BRIEF MONOLOGUE OF THE DIVA (RELOADED)
A Monologue
By Ben Gavarré
(New York Adaptation)
Characters:
Voices of Actors: (From backstage, whispers, shouts, murmurs)
Voiceover: (The Stage Manager)
Diva: (Patricia)
(The curtain, a picturesque and cliché thing alluding to some dusty Chekhov revival, looks like a forgotten relic. The air is tense, suffocating. The Stage Manager's voice is heard over the intercom, calling places with an exaggerated, almost ecstatic tone. "Places, please" is a blissful sigh. "Five minutes" is a gasp. "Curtain" is a long, unequivocal moan so audible the audience wonders if the show has already started. Suddenly, the harsh white work lights flash on, revealing chaos. The show is not starting. From backstage, insults and shouts are heard.)
Voices of Actors (From backstage): — That’s it, Diva! You’re plastered!
Diva: — (Her shrieks and efforts to defend herself are heard) Get offa me! How dare you! What do you mean you’re not letting me go on! I’m the Star! That stage is mine! And these eighties spandex pants are a goddamn horror show. Let me go!
Voices of Actors (Henceforth "Voices"): — You’re hammered. Get it through your head, Patricia! Nobody wants to hire you! You’re a nightmare to work with. Don’t ruin this for us! People paid to see Chekhov, not you. Please, just get out.
Diva: — A favor? I’ll be the one doing you a favor by working in your pathetic little show. Jesus. “Scenes from Chekhov,” for the love of God. What’s next? A Christmas pageant in Queens? Some nativity play with drunk and stoned actors? What a complete lack of respect for post… modern… Art! At least when they hear I’m in it, the audience will come to see ME. You hear me? ME! (A stagehand dressed in black approaches) — Don’t you touch me! Let me go! My public awaits! And I really have to pee!
Voices: — That’s it, Diva, you’re nuts, you’re drunk! We’re calling the cops, you old hag!
Diva: — (She stumbles onto the stage, tripping on the curtain and nearly falling. She composes herself, smiles at the audience, and pulls a lipstick from her purse to do a touch-up, while the chaos continues behind her). I have arrived! My adoring public; I’m here! (A small spotlight hits her). So, where’s my spotlight? Is that my spotlight? That’s not a spotlight, it’s a friggin’ flashlight from a camping trip! (She looks up at the tech booth). Hey, sweetheart! Art isn't improvised, it’s lit. You have no idea who I am! Are you new here, you little punk? (The lights go out completely). Hilarious. What, did Con Ed shut off the power? Figures. Some NYU production… and not even from Tisch… you’re probably from Gallatin… y’know… where they steal the damn seats… never mind the lighting equipment… (A single overhead spotlight switches on above the Diva). That’s more like it. A little respect. (Suddenly the light goes out and another one snaps on far away from her. She scurries into the new light like a giant moth. The audience murmurs, some laugh. The Diva points at "someone" in the audience, or an empty seat, to avoid actual confrontation…). Real funny. You, the guy in the stupid hat with the schmuck face… No, not you, ya jagoff. The other one… Moron. Broke-ass… Oh. It wasn’t you. Because me, people respect me. (The light goes out again. The Diva lights herself with the flashlight from her purse, the very one she just insulted). Everybody does what I say. My beloved audience: I know you missed me!
Voices: — We already called for an ambulance. We’re sending you to Bellevue, you crazy bitch! You’re Borderline, or at least Bi.
Diva: — I’m not Bi… I am. I am… I’m not Bi, I’m… A bicycle, that’s what I am! A SoulCycle bike that’s never, ever getting off this stage. I am… a free spirit! And I’m not bi, I’m… I… I’m fluid…
Voices: — Freakin' maniac. We're not talkin' bisexual or 'fluid' or whatever the hell you are today, you goddamn shapeshifter.
Diva: — I’m not a bicycle, or a shapeshifter… I am…
Voices: — BIPOLAR!
Diva: — (She laughs, a huge, exaggerated cackle, like a soap opera villain). Ha, ha! How clever, my darlings. Well yes, my dear admirers. You should know that I am… I AM… a star. A star is classified, according to the book by Tomking, or Tombling, or Tompkins… Who gives a damn? The point is, it’s a book. Number One: A star must always be like me. Center stage, with the spotlight right on her. (The overhead spot illuminates her, as if the light itself has surrendered to her whim). Thank you! (To the tech). And don’t you move it. Unless I say so. You all know I’m the only star here!
The Art of Being a Diva and the Handbook for Success
Diva: — (She pulls out a fan and fans herself gracefully. She sits on the floor as if it were a chaise lounge and reclines dramatically). Am I feeling flustered, confused, disenchanted, subject to unidentifiable ailments? Yes, I must admit it. But it’s not that I need my shrink. In fact, I’m absolutely thrilled with the idea of not having any leading roles with these… these… these… third-rate actors! I work alone. And I’m doing marvelously!
