Plot
In the original production, 'the girl' arrives in New York City. She tells her pal she doesn't want to become a hard-bitten career woman or a user of men. Shortly after, she discovers her beau has been cheating on her with numerous other women and she walks out.
'The girl' meets Hollywood producer Sheldon Bloom, who takes her to Los Angeles. Sheldon's career ambitions preclude his spending much time on a personal relationship and, after realizing life in the film capital is uneventful and Sheldon has been using her as a trophy girlfriend, 'the girl' returns to Manhattan.
Back in Greenwich Village, 'the girl' meets a salesman, and once again faces disappointment when she learns he frequently has been in town with other women when he supposedly was away on business. The two split up and she meets a married man. Intent on succeeding in her career and acquiring a green card, 'the girl' is content with the noon-to-two relationship she and the married man share, until he announces he has told his wife everything and wants to leave her and marry 'the girl'. She is horrified because not only does she not love him, but she realizes she's been using him, something she had vowed never to do. She sends the married man away and promises herself she will return to being the idealistic and ethical woman she was when she first arrived in the States.
'The girl' is the only person who appears on stage, despite having conversations with her friends and writing letters to her mum.
Read more about this topic: Tell Me On A Sunday
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“Trade and the streets ensnare us,
Our bodies are weak and worn;
We plot and corrupt each other,
And we despoil the unborn.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)
“The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come of it.”
—Charles Dickens (1812–1870)
“The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come of it.”
—Charles Dickens (1812–1870)