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    By John Logan: Realism Ken: Imaginary Youthful Assistant of Mark Rothko

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    Nicholas Finken
    Ken delivers an angry monologue criticizing Mark Rothko for his self-absorption, pretension, and insistence on making every painting profoundly important. Ken complains that Rothko never leaves his studio and subjects everyone to his endless talking. Lenny tells Marisol about the surreal experiences and new realities of living on the street, where logic does not apply and people find new ways to cope with hardship through stories and detachment. Orestes delivers a prayer to Zeus asking for protection as an orphaned fugitive along with his sister Electra, having been deprived of their noble father who was killed. Hank describes feeling like he wants to escape from the institution he resides in and fantasizes

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    By John Logan: Realism Ken: Imaginary Youthful Assistant of Mark Rothko

    Uploaded by

    Nicholas Finken
    216 views5 pages
    Ken delivers an angry monologue criticizing Mark Rothko for his self-absorption, pretension, and insistence on making every painting profoundly important. Ken complains that Rothko never leaves his studio and subjects everyone to his endless talking. Lenny tells Marisol about the surreal experiences and new realities of living on the street, where logic does not apply and people find new ways to cope with hardship through stories and detachment. Orestes delivers a prayer to Zeus asking for protection as an orphaned fugitive along with his sister Electra, having been deprived of their noble father who was killed. Hank describes feeling like he wants to escape from the institution he resides in and fantasizes

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    Monologues

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    Ken delivers an angry monologue criticizing Mark Rothko for his self-absorption, pretension, and insistence on making every painting profoundly important. Ken complains that Rothko never leaves his studio and subjects everyone to his endless talking. Lenny tells Marisol about the surreal experiences and new realities of living on the street, where logic does not apply and people find new ways to cope with hardship through stories and detachment. Orestes delivers a prayer to Zeus asking for protection as an orphaned fugitive along with his sister Electra, having been deprived of their noble father who was killed. Hank describes feeling like he wants to escape from the institution he resides in and fantasizes

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    216 views5 pages

    By John Logan: Realism Ken: Imaginary Youthful Assistant of Mark Rothko

    Uploaded by

    Nicholas Finken
    Ken delivers an angry monologue criticizing Mark Rothko for his self-absorption, pretension, and insistence on making every painting profoundly important. Ken complains that Rothko never leaves his studio and subjects everyone to his endless talking. Lenny tells Marisol about the surreal experiences and new realities of living on the street, where logic does not apply and people find new ways to cope with hardship through stories and detachment. Orestes delivers a prayer to Zeus asking for protection as an orphaned fugitive along with his sister Electra, having been deprived of their noble father who was killed. Hank describes feeling like he wants to escape from the institution he resides in and fantasizes

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    Red​ by John Logan

    Realism
    Ken: Imaginary youthful assistant of Mark Rothko.
    Bores you?! Bores you?! — Christ almighty, try working for you for a living! — The
    talking-talking-talking-Jesus-Christ-won’t-he-ever-shut-up titanic self-absorption of the
    man! You stand there trying to look so deep when you’re nothing but a solipsistic bully
    with your grandiose self-importance and lectures and arias and let’s-look-at-the-
    fucking-canvas-for-another-few-weeks-let’s-not-fucking-paint-let’s-just-look. And the
    pretension! I can’t imagine any other painter in the history of art ever tried so hard to
    be SIGNIFICANT! You know, not everything has to be so goddamn IMPORTANT all the
    time! Not every painting has to rip your guts out and expose your soul! Not everyone
    wants art that actually HURTS! Sometimes you just want a fucking still life or landscape
    or soup can or comic book! Which you might learn if you ever actually left your
    goddamn hermetically sealed submarine here with all the windows closed and no
    natural light — BECAUSE NATURAL LIGHT ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU! …

    Marisol​ by Jose Rivera


    Magical Realism/Surrealism
    Lenny:
    I've been on the street, Marisol. I know what it's like. It's incredible there. Logic was
    executed by firing squad. People tell passionate horror stories and other people stuff
    their faces and go on. The street breeds new species. And new silence. No spoken
    language works there. There are no verbs to describe the cold air as it sucks on your
    hands. And if there w
    ​ ere​ words to describe it, Marisol, you wouldn't believe it anyway,
    because, in fact, it's literally unbelievable it's another reality, and it's actually happening
    right now​.

    The Libation Bearers​ by Aeschelus


    Greek Tragedy
    Orestes:
    Zeus Zeus watch over all we do
    fledglings reft of the noble Eagle father
    he died in the coils the vipers dark embrace
    we are his orphans worn down with hunger
    weak too young to haul the father's quarry home to shelter
    look down on us
    I and Electra too I tell you children
    robbed of our father both of us bound
    in exile from our house.

