Drama Auditions – Overview - Etobicoke School of the Arts

ETOBICOKE SCHOOL OF THE ARTS
AUDITION INFORMATION FOR THE
DRAMA PROGRAM
WHAT WILL HAPPEN
Auditions for the Drama Program will consist of three parts:
1. a presentation of one memorized monologue
2. an improvisation
3. a five minute interview with a member of the admissions committee
WHAT TO BRING
Please bring the following to the audition:
comfortable clothing and shoes that allow you to move freely
a recent photograph with your name on the back (the photograph is used for identification
purposes only and will not be returned)
WHAT TO PREPARE
A memorized monologue from modern repertoire keeping in mind the following:
monologues should be approximately one to two minutes in length
monologues should best reflect your strengths and interests
knowledge of to whom your character is speaking, what your character wants to
communicate to the listener and what tactics your character uses to achieve this goal
OTHER INFORMATION
reading and understanding the play from which the monologue is taken is essential
selecting a monologue from the following attached monologues is best, however,
monologues by other professional playwrights are acceptable
a monologue written by the student or a friend is not acceptable
Plays are available at the following locations:
Theatre Books (416) 922-7175
Playwrights Union of Canada (416) 703-0201
LENGTH OF AUDITION
Fifteen Minutes

A RAISIN IN THE SUN by Lorraine Hansberry FEMALE - DRAMA
BENEATHA (talking to Asagai) (A young Afro-American girl struggles with her disillusionment)
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Me? … Me? … Me, I’m nothing… Me. When I was very small…we used to take our sleds out in the wintertime and the only
hills we had were the ice-covered stone steps of some houses down the street. And we used to fill them in with snow and make
them smooth and slide down them all day… and it was very dangerous you know… far too steep… and sure enough one day a
kid named Rufus came down too fast and hit the sidewalk… and we saw his face just split open right there in front of us… And
I remember standing there looking at his bloody open face thinking that was the end of Rufus. But the ambulance came and
they took him to the hospital and they fixed the broken bones and they sewed it all up… and the next time I saw Rufus he just
had a little line down the middle of his face... I never got over that... That was what one person could do for another, fix him
up—sew up the problem, make him all right again. That was the most marvellous thing in the world… I wanted to do that. I
always thought it was the one concrete thing in the world that human being could do. Fix up the sick, you know—and make
them whole again. This was truly being God… I wanted to cure. It used to be so important to me. I wanted to cure. It used to
matter. I used to care. I mean about people and how their bodies hurt… I mean this thing of sewing up bodies or
administering drugs. Don’t you understand? It was a child’s reaction to the world. I thought that doctors had the secret to all
the hurts… That’s the way a child sees things—or an idealist.
THE GLACE BAY MINERS’ MUSEUM by Wendy Lill FEMALE - DRAMA
CATHERINE (Catherine tells her child a significant story of her relationship with her husband who is recently deceased)
I met your father at the wake of Minnie's Uncle Joe Archie in the Bay. I was sneaking a smoke behind the outhouse. Your
father knew I was there. He was two sheets to the wind, showing off for me, playing horseshoes and when the priest came up to
tell him to stop, he said "I'll stop playing horseshoes if you'll stop squeezing the girls as they go by Joe Archie to pay their last
respects. That probably offends him more than what I'm doing!" And when we were married two weeks later, you can bet, it
wasn't that priest who tied the knot. We were in too much of a hurry for priests anyway. We went to a Justice of the Peace in
Sydney. Can you imagine it? Nobody ever did the likes of that. When we came out of his office after the ceremony, there was a
parade going by with a band of pipers. That was the last time I heard the bagpipes played -- 'til now. When we got home,
somebody told Angus the priest was going to excommunicate him for what he'd done. And you know what Angus did? He
marched right down to the Glebe House and when the Father opened the door, Angus said "You're too late. I excommunicated
myself last week." And he did. Never went back there 'til the funeral. (holds up her glass) Cheers Angus. I think I'll have
another one of those hot ones. (CATHERINE laughs)
MOTHER TONGUE by Betty Quan FEMALE - DRAMA
MIMI (Mimi recounts a significant dream involving the disappearance of her father.)
