We all live monologues. These conversations with ourselves are the endless, anarchic commentary running in our brains. They contain -- just barely -- our rage and desperation. They are the rough drafts of spoken discourse, the side trips into daydream irrelevancies, the lusts and prejudices left unsaid but so deeply felt. Ultimately, our interior monologues amount to a lifelong novel in progress, or perhaps the world's windiest suicide note. Transcribed, they could tell more about what we are than everything we do.
They don't get into films much; mainstream movies are mostly fists and kisses. But when a monologue works --...
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