The stage is dark except for a spotlight downstage center which reveals a man—the Announcer–dressed in a professorial style; tweed jacket, thick-framed glasses, sucking on a pipe, sitting on a stool. “There’s No Business Like Show Business” plays over the theatre P.A. system. The Announcer is reading from a paperback edition of a play—anything from Neil Simon to Shakespeare will do. As the light brightens to its full intensity, the player notices the audience and speaks.
Announcer: Hello there. I’m not an actor, but I play one at the Acme Ten-Minute Play Festival. You know, great actors are made–not born. And at the National School of Acting, we know how to make ordinary people like you into genuine, underpaid actors and actresses. Instruction is available in the comfort of your own home with this easy-to-use compact disc (holds up compact disk with the words “How to Act” on it). Just turn on your computer and you’re on your way to fame and stardom. Or you can join other budding thespians on our modern campus for personalized instruction. Let’s join a class in progress right now!
The stage goes dark and when the lights come up they reveal two chairs, or the sort of one-armed desk chairs usually found in a classroom. A man walks onstage, a book and a notebook under his arm. He looks around as if he isn’t sure he’s in the right place. He sits down in a chair with tentative movements. A woman in a clinical white coat walks on stage. The man looks at her somewhat nervously as she walks toward him, writing on a clipboard as she comes.
Student: Hi . . .
Instructor: (She looks at him critically) Hello.
Student: I’m here for the Ten-Minute Workshop.
Instructor: So I gather. Do you have your registration form?
Student: Yep—right here. (He fishes a slip of paper out of his pocket and hands it to her.)
Instructor: (She examines the paper.) You are auditing this course?
Student: Well, yeah. I’m not really sure I want to be an actor so I . . .
Instructor: . . . so you thought you would trifle with us, as if we were a correspondence school where you learned how to drive a bulldozer or fix a computer.
Student: Well no . . .
Instructor: . . . you thought this was the “Close Cover Before Striking School of Acting”?
Student: No. It’s just that . . . I know actors don’t make a lot of money when they’re starting out . . .
Instructor: . . . and you’re only in it for the money.
Student: Well, I like to eat.
Instructor: [Instructor looks him over] So I gather.
Student: So am I in or not?
Instructor: We may have to cancel the course for lack of interest. Unless . . .
Student: Unless what?
Instructor: Unless you’re willing to make a serious commitment to your art.
Student: What would that involve?
Instructor: Intense one-on-one instruction for the entire semester.
Student: Just me? Nobody else?
Instructor: (She looks around.) Apparently, the insubstantial demands of the ten-minute format don’t attract many serious students.
Student: Well, what else is available?
Instructor: (She read from her clipboard.) Introduction to Dramaturgy.
Student: Sounds too heavy.
Instructor: (In a monotone, as if continuing to read down a list.) . . . Fun With Greek Tragedy.
Student: “Fun With Greek Tragedy”? Isn’t that, like, an oxymoron?
Instructor: It’s for children. (Pauses to look at list) Let’s see, Acting for Suspense and Intrigue . . .
A man bursts onto the stage from the wings and begins to sing in the theatrical manner appropriate for a Broadway musical.
Singer: O-o-o-o-o-ok—la-homa where the wind comes whistling down the plains!
Instructor: (To the singer) Down the hall, first door to your left.
Singer: Thank you ma’am—much obliged! (Exit)
Instructor: (Referring back to her list) Show Tune Seminar . . .
Student: (With determination.) Nope–this is what I want. (He reads from the book he has brought onstage, which is about the size of a typical college course catalog.) “Ten-Minute Workshop: Students will learn the basic elements of the ten-minute play format, including mono-syllabic dialogue, compliance with page-length restrictions through manipulation of font sizes and margins . . .
Instructor: Enough—I know my own course catalog. All right—you’re admitted.
Student: Great!
Instructor: Let’s begin. The first thing you must learn is the distinction between the players and the audience.
Student: Okay.
Instructor: Stand up. (She leads him downstage.) What happens out there (points to the audience) is real. What happens here (she indicates the stage) is fiction.
Student: What do you mean?
Instructor: Silly man. When Othello murders Desdemona on this side of the proscenium . . .
Student: What’s a proscenium?
Instructor: (Rapidly, as if reciting a fact she has committed to memory) . . . a vertical arched opening to a stage.
Student: Why didn’t you just say so?
