For those of you who know me, you are probably wondering what this woman knows about clothes? Isn’t she the one who lives in the best blue jeans from Costco and a 1991 “Fun in the Sun” T-shirt? Now is a good time to come out of the closet, so to speak. She was sewing and designing clothes for my dolls and cats (much to my parents’ dismay) as soon as my mother passed me a needle, which was very early. She was an extraordinary seamstress, she sewed the tiniest and most intricate stitches by hand.
I could probably spend my life, and sometimes feel like I have, watching classic movies from the 1930s. Who cares if the acting seems a little over the top and the plot a little trite by today’s standards? I’m happy to gawk at those clothes! Will there be, could there ever be another Edith Head, the William Shakespeare of Hollywood fashion? And that feathered dress Ginger Rogers danced in when “Dancing Cheek to Cheek” with Fred Astaire in “Top Hat.” Now there’s something worth dying for, even though all those swirls, twirls and feathers flying from her have been uncharitably compared to a “chicken attacked by a coyote.”
But I digress. In a recent acting class, he was struggling with how to choose a suitable monologue. Regardless of how the teacher explained it, the concept would not take hold. Of course I heard and understood everything said: look for the emotional journey, the arc; make sure it ends in a different place from where it starts; keep it under 90 seconds so that if you run any further, you won’t get cut off, but try as you might, there was simply no prize in that box of Cracker-Jack. I looked at plays and scripts and was no closer to choosing a monologue than when I started. With so much incomparable writing, so many beautiful words, characters and emotions, how could I choose? Then, as if someone had finally sung the magic words, the trumpets sounded and the heavens parted. The information that had been flying around my brain like Ginger’s ostrich feathers finally settled, as did I into a proper piece.
Searching for monologues is like buying clothes. Now in case you missed it, I don’t just like clothes, I’m head over heels in love with clothes. I have spent countless exciting afternoons wandering the aisles of Saks and Neiman Marcus, inhaling the hypnotic scents of fine fabrics, running my fingers over delicate handwork, marveling at bold new patterns, awed by the undeniable honesty of cuts. timeless classics. I am fascinated by everything about clothing, seams, fabric, draping, color, and embellishments, probably to the quiet horror of salespeople at the sight of those same faded Costco jeans. And when it comes to those smaller upscale boutiques, I prefer to take a long detour, as salespeople are more likely to strike up a conversation and snub me or worse when I don’t shop.
I’m much safer in thrift stores where I can unrestrictedly dig through miles of fabric, seeking that triumph that eluded others. I forgot, did I tell you about that exquisite bespoke tweed jacket from Brooks Brothers that I bought years ago for five dollars and wore with pride until it wore out? You understand, don’t you? Well I know most of you do. I can’t pay full price for clothes when I can get the same for coffee money and a little effort, especially when that effort is such a joyous pleasure.
While you now know that I love looking and searching for clothes, searching for that rare diamond on earth, I don’t want them all. Just as not all clothes are for me, so are monologues. Extraordinarily delicate silk dresses, impeccably sewn satin blouses, and new and vintage silk-lined skirts and jackets are marvelous. As much as I admire them, what the hell would I do with all of them? Unsurprisingly, not all of them fit me, some are the wrong cut or color for me, and others, well, there’s just no place to wear them. Clothes, like words, have to adapt not only to your body and personality, but also to your situation.
I can run my fingers along the edge of an exotic belt and even covet it, but just as a belt is not a complete outfit, neither is a wonderful sentence or paragraph. it is a component. The timeless beauty of Violetta’s aria at the end of La Traviata would be noticeably diminished were it not for the tapestry of music that is the entire opera. The words of a great play or film intertwine and then reach a heightened emotional tone that allows us to experience a moment in time as all eternity, just as color, cut, and drape transform mere fabric into art in movement, and the lonely notes in a river of music.
Just as some clothes are more appropriate for women who come from a different culture or have a different lifestyle than me, so are some monologues. As sure as I, who am 5ft 6in and of Brazilian descent, couldn’t imitate Cio-Cio-San from Madame Butterfly, even if I had the voice or could convincingly wear a kimono, I similarly couldn’t convey convincingly those poignant passages spoken to Pearl by her Chinese-born mother, Winnie Louie, in “The Kitchen God’s Wife.”
Yet it still aches when I think of that high-end pale green leather Armani masterpiece I saw on eBay. It was probably south of $200, but it wasn’t for me. The dots just weren’t connected. The waist was cut too high and the color was… well, I would have washed. However, it would be impressive on someone with a lighter complexion.
Age is another important suitability criterion. I cry when Juliet declares her love to Romeo, but the same words would be as ridiculous coming from someone my age as I would be in a miniskirt. Not only does language need to flow as easily as a dress, but poorly chosen words can trip you up as if the cut is wrong or the stilettos are too small.
On the other hand, just as some designers’ clothes seem made for me, so are some writers’ words. The heavy emotions of Tennessee Williams’ mature heroines suit me, as do the deep colors and fabrics of Mary McFadden’s vintage couture.
And while every woman needs that classic basic little black dress, how you accessorize it and make it your own depends on the occasion, your individual sense of style, and the impression you want to make. You can wear the same dress to church or to a nightclub. Are you playing the nun or the vampire?
But sometimes even the most classic outfits can be abused, like that fabulous Brooks Brothers jacket I mentioned that ultimately ended up in a landfill. It was worn, as much as “Streetcar” and “Wit”, and many pieces that are so wonderful that all women wanted to see them. Unless you have some uniquely spectacular way to make them look new and fresh, avoid them like you would long hair and 1980s soldier shoulders.
Of course not everything has to be haute couture. Great pieces can and are found at Target. I’m looking forward to doing Jules’ brilliant monologue in “Pulp Fiction” as he wrestles with himself over whether or not he should open a cap on someone in his forty-five. But sometimes even I’m pragmatic, knowing I’d probably be received only marginally better than attending Easter Mass at St. Peter’s dressed in a skimpy-remember-the-rest skimpy yellow bikini. No, not all monologues are good for all auditions, just like not all outfits are suitable for all occasions, no matter how much you love them.
As easily as I can buy clothes on eBay, I can read movie scripts, screenplays, books, and plays on the Internet. All it takes is the will to search, explore and imagine. Are the length and cut appropriate? Is the item age and gender appropriate? Is the color correct? Is it my culture or heritage? Is the set complete? Is the whole nuanced enough for people to notice? Does the monologue have a different emotional journey? Will he catch my intended target? If so, where? Does the whole complement my assets and minimize those things that people hopefully won’t notice? Does the piece highlight my ability to convey emotions that resonate deeply and naturally within me, or does it just make me look fat?
Like I said, finding a suitable monologue is a lot like buying a suit. The bottom line is that you can’t evade the bottom line. It has to be good!
Now, lest you have been fooled into thinking that I am an indulgent and easy-going woman, you should know that I am still looking for that…good lady, who won me over on eBay listing for that beautiful $3,000 Emanuel Ungaro jacket. Hundred dollars! Can you believe it? He would recognize that garment anywhere, anytime, so he’d do well never to wear it again!
