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Homecoming Players

2014-2015 Season Auditions

Saturday, September 6, 2014

2 to 5 pm

Community School of Music and Arts

CALLBACKS (if necessary): Sunday, September 7, 2014, 2 to 5 pm

Open to all actors, union and nonunion!

All members of every show company receive an artist's fee.

Closed auditions will consist of monologues from the season plays. Actors will be seen individually, in order of arrival (and signing in). Each audition will take no longer than five minutes. We'll call you back, if necessary, on Sunday, September 7, from 2 to 5 pm.

We'll have the sides at the auditions, but you can study them in advance (below).

Memorizing is not necessary!

Questions? Can't make the dates? Please write to [email protected]

We hope to see you there!

Cast Breakdown

The Book of Liz, by Amy Sedaris and David Sedaris

Sister Elizabeth Donderstock (1)

I’m not sure, Doctor Ginley. Do you mind if I just… share my concerns for a minute or two? I’ve always wondered what it might be like to wake up on dry sheets or get through the day without changing my clothes, but now I don’t know. It’s a hardship, sure, but maybe we need our burdens in order to appreciate our blessings. I’m not talking about the things I don’t like, I’m talking about the things I don’t mind. Sure people have always laughed and called me names—Sweaty Betty. Clammy Mammy. Soakahontas—but in a way I think it’s made me a stronger person. Now I have a chance at this job and even though I may not get it, I don’t want to make a suggestion based on vanity or my own selfish pride. I’m terribly flattered that Mr. T thinks I can manage this restaurant, really I am, but I worry his faith in me might lead to an arrogance I’m not sure I’ll know how to handle.

Sister Elizabeth Donderstock (2)

I don’t know where I’ll wind up, but I know where I’ll have to go in the meantime, and they don’t allow visitors. There was a time when I thought I could just pack up and run away from my problems, but it’s tough out here in the real world. Back at Cluster Haven things stay the same: the beards, the work, the furniture. Aside from our cheese balls, I guess that’s what we’re known for. But out here things change. One day someone’s a peanut and the next thing you know they’ve been deported for parking tickets. Beautiful floor-length dresses are replaced by toast-colored mini skirts, and the people you care about move off to the Quad Cities before you get a decent chance to say how much you love them. The changes are great when they’re working in your favor, but it’s pretty rough when it’s the other way around. A little too rough for me. In order to roll with the punches I need to keep my faith, which means returning to the one place that never changes, and changing things there.

Reverend Tollhouse

Good morning Savior. I am but flawed but humbly beg you to accept the following compliments on my behalf. –One. You are the Lord, our God, creator of everything both known and unknown. That which we are, our being, is the work of you and we exist grateful with the knowledge that only we can understand the true depths of your remarkability. Let it be known that you are splendid. –Two. In honor of you, and in mockery of your ways, we, your chosen people, shall shun the multitudes, accomplishments, and elements of design you will doubtlessly consider vulgar on the occasion of your return. You have a good eye and thus, so shall we. –Three. Though the world was created in but a brief seven days we acknowledge that you are no stranger to hard work. Your example shall exist as our guidepost and we offer our toil without thought of sacrifice with the hope… (substantial pause)–Thirty-seven. In acknowledgement that the beard was your own invention and thereby glorious, we shall adopt it as our own and trim it only occasionally. –Thirty-eight…


I’m starting you off today but only because Allison’s got an acting job, which is something you’re never going to do, right? Tuesday morning is usually just deuces and four tops, but don’t let it fool you. Section one can be a regular ICU, especially with the seniors. (The phone rings and he answers it.) Plymouth Crock Family Restaurant. Duncan speaking. How may I help you? … Yes, ma’am, the certificate is valid at any Plymouth Crock restaurant in the tristate area. Just remember that it doesn’t apply to the cornucopia salad bar or the musket stuffer’s breakfast special… No? Well, actually ma’am, I think you’ll find that written on the back of the coupon… Un huh… (covers the phone with his hand) Donny, I want you to get Liz here a time card and train her at the counter. Now please. (threatening) Donny!

Doctor Ginley

…he invited me to dinner after my third meeting, and, naïve me, I had no idea he was working that old thirteenth step. I mean, at my age! Nothing happened—which was just luck on my part as God knows I was crazy enough—but still I allowed him to live rent-free in my head for the next eight weeks, which is a long time when you’re just getting clean. The bottom line, pardon my French, is “Sober up an asshole and all you’ve got is a sober asshole.” Duncan was a big help once I finally took the cotton out of my ears and stuffed it in my mouth, which is something I should have done a long time ago. All in all I think the best part of my sobriety is that I’ve finally learned to shut up and listen.


(furious) Ty z gluzda z’i’ hala? I can’t fucking believe this, Oxana, I really can’t. I mean, what, would you like it if I literally died of embarrassment? Would that be nice for you? (A car honks and he turns to yell at the driver.) FUCK OFF! When Tatiana told me what you were up to, I thought she was either lying or crazy. Of all the stupid…come on, get into the car, you. Don’t you fight me. (Another car honks and again he turns to yell at the driver.) FUCK OFF! I swear to God I’ll kill you one day.