    (The Aeneid Script Monologues Here (in Onedrive>Documents))

    Marvin’s Room​ by Scott McPherson


    Realism, Drama.
    Hank: late teens/young adult
    Most of the time I keep to myself. Most of the time I sit in my room. I’ve got a
    roommate but most of the time he’s got his face to the wall. Most of the time I think
    about not being there. I think what it would be like to be someone else. Someone I see
    on the TV or in a magazine, or even walking free on the grounds. They can keep me as
    long as they want. It’s not like a prison term. I’ve already been there longer than most.
    A lot of the time I think about getting this house with all this land around it. And I’d get
    a bunch of dogs, no little ones you might step on but big dogs, like a horse, and I’d let
    them run wild. They’d never know a leash. And I’d build a go-cart track on my property.
    Charge people to race around on it. Those places pull in the bucks. I’d be raking it in.
    And nobody would know where I was. I’d be gone. Most of the time I just want to be
    someplace else.
    The Normal Heart​ by Larry Kramer
    Realism, drama.
    Bruce Niles:
    Ned, Albert is dead. He’s been dead a week. No one knew. He wouldn’t tell anyone. Do
    you know why? Because of me. Because he knows I’m so scared Im’m some sort of
    carrier. This makes three people I’ve been with who are dead. I went to Emma and I
    begged her: please test me somehow, please tell me if I’m giving this to people…

    The Shadow Box​ by Michael Cristofer


    Realism, drama
    Brian:
    No! Not easy. Not easy at all! At this very moment, twelve million stars are pumping
    light in and out of a three hundred and sixty degree notion of a limited universe. Not
    easy. At this very moment, a dozen Long Island oysters are stranded in some
    laboratory in CHicago, opening and closing to the rhythm of the tide—over a thousand
    miles away. Not easy. At this very moment, the sun is probably hurtling out of control,
    defying ninety percent of all organized religion—plummeting toward a massive world
    collision that was predicted simultaneously by three equally archaic cultures who had
    barely invented the wheel. At this very moment, some simple peasant in Mexico is
    planting seeds in his veins with the blind hope that flowers will bloom in his body before
    the frost kills him! And here we stand, the combined energy of our three magnificent
    minds focused irrevocably on a jacket. My God. There are more important things, I
    promise you.

    Food for Fish​ by Adam Szymcowicz


    Bobby:
    Dear Sir, Did you even read my masterpiece? If you had, you would not be sending me
    this form letter of rejection. Not unless you are indeed a complete and worthless
    moron. I do not accept you as an arbiter of real talent. I have more talent than all of
    you put together if it comes to that! You with your hackneyed conventions, have
    usurped the foremost places in art and consider nothing genuine and legitimate except
    what you yourselves do. Everything else you stifle and suppress. I do not accept you. I
    do not. It was optimistic of me to think that you were not an undiscerning fool.

    Are you all conspiring against me, you with your form letters on separate letterheads
    that converge into one voice? As punishment for this, your highest crime, know that
    you have pushed me to eschew publication altogether. Know that you and the others
    and the world at large will miss out on the rest of my work which I shall never again let
    you touch with your dirty and destructive hands. My work belongs to eternity now. To
    the universe of ephemera. But never to you. May you find your just punishment
    knowing you have kept another genius from the hungry world who aches to hear him.
    Sincerely, The Author Who Would Have Made You Famous.

    That Which Isn’t​ by Matthew Freeman

    Marcus:
    There's this threshold when you stop complimenting weight loss. It usually comes with
    other factors, like something is wrong with his teeth. Hair's thinner. Other things. Jim
    was fine, and then he lost weight, and then he looked like he was hollowing out. He
    was gray in places that he used to be green.

    Let me take it back a little bit. Um.

    He moved out here and we were all happy about it because, you know, he's near us
    and that's great. He was not doing well, sent those long e-mails that he'd send. Those
    e-mails people send when their meds aren't properly calibrated He'd curse a lot. That's
    what I always said. He was the kind of guy that cursed to make a joke, usually. When
    he was off, though, everyone was a motherfucker, or a fucking bitch, or something like
    that. It was off, you know. So we were happy he came out here. Sunshine. We could
    feed him. That's what we thought.
    Anyway, he would lie. He told me he had hepatitis. He did not have hepatitis. We'd
    invite him over and he would just not show up. He could drive but said he didn't want
    to have a car. He sold his car. This is L.A. He'd walk everywhere. Until he sort of
    stopped going places very far from his home.

    I used to actually have this e-mail chain with my wife and this other friend of his about
    what to do, you know? We couldn't force him to go to the hospital. He never did
    anything in front of us that was actually criminal. He wasn't even being dangerous. He
    was warm. Grateful. But then, he'd disappear. So we were like: "Do we go over there
    and go through his stuff?" What do we do? I know he went to a lot of groups, but, you
    know, where were they? We even thought about having him followed. I mean, we just
    talked about it. Who thinks that's actually going to be necessary, you know?

    So...I...

    Well to make it a shorter story, I found out he'd been in and out of the hospital. I
    literally thought "At least he's going to the hospital." I took it as a good sign. Then, he
    died. He went in, and didn't come out.

    So...there's more to it. I don't know what you want to know. But, yes. That's what
    happened. Right before New Year's Eve.

    East Haddam​ by Adam Szymkowicz


    Sam:
    This never should have happened. Sometimes I get lonely and I miss being touched
    and I make stupid choices and then I drink and then I make stupid choices. This is
    stupider than usual. This is betrayal. I’m the worst. Literally. This never should have
    happened. Can we pretend this never happened? You’ll never speak of it. I’ll never
    speak of it. If anyone asks, I never saw your birthmark and I don’t know what your
    smell is like or what noises you make during sex. Okay? It never happened.

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