Voices: — That’s why you’re unemployed.
Diva: — Three! Three Tony nominations! The envy of hundreds of women… and men… Well, you know what I mean. I, who have filled the silver screen with huge, massive, epic close-ups of my fabulous lips! (She makes an exaggerated duck face). Please. I’m not here to ask anyone for favors. In fact, I have musical talent, I’ll prove it to you. (She pulls a small ukulele from her purse). Listen to one of my most recent and beloved compositions. (She sings terribly out of tune with a forced, breathy accent). My Fuuuuuunny Valentineeeee, Sweeeet, comic… Funnyyy Valentinneeeee… (She stops, silent for a moment, waiting for applause that never comes). Something like that. What do you think? Divine, no?… No?… NO! Why are you looking at me like that? What’s the problem? Do I look the part or am I the part? I AM THE PART! You get it? I, well. I’ll tell you. I was born a Diva. I am the Diva. Diva Diva. I am divine, made by God. I am of God. If you don’t believe me, just look at my… body. My… assets… (She theatrically touches her chest and hips). They’re genuine, no injections, I swear… They cost me… years of effort, of exercise… and a surgery that never happened!
Voices: — You’re full of plastic!
Diva: — (She ignores the comment, or pretends to). Anyway, what can I tell you? Obviously, nobody here has read Tompkins, my bible, the bible of any self-respecting actress. (She pulls out a book with a blank white cover, like the Star’s Holy Book). Let’s see what it says: "The Star, meaning Me, must look charming at all times. She must always, reservedly, maintain her private life. She must never hide anything from the Press, never. She should stay home and take care of her health. She should be seen frequently in… no, no, no, no: in select, but public, places. That’s it. She must… Always be the center of attention."
Voices: — Oh, shut the hell up! Let us do our show!
Diva: — A self-respecting Diva must never wear the same dress twice. She must be like me, just as I am, so that no one could ever, not even by chance, venture to know… about the clear and manifest mystery that surrounds her… That’s why no one has my number, that's why we must live apart in marvelous mansions, surrounded by imposing bodyguards, always ready to protect us, to watch over our integrity… Our beauty… Our sanity. (She takes out a handkerchief and dries a tear with exaggeration). And don’t you dare say I’m exaggerating! My assets have cost me… a lot of effort. I have cultivated my status with more than a thousand daily push-ups… and a diet of only air and drama! (She suddenly stands up and strikes a wrestler's pose). Aren’t you going to shout something now, you ill-mannered pigs?
Voices: — No, we’re listening with great interest, yeah, sure.
Diva: — My gifts as an actress, well, as you know, are priceless, but my assets, my legs, my cute little ass, my boobs…
Voices: — All fake.
Diva: — Well, they’re insured, for more money than these broke-ass college kids will ever see. Millions of dollars, you know? Just in case you ever think of touching me, you should know I’m more secure than a building on Wall Street!
Voices: — You’re made of silicone!
Diva: — Ugh, these peasants, they must be from that Gallatin school, you know… they go on strike, ha. (She blows a kiss into the air). And… as I was saying, I’ve worked in many shows. Always as the Star, of course. You’ll remember me, it’s useless to ask… I embodied the greatest figure of the American Screen… Back then my name wasn't Patricia, not Norma, not Joan… although Joan suits me, like Joan Crawford, you know, Joan… Ah. Joan… Well no, I wasn’t Joan… I was the new Marilyn. Marilyn… Monroe.
Voices: — Oh, here we go. The Marilyn crap again.
Diva: — NO! Of course, of course, it wasn't like that. I wasn't Marilyn, though she wishes she were me, the idiot… I was… Bette Davis in… in… All About Eve! Oh God, what a horror! How could anyone forget a name like Bette Davis! What a horror!
Voices: — You weren’t Bette Davis.
Diva: — Exactly! That’s right, it was me. I died tragically… but that was in another life…
Voices: — You’re insane!
The Diva’s Final Act
Diva: — And yes, it’s a golden rule: one must not pay attention to the vicious voices that try to dim One’s light, One who is Regal, who is Supreme, who is, as one might say: The Ultimate Marvel on the Stage! The one-woman show!
Voices: — Are you leaving or what? The show’s about to start! You’re in the way.
Diva: — Heh, heh. My dear audience, I was talking about Tompkins, or Tomblin, or Thompson. Yes. My constitution is Rara Avis, you know? A rare bird. I am The Star. I have worked on many famous stages. I am. I Am… What more could you ask for. I AM. Is that clear?
Voices: — Get the hell out!
