MALE INFORMATION 1.) Please choose one monologue and

MALE INFORMATION
1.) Please choose one
monologue and MEMORIZE it
2.) Please bring a PHOTO
3.) Please sign up for an
audition slot on the board in the
C-Wing
4.) Please learn the vocal
selection closest to your voice
part (either tenor or bass)
Tenor – One Last Kiss (pickups to letter B to letter D)
Bass – Rosie (pickups to letter B to letter F)
Male Monologues – 2014 Spring Plays
“Call Me Casanova”
I’m a babe magnet, a regular Don Juan. I am “The Man.” You
can call me Casanova. Mindy Matthews, the finest girl of all at High
Grove Prep School, said she’d go out with me. Me, Dan Johnson,
your everyday Joe, has just been elevated to legend status. See,
Mindy doesn’t go out with just anybody. Heck, she doesn’t even
hang out with just anybody. She’s really picky about the company
she keeps, so if you’re hanging with Mindy Matthews, you’re really
somebody. That’s me, Mr. Somebody. Yesterday I was nothing but
the PE field dirt on the bottoms of her very expensive but incredibly
beautiful feet. Today though, I’m Dan Johnson, Boy Hero, Man of the
Gods.
From “Tango” (Slowomir Mrozek)
Marry me! That’s the first step. No more promiscuity, no more dolce
vita. A real marriage. Not just dropping into city hall between breakfast and
lunch. A genuine old-fashioned wedding with an organ playing and
bridesmaids marching down the aisle. I’m especially counting on the
procession. It will take them by surprise. That’s the whole idea. And, from
then on, they won’t have time to think, to organize resistance and spread
defeatism. It’s the first shot that counts. Catching them off guard like that, we
can force them to break out of conventions they’ll never break out of again.
T’s going to be the kind of wedding they’ll have to take part in, and on my
terms. I’ll turn them into a bridal procession and at long last my father will be
forced to button his fly. What do you say? Everything strictly according to the
rules. And at the dame time you’ll be helping all the women in the world. The
rebirth of convention will set them free. What used to be the first rule of every
encounter between a man and a woman? Conversation. A man couldn’t get
what he wanted just by making inarticulate sounds. He couldn’t just grunt, he
had to talk. And while he was talking, you – the woman – sat there demurely,
sizing your opponent up. You let him talk and he showed his hand. Listening
serenely, you drew up your own order of battle. Observing his tactics, you
planned your own accordingly. Free to maneuver, you were always in
command of the situation. You had time to think before coming to a decision
and you could drag things out as long as you wanted. Even if he gnashed his
teeth and secretly wished you in the bottom of hell, you knew he would never
dare hit you. Up to the very last minute you could move freely, securely,
triumphantly. Once you were engaged, you were safe, and even then
traditional avenues of escape were open to you. Such were the blessings of
conversation! But nowadays? Nowadays a man doesn’t even have to
introduce himself – and you will admit it’s handy to know who a man is and
what he does for a living.
Les Trois Dumas (Charles Smith)
The Academy is to open it’s ranks to you? The Academy will
never induct you. Victor Hugo, maybe, but you, never. If the
Academy were a popularity contest, you would have been inducted
years ago. But it is not a popularity contest. The Academy maintains
standards of literary tastes, and when it comes to taste, literary or
otherwise, you just don’t have any. Your morals are in a shambles.
You move from seamstress, to courtesan, to actress without any
regard as to the consequences of your liasons. Victor Hugo, on the
other hand, is a family man of high morals and unreproachable
ethics. Victor Hugo can be seen most any day strolling down the
avenue with his wife and children. You don’t have a wife and I doubt
if you’re even aware of how many children you have. The way you’ve
spread your seed around only God knows how many children you
really have. I may have brothers and sisters all over Paris. I’ve made
it into a bit of a game, actually, as I walk down the avenue. I always
search the eyes of strangers looking for hints of recognition. A
sparkle in the eye. A curl in the corner of the lip. Or perhaps a
distinctive swagger in the way one walks. Who knows when I may
stumble upon the remnants of one of your elicit liasons? Is it your
intention to ridicule all of France by suggesting that the academy
would open it’s arms to the likes of you? That’s a fiction more
outrageous than one of your novels. It will never happen. It will not.