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A monologue from the play by Judy Klass
FIONA
Fiona and her quiet banker husband Nick are having Bernie Greenfield, an indie film producer from New York, and his wife Lori over for dinner at their London home.
Fiona is talking to Nick in their bedroom, getting ready, as she speaks these words:
What’s the time? (Nervous, mustering.) Oh, bloody marvelous. And I can’t even find a pair of earrings to match this . . .
I’m not trying to look lovely. I’m trying to look like a flashy corporate wheeler-dealer. Something this fellow will respect.
Am I overdressing? Do you suppose he’ll turn up in trainers and a torn sweatshirt, with five-day stubble and a little ponytail at the back?
What is the matter with my hair? It’s frightful! (Snapping.) No! We can’t put it off, they’ll suppose we’re incompetent, what do you think?
Just sit tight. (Beat.) Oh, I’m sorry, Nick, I’m a mess. Don’t mind me. I’m counting on you, you know that. You’ve got to save me from myself.
You mustn’t let me say an honest word this whole grisly evening . . .
Yes, we’ll have to show them where all the McDonalds are, and take them to the Guinness Book of Records Museum.
(Fake Yank accent.) “Gee, this is a great little country you got here, honey. Think I’ll buy it.” (A beat.) Like them? Not a chance.
I know what type he is from our chats on the phone. He’s all charm, and bluff good fellowship.
He’ll have a handshake that’ll crush every bone in your fingers, wait and see. I’ve no idea what she’s like.
Probably some ghastly, cosmetically altered little trollop. If they’re in the film industry they’ll ooze Hollywood wherever they live, trust me.
(Bitterly, with fake Yank accent.) No, you’re right, we gotta think positive. We’re gonna bond with these swell people.
They’re our new best friends!
(She throws an earring down in disgust, chooses another pair, and speaks normally.) It’s ironic, actually.
Here I’ve been a good girl, toadying up to the men in the company, and finally I get a chance to produce my film, with my script —
and I’ve got to impress some Yank b*stard, and sell my soul to coax money out of him. It makes perfect sense.
(Incredulous.) Yes, dear, that’s right, he said I’ll retain creative control — which means precisely nothing.
They come up with that sort of jargon to fill up their contracts to keep their five million lawyers per square inch employed, when they’re not suing each other.
But if his company puts up more than half the funds, you can bet they’ll have their sweaty little hands all over the film.
(Stopped short.) Why should it surprise you he’s interested? (Defensive.) Oh yes, it’s going to be a colossal flop, isn’t it?
Who would want to see a film about John Stuart Mill and Harriet Taylor? How snoringly dull! No, you’re right, of course. It’s not their sort of thing at all.
Mill was an intellect, and American culture is all about celebrating stupidity, just switch on Jerry Springer.
I should know, I have to read their cinema trade papers. (She yanks a comb through her hair as she says each name.)
Wayne’s World. Dumb and Dumber. Hot Chick. Old School. And the apotheosis Forrest Gump. No wonder they loved Reagan so much, or “W.”
They see an intelligent script and they don’t know what to do with it — any more than they know what to do with an intelligent president who can talk in complete sentences.
(Fiona swigs her wine. When she says “Bernard,” she pronounces it the British way: BUH-nud. When she quotes him, she lapses into a fake American accent again.)
Well, according to our good friend Bernard, WaveLine Productions is a young “highbrow, alternative” company, looking for “arty, intellectual projects.”
So, just imagine what “arty” suggestions he’ll make to enhance my script. A bit of shagging, of course. (Fake accent.)
Can’t have a sexless marriage, lady. What we got here is boy meets girl, boy is impotent, girl is frigid — but they get over it!
They go on to have wild, crazy, Technicolor sex! (Her normal accent.) Violence? In the life of Mill?
That’s a difficult proposition, let’s see — Oh, I know! (With fake accent.) — Okay, here’s the pitch. Mill goes down the pub — goes into a bar, see?
And there’s Carlyle. And Mill says, Tom, I’m an abolitionist, ya wanna make something of it? And Carlyle says, yeah, John, I think the wogs on the Jamaican plantations should stay slaves.
So Mill pops him one — whammo! — right in the kisser. Now that’s a movie! Plus a car chase scene.
A bit of MTV flash editing, a throbbing title track by Bryan Adams . . . (Sadly.) Enjoy it? Yes, you would do, wouldn’t you.
Are you sure you don’t want to ask Sharon to stay and serve? (Beat.) If he introduces me to his inner child,
I’ll molest it on the spot, I swear to God I will!
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