Instructor: If you understood me I would have nothing to teach you. As I was saying, when Othello kills Desdemona here (she indicates the stage) it is a work of art. When it happens out there (indicating the audience) it is a crime.
Student: Hmm. (He walks downstage and begins to move his hands as if feeling along a pane of glass or another invisible barrier.)
Instructor: Please—don’t do that. This is not a mime class.
Student: Sorry.
Instructor: Thank you (she places her clipboard on a chair). Okay—let’s loosen up a bit.(Rolling her shoulders) Relax.
Student: (Imitating her motions) Okay.
Instructor: Now—I want you to make a noise like your favorite animal.
Student: Why?
Instructor: To re-acquaint you with your primitive instincts.
Student: What’s the point of that?
Instructor: Because if you are to succeed at the ten minute genre (she drawls this word out with a French accent) you must attack each rôle (again, with a French accent) like an animal. (She waits for him to begin.) Go! Allez!
Student: (He thinks for a moment and then moves one shoulder towards his nose and raises the attached arm above his head while braying like an elephant. When he is done, he looks at the instructor.)
Instructor: Again.
Student: (Repeats.)
Instructor: Louder.
Student: (Repeats.)
Instructor: Like an animal!
Student: (Annoyed now) I am an animal.
Instructor: You are not!
Student: I’m a human animal.
Instructor: (Clucks tongue in disgust) You will never become an actor if you insist on being so literal minded. Let us try something else. This time, we study the elements of movement . . .
Student: Movement?
Instructor: . . . and gesture.
Student: Gesture?
Instructor: (Looking around in affected confusion) Is there an echo in here? My words keep coming back to me. (Looks at the student and speaks sternly) Yes—movement and gesture. Now—pay attention. I want you to express through movement and gesture the way you would look to the audience if you were hollow—and a great gust of wind blew through you from your feet to your brain.
Student: You’re serious, aren’t you?
Instructor: I have never been more serious in my life.
Student: (He considers her instructions, then arranges himself with his arms over his head and makes a whispering sound) Wsssssh, wsssssh . .
Instructor: I said a great gust.
Student: I’m warming up. (He collects himself and then makes the same sound, only louder.) WSSSSSH, WSSSSSH . . .
Instructor: You sound like air escaping from a tire. You must express a force that will shake the audience to the very soles of their pumps and tassel loafers. Like this. (She collects herself, then throws her arms upwards and shakes visibly while making a whooshing sound.) Now do you understand?
Student: I think so.
Instructor: All right—let’s see you do it.
Student: You know—since I’m just auditing the course . . .
Instructor: Oh—I forgot. An amateur. A dilettante. You want Ten-Minute Workshop “Lite.”
Student: I want to learn, but . . .
Instructor: Fine. I will give you something a little easier. (She removes a piece of paper from her clipboard.) Take this.
Student: What is it?
Instructor: Our final exercise for today.
Student: (He reads from the paper) This is a bunch of advertising slogans.
Instructor: Precisely. And that is why it is an exercise for you. In the ten-minute play format you must learn to convey immediately to the audience exactly who you are.
Student: You mean what character I’m playing?
Instructor: No—you must become your character.
Student: Oh. Is that method acting?
Instructor: (In an offended tone) It is not “method.”
Student: Sorry. Well, how does it work?
Instructor: You must learn to achieve the playwright’s desired tone.
Student: What tone is that?
Instructor: For each rôle, it is different. You can learn this by using words that are completely foreign to the character until you have mastered the tone. So–I want you to read each advertising slogan to me in the voice of the character whose name appears next to it. Understood?
Student: Like how?
Instructor: Take the first one. You are to assume the character of Lővborg in Hedda Gabler—(she makes a face expressive of romantic longing and says, in a lovesick tone) “Hedda Gabler—Hedda Gabler!”—and read the text.
Student: Okay—I guess. (He imitates her expression and tone and says) “Tastes great—less filling!”
Instructor: You make an adequate beginning. Why don’t you perform this exercise while I go check on some of the other classes.
Student: Aren’t you supposed to stay here and, like, teach?
Instructor: You need to practice—this does not require my presence. (She turns away, then turns back) Go on—begin. (She turns and starts to walk off. The student looks down at the paper with hesitation and she turns around again when he doesn’t speak.) Please—perform. (She walks off.)
Student: (Looks at sheet, looks up at audience, then down again.) King Lear. (When he begins to speak, it is with only a trace of dramatic emphasis.) Yer darn tootin’ we like fig newtons.
