Drama Auditions – Overview - Etobicoke School of the Arts

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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) 10/10 3 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!!!
4 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. 10/10
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Page 3: I’CLAUDIA by Kristen Thomson FEMA
Page 7: 6 happens. A group of people come o

Drama Auditions – Overview - Etobicoke School of the Arts

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