogue and if it's done interestingly, it can be very good—but just know that it's hard. Few people can pull it off."
Dan Wackerman agrees—indeed, most of those Back Stage interviewed agreed that writing or designing one's own monologue can be a rewarding task, but it's fraught with problems and stands to fail much more certainly than it stands to succeed—so beware. "In theatre, I think, there's still a certain high regard for monologues because there's a true art to writing them and to performing them that seems fundamentally theatrical in ways that movies and television aren't. So, if you are going to write one, you must have that craft available to you. Not to have that diminishes what you're trying to accomplish."
Russell Treyz, meanwhile, takes the argument still further. "I don't care if people write contemporary monologues or not, but what I've seen is a real tendency to bring in monologues that are just way too personal. Everyone I've ever been in the room with when this has happened knows exactly what I mean. Vivid descriptions of sexual activities—even if it's not written by them, even if it's from a play—tends to make everyone very uncomfortable very quickly, and if you know the actor has written the piece, that's even worse. Basically, you don't know what the actor is trying to say about himself."
Liz Woodman feels so vehemently about the topic that she states, unequivocally, she doesn't want to see original work. "People should stay away from obvious things like their own writing or work their friends have written because they're just not going to get any support for that [from the industry]."
And for a little more consensus, there's Todd Thaler. "Standing there without a scene partner and performing a monologue—that's just acting in a vacuum. So much of acting is reacting and monologues don't allow for much of that. For me, the worst monologue is one that's cut and pasted together to form a scene that isn't a scene. There's so much rich material out there—why do that? To me, it means they just didn't dig deep enough."
Finally, and speaking of rich material, there's the example of Karen Sorensen. She identifies herself more as a performance artist than an actress—she received her M.F.A. in Performance Art at the Art Institute of Chicago—but her new piece clearly offers a template for hardy do-it-yourselfers. For seven months, beginning last April, Sorensen conducted candid, on-the-street interviews with over 100 New Yorkers who agreed to answer five questions about love. (They were rewarded with a flower for their efforts.) Having captured their responses on audiotape, Sorensen finally compiled her piece—one long monologue, if you will—based on what they had to say. Called "Love Research," it runs through Nov. 17 at Collective Unconscious. It does, of course, require some serious craft to sift through 100 transcripts, but the process might well inspire monologue-challenged actors eager to prove themselves adept with a pen.
Mano a Monologue
In the end, remember that your monologues must not only convey essential information about your talent, but must also tell people something about you—the performing artist, the individual. "Very smart actors choose material that both speaks to them and allows outsiders to gain additional insight," says Jordan Thaler. "It's okay to choose something that's politically important to you—it's got to be something that tells us things that one might get from a conversation, but which, since there's usually limited time in an audition, they can't get otherwise."
And finally, consider this amusing anecdote from Jeffrey Horowitz. "I used to be an actor," he says, "and the one Broadway show I did was a play called 'The Merchant.' It was directed by [the late] John Dexter and starred [the late] Zero Mostel and was a rewritten version of 'The Merchant of Venice.' I was asked to fly in from California on the redeye to audition. So there I am, it's 10 am on this Broadway stage, and I did my audition, and they said, 'Thank you.' I said to them, 'May I please do a monologue for you?' Now, they hadn't asked for one, but they let me do it. And I did an Arnold Wesker monologue—Arnold Wesker, the playwright, had done the adaptation. Because I did that monologue, I found out much later, that's why I got the job. Actors who have monologues they really like, and who feel there's been a warm feeling in the audition room, should never hesitate to say—if there's time—'May I do a monologue for you?' It's really a tool to help the actor make an impression. And I know, because I got the job."