Instructor: (She re-appears at the edge of the stage.) That was pathetic. Try again.
Student: (Raging more emphatically) Yer darn tootin’ we like fig newtons!
Instructor: Better. Continue. (She walks off.)
Student: (Looks down at sheet) Blanche DuBois. (Assumes a refined feminine aspect). This is not your father’s Oldsmobile! (Consults the sheet again.) Stanley Kowalski (Assumes a tough-guy demeanor) I’m a pepper. He’s a pepper. She’s a pepper. We’re a pepper. (To the audience, menacingly) Wouldn’t you like to be a pepper too? (Reads from sheet) Henry the Fifth. (Reads with the embattled but determined emotion appropriate for the “band of brothers” speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V) There’s a whole new generation . . . coming at you—going strong. Put yourself behind a Pepsi—if you’re living, you belong! You’ve got a lot to live—and Pepsi’s got a lot to give! (beat, and then back in his character as student.) Geez, this is stupid.
The Instructor appears at the edge of the stage, her hair mussed, her lipstick smeared, and a red spot on her neck. She collects herself, takes a deep breath and speaks.
Instructor: So–how is it going?
Student: Okay, although I don’t—hey, what happened to you?
Instructor: Nothing.
Student: You look like you’ve been making out.
Instructor: (With an air of professional aloofness) In a pedagogical sense, yes. I was demonstrating something in the Acting for Suspense and Intrigue class.
Student: (He looks more closely at her neck) That’s a hickey!
Instructor: It is there for theatrical effect only.
Student: (He moves closer to examine the spot) This is real! I thought you told me that everything on the stage was fiction.
Instructor: I was speaking as a character in a drama when I said that.
A man steps on stage near where the Instructor is standing. He speaks in a cultured tone reminiscent of Cary Grant in “Notorious”–a trace of bitterness in his voice. He is wearing a trench coat, with a white shirt and tuxedo-style bow tie showing at the neck.
Actor: (Looking at the student) For what it’s worth she’s telling the truth. (beat) I knew her before you and I loved her before you. (beat) I just wasn’t as lucky as you. (He turns and looks at the Instructor.)
Instructor: Excellent, Siegfried.
The Actor and the Instructor exchange a passionate look, then kiss. The Actor gives the Student a look of contempt and walks slowly into the house as he takes a cigarette from a pack and taps it on a cigarette lighter.
Student: What a ripoff!
Instructor: What is this “ripoff” you speak of?
Student: You give me these . . . bullshit exercises to do, you leave the room, and you go play tonsil hockey with a cheap imitation of James Bond!
Instructor: Please–Cary Grant.
Student: Whatever! I want my money back!
Instructor: I’m afraid that is not possible.
Student: Why not?
Instructor: Because all of this has been quite necessary.
Student: For what?
Instructor: Plot development.
Student: You call this a plot?
Instructor: It is the only one we have.
A man begins to walk towards the stage through the audience. He can wear either a referee’s striped shirt and black pants, or the type of casual clothes—blue jeans or slacks, an open-collared shirt or a t-shirt—that the stage manager of a drama festival might wear. If a referee costume is used, the actor can blow a whistle. In either case, the man should have a clipboard and a pen.
Timekeeper: That’s it for “Ten-Minute Workshop.”
Instructor: (Pleasantly indifferent as she fixes her hair) My—time flies when you’re having fun.
Student: That wasn’t ten minutes.
Timekeeper: Ten minutes or ten pages, whichever comes first. Let’s get a move on—I’ve got (checks clipboard) “A Splattering of Nuisance” coming on in two minutes.
Student: This is so absurd.
Instructor: Perhaps it is the “Theatre of the Absurd.”
Student: You can’t do anything in ten minutes.
Instructor: No?
Student: You can’t convey a sense of character in ten minutes. You–you can’t generate any kind of a plot in ten minutes.
Instructor: Really?
Student: Yes, really. All you can do in ten minutes is gin up a silly . . . pointless little skit.
Instructor: (Turns to the audience) I thought he’d never get it.
The Ten-Minute Workshop was performed at the Hovey Players Summer Shorts Festival, in Waltham, Mass. and was the favorite comedy of “The Theater Mirror: New England’s Live Theatre Guide.” It was also performed as part of the “Buffalo Quickies Festival” at the Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, New York
Thanks. Hope to have it performed again this summer in Ohio.
One chuckle after another! ( with a few giggles thrown in).