Diva: — Heh, heh. The first thing a Diva like me must do is ignore the bland, abject comments of low-class people, you know? Of godless degenerates, of sell-outs, Neo-Hippies, of post-modern Resentfuls with no future like the ones yelling at me. Ah, if only they knew the basics of the Tompkins Manual, where I… I was educated. I’m a scholar. I know it by heart!
Voices: — You started out singing in some dive bar on Bleecker Street! WE actually went to Juilliard!
Diva: — Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha. What is this they want to present to you, my distinguished Public? Scenes from Chekhov? What? CHEK… hov. From before! So old-fashioned! I, on the other hand, am a professional. I’ve worked…
Voices: — You were a waitress. Go to the psych ward.
Diva: — With Strasberg, with Adler, with Elia Kazan, with Sondheim. (The Diva boasts of her teachers, but the names seem to fade in the confusion of her mind).
Voices: — You’re ancient. Strasberg? They don’t even remember him. You mean you did a workshop on Zoom!
Diva: — No, babies. With Brecht, who was my mentor… Tompkins used to say…
Voices: — You don’t even know your lines!
Diva: — Tom Kings is the manual, par excellence, par antonomasia. (She strikes the pose of a Greek statue).
Voices: — Whaaaaat? Your breath smells like ass!
Diva: — How vulgar! The Manual, it says: "A star of my dazzling condition can only accept leading roles in great, HUGE productions!"
A single voice: — What!? They picked you up on the West Side Highway? How much was it, hot stuff!
Diva: — Tasteless, stupid, backwards, lowlifes! Have you ever heard of anyone as versatile, as unparalleled, as peerless, as MEEEEE? I’ll demonstrate: (She strikes a tragic pose, hands on her chest). "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers!" (She switches characters). "But you are, Blanche, you are in the chair! You're in the chair!"
Voices: — That’s not even from the same play. One is Williams, the other is… whatever that movie was.
Diva: — Yes, yes, yes. Yesss. Yessssss. To hell with Tennessee Williams! Don’t think I’m an ignoramus.
Voices: — Yes, you are!
Diva: — Anyway. Fine. Whatever. Boo-hoo. Well, my dear public. I Am. I am. Some call me the Diva, Others…
Voice, serious, male, from the tech booth: — Hey, Gustavo, get off the stage.
Diva: — (Utterly bewildered. For a moment, the character shatters, revealing a vulnerable being). What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.
Voiceover: — Yeah, Gustavo, get off. Now. The audience paid, they’re waiting for a show, and you’re in the way. NOW… Get off the stage, Gustavo.
Diva: — But how can that be. I, Juilliard, Stella Adler, I mean, no, gross: The Actors Studio, Yale School of Drama, the highest marks in… Red International Society Progress in the Theatre Performance for the Retro… Post-Retro… Neo-Retro, Post… How can this be? I… I… I am the star!
Voiceover: — That's right, Patricia. I’m sorry. It’s not personal. I mean, Gustavo. You’re finished. Get off the stage nicely, please, or you don’t want us to get the union involved.
Diva: — And by whose right, you backwards, stupid, imbecilic, brainless, fools…? I am still an actress without equal, I AM BEAUTIFUL, I AM PEERLESS, I AM, even with my thousands of years that I will not reveal, I am exquisite, I am egregious, I am incalculable. Imbeciles. You dare to price ME? To weigh ME? You, who didn’t even study. You dare to measure, to judge such an exquisite actress????? I am Patricia… Gustavo has been gone for a long, long time. I demand respect. You’re nothing but a pack… a flock of morons. Don’t kid yourselves. The Public supports me, right, public? Right? Right? (She turns to the audience, searching for confirmation, for applause, for a minimal murmur. There is only silence. A heavy, uncomfortable silence. The only sound is the buzzing of a fly… Maybe someone does support her). You, sir? Yes?
Diva: — (In a whisper, to herself). But what about the rest. Idiots, what, they don't know. They don't know. They don't know. (She laughs without humor). Anyway, YOU PEOPLE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! …N’est-ce pas?… Isn’t that right?… I AM an informed woman. I know French. And much more. I know things. I’m a translator, you idiots. I’m an artist, DON’T YOU GET IT? Nooo? Oh, well. If you don’t get it. Then… I’m leaving! I HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO!!!!!! (She stands with dignity, but suddenly stumbles). Adieu, idiots. You don’t know how valuable I am. YOU NEVER KNEW. ADIEU! Hasta la vista! (She walks towards the wings, but stops at the edge of the stage).
Voiceover: — Gustavo, hey. Sorry… Patricia.
Diva: — ¿Yes?
Voiceover: — You’re the best!
Diva: — (She turns, smiling and triumphant, with tears of joy in her eyes). I’ve always known it! And you finally called me by my name. Good for you. Gustavo’s been gone a long, long time. I am… I am… Divine! (She turns and exits into the wings, leaving the audience and actors in a stunned silence). Divine!
BLACKOUT
END OF PLAY