$38,000 for a Friendly Face, by Kristin Shepherd


Excuse me, Miss Bain, I thought I’d just add a little light. So it won’t feel so claustrophobic. So gloomy. Because this should really be a happy occasion. (JANE does not look happy.) Well, a time of contemplation and reflection, certainly, but with some… happy…under…tones. I mentioned earlier that we might have family and friends share stories. Memories, if you will, of your mother’s life. They say that sharing helps everyone in times of grief. If you’re uncomfortable, speaking in front of people, you could both share a few stories with me, and I could relate them to the others. Whatever makes you comfortable. (pause) Well, let’s look for one good thing, one comforting thing, for instance, something… (substantial pause) October is a good month. The colours. There are fewer crimes committed in October, on average. Yes, I think people are just happier in the cooler weather. Even the criminals. I’m sorry. I’ve got that wrong. Wrong direction altogether.


I don’t know what happened. It started with small things. His pauses. The way he considered everything to death. He didn’t boil an egg without thinking about it for an hour. I could see myself sitting at that kitchen table during those pauses, going nowhere together for another forty years and then dying, and not even knowing I was dead for a while, ‘cause there wouldn’t be any difference. Then all of it—the blue bows on the wallpaper in the kitchen—and I picked that wallpaper—the sound of the neighbour’s Basset hound barking every time I turned the outside lights on—I just wanted to kick that dog in the head. I wanted to scream all the time. And one day, it happened.


We’re all awful, aren’t we? I’m cruel, you’re right, and you’re stuck. You’re so stuck, you haven’t changed your clothes since Jim died. And Esther, well… And what happens to all of that? We get sick and die or we get hit by a bus and die, who knows, and all of a sudden people are eating Jello salads with coconut—who came up with desiccated coconut, I’d like to know—and going on about how we were so selfless and kind and perfect, till you could choke on it! We do it here ever week, we make these goddamned sandwiches with white bread on one side and brown on the other, with pink cream cheese in the middle—what the hell is that all about? We do it to our friends and our mothers and our husbands. I don’t want the crusts off when I’m dead! Can you hear me? I want it all there. Good, bad, and ugly. Three caskets. Breastfeed that! Inject that into your veins! Radiate yourself with it. The last thing I need today is the sight of your self-righteous fat ass stomping away in front of me. And if you don’t want this friendship, I can certainly do without.


I don’t know my mother’s favorite song. Maybe if she was dead I’d know it. My brother’s dead, though. He was skiing at Lake Louise. Anyway, he was killed in an avalanche, day after Christmas. I have this dream, sometimes, and in it, I was with him, holding his hand while it happened. So he wouldn’t be alone. Maybe it would have been more like going to sleep, then. I could say, shhhh, and he would just close his eyes. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Maybe it wasn’t his favorite, but it was the one he sang with me. (She sings a few lines of a rap version, with actions.)


Wait. I have a story. About my mother. If we have time. My sister Jane and I were going through some picture bits. My mother made us these dresses when Jane had her first communion. I was seven, I think. The other girls all wore white dresses. That’s what you did, for first communion. But our dresses were blue and purple. We looked like crayons in a box of marshmallows. We were gorgeous. And all over them she embroidered white daisies with green leaves. She did it by hand. She loved her daisies. In the picture, she looked really happy with us. I have it, if you’d like to see it. She probably wouldn’t mind me showing it to her friends.


You know, there’s this man who hangs around in periodicals in the library, he’s this huge hulking troll of a man. He looks like something from under a bridge in a fairy tale. His hair just pours down, black as black, from the top of his head down to his elbows. No one goes near him. He reads this small paperback—he brings it with him to the library—why would you do that? –and it looks really small because his hands are so big, each finger is like a sausage. He stands, facing the window in periodicals, and just reads his paperback. I try to get closer, sometimes, to see the title, but I swear there’s a kind of invisible wall around him. All I can think of when I see him is that there is no way I breastfed my son long enough. Every time Aiden has a cold, and he’s 26 for God’s sake, I’m positive it’s because I didn’t breastfeed him long enough. Someone should have breastfed that man longer. Someone should still be breastfeeding that man. I could be this Bain woman. Buried in pieces. (pause) I miss being kissed.

Lettice and Lovage, by Peter Shaffer


You are looking now at what is indisputably the most famous staircase in England! …The Staircase of Aggrandisement…! On the night of February the second, fifteen eighty-five—a brilliant snowy night—Jon Fustian laid before his Sovereign here in this hall a monumental feast! The tables were piled high with hedgehogs, puffins and coneys!—and a hundred of the liveliest courtiers stood salivating to consume them! (Increasingly excited about her tale.) Suddenly she appeared—Gloriana herself, the Virgin Queen of England!—in a blaze of perfect diamonds, presented to her by the Tsar Ivan the Terrible, who had seen a portrait of her in miniature, and lost a little of his icy heart to her chaste looks! Smiling, she set foot upon the first stair there! Alas, as she did so—at that precise moment—she slipped and would have plunged headlong down all fifteen polished and bruising steps, had not her host—standing precisely where I stand now, at the very bottom—leapt in a single bound the whole height of the staircase to where she stood, and saved her!