Sometimes when I dream, I dream in Chinese. Not the pidgin Chinese I’ve developed but the fluent, flowing language my
father used to coo as he walked with me, hand in hand. There is this one dream. I am walking with my father in the alleyway
behind our house. I am seven years old. This is just before my father… before… My father and I are holding hands in perfect
Cantonese talk about the snow peas in the garden that are ready for picking. Father doesn’t know it, but for the past week I’ve
been hiding amongst the staked vines, in the green light, gorging on the snow peas until there can’t be any more left. I’m about
to tell him this – air my confession – when we come across a large kitchen table propped against the side of the garage. “A
race, my little jingwei” my Father says. “I’ll go through the tunnel and we’ll see which way is faster. One, two, three, GO!” We
run; him in the tunnel, me on the gravel. I finish first and wait, expecting to meet him and rejoin hands. But he doesn’t come
out of the shadows. My extended hand is empty. I wait and wait and wait. I start screaming, (in Chinese) “Father! Father!
Come back! Please come back! Father!” (in English) And then, I wake up.

I’CLAUDIA by Kristen Thomson FEMALE - COMEDY
CLAUDIA (Claudia is an official pre-teen, still reeling from her parents’ divorce. Finding refuge in the basement of her
school, through the play Claudia discovers the pain at the centre of her brimming child’s heart.)
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Some kids are made when they’re teenagers, right? Like in movies and at school lots of kids hate their dads. For different
reasons at different times. Some kids hate their dads ‘cause they want to shoot speed into their arms! Dads don’t let them. Dads
try to stop them. They say “I’m shooting speed into my arm and you can’t stop me!” And that’s ‘cause they’re into speed.
But I would never do that ‘cause I don’t hate my dad. My dad is my best friend and I get to see him every week! It starts
Monday after school at 3:45. I wait for him in the park across the street from school and he is never late like other kids’ parents
and we do something totally bohemian together like go bowling or for pizza. And I have to say, it is the best moment of my
entire life because there’s so much to talk about and we’re both hi-larious. Like every time I say, “I’m thirsty,” he says, “I’m
Friday,” which is just something between us, like father-daughter. And then we go down to his apartment which is a downtown
condo where I have my own room with a name plate on the door that says “Albert” for a joke and so I say to him, I say, “al-
BERT”—and I have lots of posters, no pets, and I do homework and we just hang out and then I go to sleep. And when I wake
up on Tuesday morning it is the worst day of my entire life because it’s the beginning of the whole next week of not seeing
him. So I come down here on Tuesday morning before class to get control of myself.
But Tuesday is also sophisticated because my Dad leaves for work before me so I get about twenty minutes in the apartment all
by myself, which is very special time for me which I think of as my teen time. Like, I drink juice but I drink it out of a coffee
mug. I look out over the vast cityscape and listen to the top music of my time…
SANCTUARY by Emil Sher FEMALE – DRAMA
JUNE (Every week, June – an emotionally abused woman – retreats to a secluded spot in a park for some time alone. For a
year, Philip has watched her from a distance. He introduces himself on the very morning when June has come to scatter her
husband’s ashes. June asks Philip if he has ever seen anyone burn, then recounts the memory of a childhood doll.)
Betty. Her name was Betty. Betty with the beautiful eyes. Blue, blue, blue. Long, dark lashes. Soft, blonde hair. Didn’t weigh
more than a pound. (beat) My absolute favourite doll. Barbie was too bony. And I never trusted Ken. Too perfect. But Betty
was mine. (pause) I can’t remember exactly what it was I’d done, but I’d done something to make my mother angry. Really
angry. She must’ve been having a hard day. Yeah, I’m sure she was just having one of those days. I was about five, maybe six.
I probably did what every five-year-old does at one time or another, something that makes a parent’s eyes turn funny. I said I
was sorry. But that wasn’t good enough. “That’s not good enough, young lady.” My mother must have told me that about a
thousand times. Do you know what happens to young girls who misbehave? That’s when she did it. I begged her not to, but she
wouldn’t have any of it. She plops Betty onto a tray and throws her into the oven. Soon there’s this awful smell filling the
kitchen. I stood there, practically blind for all the tears in my eyes. My mother walks in every ten minutes to check on Betty.
“Look, June. Look what’s happening to Betty.” And she makes me look, making me promise I’d always behave. Betty’s arms
and legs were melting, melting and her hair was sizzling. On it went, ‘til there was nothing left but a puddle of Betty, and two
blue eyes.
THAT SUMMER by David French FEMALE - DRAMA
MARGARET RYAN, NARRATOR
Paul had just dropped me off, when I heard the noise out on the lake. Later, Tim said that Daisy had stood up in the boat.
