Opening scene from The Craft. An inner monologue. Personal, Reflective and Genuine growing to Impatience and Frustration.
Middle Aged (35-54)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Act two, Scene three I enter from state, Right knows better in character. Cross to the chair placed downstage centre next to the small table and sit. I look up seemingly forlorn and begin my brief soliloquy that speaks of the turmoil and heart ache inside of me. It was all too obviously telegraphed in the previous scene. I direct it to the Fourth Wars, if speaking to anyone and no one. And yet some woman in the third or fourth row is wearing a blouse of a colour so loud and Gerrish that I find my peripheral vision is constantly being distracted by lust, diminishing the gravity of what I'm attempting to impart to the audience at large. God, I hate her. She's really screwing this up for me.