Monday, February 6, 2017

Eureka play 1: the lead: sketch

In black, then single light on OUR ACTRESS, 60, standing center-stage, holding her hand up to shield the light from her eyes while looking up at the control room in back of the house.

What is she wearing to quickly conjure "movie star"? A hat of some sort, and a purse. Probably a coat.

Oh my. A little dimmer?

Dimmer goes the light. She lowers her hand.

Thank you, darling.

She closes her eyes, lets her arms and hands fall to her sides. She drops her purse to the floor.

It all comes back, just by closing my eyes. Well, some of it. Do you remember the -

She stops herself.

Listen to me, asking someone who wasn't even born yet if she...remembers. Of course you don't. But I wonder if you've any idea what might be the cure for such an ailment. Memory loss, I mean.

Female voice from the booth: Rosemary?

Our heroine lights up with a beaming smile.

Oh my. Yes. Yes indeed, Rosemary. Brah-vo, young lady.   

She bows her head, brings a finger to her lip, bites it, then dramatically holds it up, the number one.

I wonder if you might indulge me for just a moment. Well, you already have, and for much longer than that, just meeting me here for this silly occasion.

Female voice: I would be honored.

You're almost too polite. Still, if you truly would humor the indulgent idiosyncracy of a...hmm, what is the word I'll wear? 

Female voice: An actor.

(Beaming.) Yes! Yes. Of course. Oh, you're almost too brilliant. Or perhaps you are. But. Still. I shall. So, maybe a little brighter again. And I'll keep it brief and we can get out of here and back into the rain.

The light grows brighter. Another comes up to add fill that flatters.

(Heavy whisper) Here, Ophelia. Return now to this vessel of service.

A long pause. She seems to search and suddenly find, or be found by, Ophelia, animating her body as she addresses nobody, everybody and someone in particular she sees in the front row.

Look at my flowers. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembering. Please remember, love. And there are pansies, they’re for thoughts.

Her phone ringtones from her purse, jarring her as if awake from a dream. (Name that ringtone.)

to be cont'd.

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