Maybe she had, considering what happened the last time they were out there... After I tried to wake my dad, I ran back to the
dock. But I couldn't swim, you see. All I could do was stand there, helpless, the most helpless I've ever been in my life. And
then it happened. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Mrs. Crump appeared. Maybe she'd heard me screaming. Or maybe she'd seen it
all from her cottage. I don't know. I only know that suddenly she came sweeping down the lawn, her bare feet slapping on the
weathered planks of the dock. I saw her spring silently past me, almost in slow motion, her long flannel nightgown white in the
moonlight, then ballooning as it filled with water... And then she was swimming as hard as she could, striking out toward the
capsized boat. At first I could see her begin to tire, then struggle, and finally... finally I saw her go under. She wasn't in the
greatest shape, Mrs. Crump. And the flannel nightgown, I suppose, just became too heavy... The second time she went down,
she never came up, except one pale hand. I could see it in the slash of moonlight. Her fingers seemed to scratch the sky. And it
looked to me then, as it still looks in memory, just as though she were waving... (She's overcome by emotion)

WHERE HAS TOMMY FLOWERS GONE? by Terrence McNally FEMALE - COMEDY
NEDDA (a young girl who now lives with Tommy. In the following scene, she stops playing her cello to address the
audition)
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I’d like to ask Tommy if he loves me. I wonder what he’d say. I’m sorry, but I’m a very conventional budding girl cellist from
Tampa, Florida, that way. Tommy’s from St. Petersburg. Small world, isn’t it? I grew up thinking life could be very nice if
you just let it. I still do. It’s certainly full of surprises and most of them are good. Like my music. That happened when I was
ten years old and went to my first concert. I came home in a dream. Or like Tommy Flowers! That happened --- well, you
saw where that happened and we came home in a cab Tommy didn’t pay for. I love my music. Whenever I get the teeniest bit
depressed I think about it and I’m all right again. The notes are hard for me, I can’t always play them at first, but if practice
makes perfect then I’m going to be a very good cellist one day. That’s what I want. And now there’s Tommy. Someone I
hadn’t counted on at all. A small world but so many different people in it! I don’t know what Tommy wants, so I have to play
it by ear with him. That’s hard for me and I’m pretty smart about men. It’s not like practicing my music; Tommy has to help,
too. And which is real or which is realer? All these little, wonderful, different notes some man wrote once upon a time
somewhere or me, right now, in a whole other place, trying to play them and wanting to ask Tommy Flowers if he loves me
and wanting him to answer, “I love you, Nedda Lemon”? They’re both real. I don’t want to change the world. I just want to
be in it with someone. For someone with such a sour name, I could be a very happy girl.
GOODNIGHT DESDEMONA (GOOD MORNING JULIET) FEMALE - COMEDY
by Ann-Marie Macdonald
CONSTANCE (talking to the audience)
Boy, Shakespeare really watered her down, eh?…
I wish I were more like Desdemona.
Next to her I’m just a little wimp.
A rodent. Road-kill. Furry tragedy
all squashed and steaming on the 401
with ‘Michelin’ stamped all over me. It’s true:
people’ve always made a fool of me
without my even knowing. Gullible.
That’s me. Old Connie. Good sport. Big joke. Ha.
Just like that time at recess in grade five:
a gang of bully girls comes up to me.
Their arms are linked, they’re chanting as they march,
‘Hey. Hey. Get outta my way!
I just got back from the I.G.A.!’
I’m terrified. They pin me down,
and force me to eat a dog—tongue sandwich.
I now know it was only ham…
O, what would Desdemona do to Claude,
Had she the motive and the cue for passion
that I have? She would drown all Queen’s with blood,
and cleave Claude Night’s two typing fingers from
his guilty hands. She’d wrap them in a box
of choc’lates and present them to Ramona.
She’d kill him in cold blood and in blank verse,
then smear the ivied walls in scarlet letters spelling ‘thief!’
To think, I helped him use me: a gull, a stooge,
a swine adorned with mine own pearls,
a sous—chef, nay! A scull’ry—maid that slaved
to heat hell’s kitchen with the baking stench
of forty—thousand scalding humble—pies,
O Vengeance!!!

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OF THE FIELDS, LATELY by David French MALE - DRAMA
BEN (talking to the audience)
He rushed out the door and down to the school-yard, the first game he had ever come to, and my mother put his supper in the
oven, for later … I hadn’t reminded my father of the game. I was afraid he’d show up and embarrass me. Twelve years old
and ashamed of my old man. Ashamed of his dialect, his dirty overalls, his bruised fingers with the fingernails lined with dirt,
his teeth yellow as old ivory. Most of all, his lunch pail, that symbol of the working man. No, I wanted a doctor for a father.