You must see yourself—it’s no good, any of this. As I said, we are not running a theatre. If you were a playwright, you could legitimately stand by your soup bowl and expect to see it filled for your invention. To some people—incomprehensible as it is to me—that is not only allowable but praiseworthy. A Tour Guide however is not a paid fantasist, and in her such an action remains merely dishonest. Untruth is untruth. It will find no endorsement in this office. Miss Douffet, let me be frank. (pause) There is no possible way I can justify your continued employment with the Trust.


I am waiting, Miss Douffet. I hope patiently. My patience, however, is not inexhaustible. Nor is my time. I ask you again, will you now speak to me? I would much have preferred to interview you at my office. I did suggest that, if you recall. Do you actually realize the situation you are in? You are charged by the police with a peculiarly unpleasant crime. You go to trial in less than five weeks, and you tell me nothing with which one can possibly defend you…I have nothing to go on—nothing to send to Council! It is actually impossible for a lawyer to act for a client under such conditions! We are dealing with an extremely grave offence. You are charged with attempted murder. It is somewhat unlikely that your victim will speak in your defense. Victims on the whole do not tend to do that. I would much appreciate it therefore if you would speak yourself. Forthwith!

Quartet, by Ronald Harwood


Dear Cissy. Her face is still that of a child, unlined and innocent. And her smile lights up the darkest room. When I first saw her, God knows how long ago, I thought she was the sexiest thing I’d ever clapped eyes on. Big and bountiful. And my God, she was a busy girl. At it all the time. I tried but didn’t have any luck. She was having it off with a scene painter from Bethnal Green. Do you really think she had a cheque for The Barber? D’you think we’ll get a cheque for our Rigoletto CD? Rigoletto. Glad they reissued it. But they might have put our photographs on the cover instead of just our names. Bloody agents. Still it looks rather handsome: Horton, Bond, Paget, Robson. Makes you feel you’re still alive. Of course, I ought to have had top billing. Name part, after all. But those were the days, eh, Reg? I remember the production, the recording sessions, everything, as if it were yesterday, yet I can’t remember what we had for breakfast this morning—


As a matter of fact, and this will obviously surprise you, I continue to cut a figure. The other night, I was George’s guest at Covent Garden. When I entered the box I received an ovation. So gratifying. Reg, say something kind to me. Please. We shall have to be friends if I’m to live here. If not friends, then at least let us be polite to each other. (no response) I must sit. I’m on a waiting-list for a hip. (She sits next to Reggie. Intimately, for his ears only:) Reggie, dearest, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. I knew you were resident here and that my presence might cause difficulties but— I had no alternative, believe me. So let me say what I have to say. I apologize for hurting you. Please be kind to me. We were different people then. There. I’ve been rehearsing that for the past week. (no response; to the others) This is like the first day of school.


Oh, you mustn’t say that, Jean. We’re so fortunate to be here. All in one piece. Well, nearly. Not that one doesn’t get depressed from time to time, with all the secrecy and the whispering, and people being sent away if they’re too ill or go doolally, of course one does, but it never lasts for long. How could it? There’s so much to cheer one up. People coming and going, new faces, old friends, new interests, fitness classes, OT, that’s Occupational Therapy, and all sorts of lectures, such fun. And for someone like me, who never married, never had children, whose nearest and dearest are long departed, this place is a godsend, a blessing, like a fairground ablaze with fairy lights. And the people here are so interesting, so surprising. One of the men, a dramatic tenor, his name’s gone, you must meet him, sang Otello somewhere or other with a Desdemona from, you’ll never guess where, Ghana. Isn’t that fascinating? Though what it did to the plot he never explained.


(still keeping calm but with difficulty) It’s not nonsense. We, all of us living in this house, were born with a musical gift. Ours was the singular ability to raise our voices in song. Now, many years on, old age has thrown us together when our voices are nothing more than fond memories. Like us. But what harm is there in pretending to recapture what we once were, however inadequately, on the birthday of one of the greatest composers for the human voice who has ever lived? The answer is there is no harm. Not to us, not to the audience and not to the late Giuseppe Verdi. I believe we will find it invigorating, not to say electrifying. To wear a costume again, to lose a sense of ourselves, to feel nervous, to step into the warmth of the lights, to remember dimly what we were once capable of, will, I believe, be therapeutic and worthwhile. And the sound of our voices that we now carry in our ears, however imperfect in reality, will be to us the same sound we made all those years ago. I just know it to be true, Jean. And it will help us, and you especially, to come to terms with the present and, more importantly, to face the future.