The following is a re-airing of Geoffrey’s text work session taken from the full episode with him.
In this excerpt we discuss performing THE PLAYER from Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.
Geoffrey Wade (@geoffreywade) is an actor, director, teacher, photographer, and acting coach, and he was recently in the national tour of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
He has performed on Broadway and off-, and continues to work extensively in regional theater, most recently at South Coast Rep in Amadeus, and a long association with Vermont’s Weston Playhouse where last year he played Cervantes/Quixote in Man of La Mancha.
He works in episodic television (NCIS, Mad Men, Mentalist, Numb3rs, ER, four Law & Orders), in radio and on tour with LA Theatre Works. Films include City Hall, The Divide, Tres, and Steven Spielberg’s The BFG. He recently directed critically acclaimed productions of A Walk in the Woods and The Crucible. He trained at The Central School of Speech and Drama in London after Amherst College.
Geoffrey has been teaching at the Antaeus Academy since 2003, and guest moderated at schools and classes across the country including USC, UCI, and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.
Please enjoy the text work with Geoffrey Wade!
Total running time: 15:06
- Stream by clicking here.
- Download as an MP3 by right-clicking here and choosing “save as/save link as”.
Want to hear more from Geoffrey? Check out my full talk with him here!
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Show Notes
Geoffrey Wade around the web
Twitter | Instagram | His Photography | Film/TV | Broadway | Off-Broadway | LinkedIn | Theatre
Items Mentioned
- Rosencrantz and Gildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard
- Steve Stettler
- Tim Fort
- Malcolm Ewen
- Weston Playhouse
- Anthony Hopkins
Geoffrey’s monologue from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard
[accordion clicktoclose=”true”][accordion-item title=”click to view/close the monologue” id=player state=closed] THE PLAYER: We’re actors…. We pledged our identities, secure in the conventions of our trade, that someone would be watching. And then, gradually, no one was. We were caught, high and dry. It was not until the murderer’s long soliloquy that we were able to look around; frozen as we were in profile, our eyes searched you out, first confidently, then hesitantly, then desperately as each patch of turf, each log, each exposed corner in every direction proved uninhabited, and all the while the murderous King addressed the horizon with his dreary interminable guilt…. Out heads began to move, wary as lizards, the corpse of unsullied Rosalinda peeped through his fingers, and the King faltered. Even then, habit and a stubborn trust that our audience spied upon us from behind the nearest bush, forced our bodies to blunder on long after they had emptied of meaning, until like runaway carts they dragged to a halt. No one came forward. No one shouted at us. The silence was unbreakable, it imposed itself on us; it was obscene. We took off our crowns and swords and cloths of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore. [/accordion-item] [/accordion]
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