A lawyer. At least a fireman. Not a carpenter. That wasn’t good enough … And at home my mother sat down to darn his
socks and watch the oven … I remember stepping up to bat. The game was tied; it was the last of the ninth, with no one on
base. Then I saw him sitting on the bench along third base. He grinned and waved, and gestured to the man beside him. But I
pretended not to see him. I turned to face the pitcher. And angry at myself, I swung hard on the first pitch, there was a hollow
crack, and the ball shot low over the shortstop’s head for a double. Our next batter bunted and I made third. He was only a
few feet away now, my father. But I still refused to acknowledge him. Instead, I stared hard at the catcher, pretending
concentration. And when the next pitch bounced between the catcher’s legs and into home screen, I slid home to win the
game. And there he was, jumping up and down, showing his teeth, excited as hell. And as the crowd broke up and our team
stampeded out of the school-yard, cleats clicking and scraping blue sparks on the sidewalk, I looked back once through the
wire fence and saw my father still sitting on the now-empty bench, alone, slumped over a little, staring at the cinders between
his feet, just staring… I don’t know how long he stayed there, maybe till dark, but I do know he never again came down to see
me play. At home that night he never mentioned the game or being there. He just went to bed unusually early…
THE LAST BUS by Raymond Storey MALE - DRAMA
ROBERT (The death of a childhood friend brings Robert back to his home town where he forms an useasy relationship with
his dead friend’s outcast girlfriend. Together they try to come to terms with past, present and future. Here he talks to his dead
friend)
You were standing on the other side of the highway. There was a picnic or a field-day or something, I was trying to hold on to
my mom. I was hot. She was wearing shorts and stepping on me. Tripping over me. She didn’t want a mamma’s boy
underfoot. Didn’t look good. When they said that there was going to be a race for boys my age and prizes, I didn’t want to. I
was the shortest and I knew I’d lose. I’m running across this field. It’s rough and bumpy and sometimes there’s rocks and the
other boys are away, away ahead of me. And I know I can’t win. And I can’t keep running, so I throw myself on the ground.
Everybody came over. They all thought I was hurt, because I was crying. So I figured I better pretend that I was. They gave
me a rubber man on a tractor so that I would feel better. I could see in the set of Mom’s face that she knew I was faking and
she said, “Come on. I’ll take you home.” And I started crying and limping more so that she would know that I really was hurt.
And the other kids and mothers were following us, saying is he okay? And my mom is getting red in the face and yanking me
by the arm. Yanking me forward, not looking at me, and I hated her. And I hated those other kids. Pressing. And those other
mothers. My mom’s yanking me by the one hand and I got this stupid green-rubber man on a green-rubber tractor in the other
hand and I just wanted to fold into myself until no one could see me anymore. And then she let me go. Everybody let go of
me. They forgot about the falling-down kid with the green-rubber tractor and they went to the edge of the highway. Because
somebody yelled that a little boy had gone across. People were yelling. Get back here where you belong. And I saw you.
Marty. Hair like corn silk. Trucks barrelling past you. Yanking the air, pulling at your hair and your clothes, almost tugging
you along with them. And you looked at me and smiled, like as if to say, “I’ve done it once, we can do it again. You and me.”
You were looking at me. Why did you do that? Why did you pick the falling-down kid with the green-rubber tractor? Why
did you take him in, just to shove him out again? Why did you hold us here?
BILLY BISHOP by John Gray MALE - COMEDY
BISHOP (talking to the audience, playing all parts and becoming all the characters)
Well, Jeez, that old girl must have known something I didn’t, because, two weeks later, I’m released from hospital. Promptly,
at three o’clock, I find myself in front of her door at Portland Place, in my best uniform, shining my shoes on my pants. The
door is opened by the biggest butler I have ever seen. (he looks up)
Hi!
CEDRIC: (Bishop as the butler, Cedric, looks down and away in distaste) Madam, the Canadian is here. Shall I show him
in?
LADY ST. HELIER: (Bishop as Lady St. Helier) Yes, Cedric, please. Show him in.
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CEDRIC: Get in!
BISHOP: (to audience) I’m shown into the largest room I’ve ever seen. I mean, a fireplace eight feet wide and a staircase that
must had had a hundred steps in it. I’m not used to dealing with nobility. Servants, grand ballrooms, pheasant hunting on the
hearth, fifty-year-old brandy over billiards, breakfast in bed … shit, what a life!
CEDRIC: Madam is in the study. Get in!
BISHOP: The study. Books, books … more books than I’ll ever read. Persian rug. Tiger’s head over the mantle. African
spears in the corner. “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the…” I stood at the door. I was on edge. Out of my element. Lady St.
Helier was sitting at this little writing desk, writing.
LADY ST. HELIER: Very punctual, Bishop. Please sit down.
BISHOP: I sat in this chair that was all carved lions. One of the lions stuck in my back.
CEDRIC: Would our visitor from Canada care for tea, madam?
LADY ST. HELIER: Would you care for something to drink, Bishop?
BISHOP: Tea? Ahhh, yeah … Tea would be fine.
LADY ST. HELIER: A tea for Bishop, Cedric. And I’ll have a gin.
CEDRIC: Lemon?
BISHOP: (disappointed) Gin! I wonder if I could change … No, no. Tea will be fine.
BANANA BOYS by Leon Aureus MALE – COMEDY
SHEL (Shel anxiously awaits contact from a girl for whom he has fallen. When the monologue begins, he is staring at his cell
phone.)
Okay, cell phone, me and you need to talk. We’ve been through a lot together. The last 6 months here have been… marginal.
I’ve given your number to a few people, and so far, no one calls you but The Boys back home. This sucks for both of us. I
mean, we came to Ottawa to find someone. To end The Quest. Twenty-four years old, and I still hadn’t had a serious girlfriend.
Or any sort of girlfriend. I almost had you disconnected. (pause) Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t go through with it. And do
you know why? Because the day we stopped looking… was the day we met Her. I went twenty minutes out of my way, in
minus-thirty-degree weather, to walk Her home, breaking the ice in front of Her with my CSA approved boots so She wouldn’t
slip and fall. She’s wonderful. (He beams.) I have Her your number, and She said She’d call. So… cell phone, if ever you were
going to ring, if ever you were going to make that special connection… let it be now. You’re fully charged. We’re sitting in the
bathtub where you get the best reception. So… ring. (It doesn’t ring.) C’mon. Please? (nothing) She’s really special. She’s got
these beautiful eyes, and really great hair, and… I’m prattling, but… the way She –
The phone rings. SHEL is startled, then fumbles the phone and picks it up.
Hello? (pause) Kathy! Hi! (pause) No, I’m not busy, just… waiting… for you. (pause) Oh man, that sounds lame, doesn’t it? I
didn’t… uh… (pause) Really? Well, I think you’re sweet too…
ZASTROZZI by George F. Walker MALE – COMEDY
ZASTROZZI (In this speech, Zastrozzi describes his power and his master plan to destroy his foe: the new middle class with
its shiny new liberal education and its fancy for art.)
I am Zastrozzi. The master criminal of all Europe. This is not a boast. It is information. I am to be feared for countless reasons.
The obvious ones of strength and skill with any weapon. The less obvious ones because of the quality of my mind. It is superb.
It works in unique ways. And it is always working because I do not sleep. I do not sleep because if I do I have nightmares and
when you have a mind like mine you have nightmares that could petrify the devil. Sometimes because my mind is so powerful
I even have nightmares when I am awake and because my mind is so powerful I am able to split my consciousness in two and
observe myself having my nightmare. This is not a trick. It is a phenomenon. I am having one now. I have this one often. In it, I
am what I am. The force of darkness. The clear sane voice of negative spirituality. Making everyone answerable to the only
constant truth I understand. Mankind is weak. The world is ugly. The only way to save them from each other is to destroy them
both. In this nightmare I am accomplishing this with great efficiency. I am destroying cities. I am destroying countries. I am
disturbing social patterns and upsetting established cultures. I am causing people such unspeakable misery that many of them
are actually saving me the trouble by doing away with themselves. And even better I am actually making them understand that
this is in fact the way things should proceed. I am at the height of my power. I am lucid, calm, organized and energetic. Then it

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happens. A group of people come out of the darkness with sickly smiles on their faces. They walk up to me and tell me
they have discovered my weakness, a flaw in my power and that I am finished as a force to be reckoned with. Then one of
them reaches out and tickles me affectionately under my chin. I am furious. I pick him up and crack his spine on my knee.
Then throw him to the ground. He dies immediately. And after he dies he turns his head to me and says, “Misery loves chaos.
And chaos loves company.” I look at him and even though I know that the dead cannot speak let alone make sense I feel my
brain turn to burning ashes and all my control run out of my body like mud and I scream at him like a maniac, (Whispers)
“What does that mean?”
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