This week's post is in response to the Matt Krell from Alabama (I think. That's where he was the last time I checked, about two years ago, so I guess he's still there. Holla back Krell.) Matt wants to know just what is the Harold, and while I could link to it and save myself the time, this gives me chance to prep my notes in advance of teaching it to my group out here in the SD.
The Harold is the de facto longform; longform being the kind of improv that lasts longer than 3 minutes, and usually involves weaving multiple scenes together into a single, contiguous piece, but can also just be improvising a single scene for long periods of time without gimmicks – just straight-up long distance running of scenework. (A more in depth of longform would be an essay in and of itself. Stay tuned.) The Harold was originally developed by Del Close in the sixties while he was with The Committee in San Francisco. The piece was actually visualized as what it was going to do well before anyone figured out how to do it. (The name was attached to it this point, and was apparently a point of contention for Close; selected by the theater's pianist as reference to a Beatles' quote. Close considered renaming it later but decided not to to avoid confusion.) The Harold was envisioned as a platform for improvising scenes, games, songs, etc. as a full on non-stop performance piece, with the various parts seamlessly working together “like the members of a jazz band.” Essentially, everything is tied around some central theme, and everyone just riffs on that – a means of exploring and elevating common eccentricities and finding that they are grandiose and connected to epic ideas.
The Harold toiled like this for quite a while, as Close did know what it should be, he just didn't know how to make the whole thing work. The breakthrough was while watching a shortform game called “Time Dash” that involved a scene jumping forward and backward in time to see how relationships changed. The design of the Harold then became built around the idea of starting several scenes and then jumping around so that concepts from the other scenes could play into each other – essentially starting with disparate story lines and then watching them slowly weave together until they were all talking about the same thing. The formal Harold has three beats, and each beat has three scenes (for a total of 9 scenes throughout the entire piece). The first scenes in each beat are connected, as are the second scenes, etc. Each beat is separated by a “group game”, which is just an everybody out on stage and let's goof around a bit so that we can kind of reset for the next beat kind of thing. Cap it with an opening and a conclusion, and the end result is, in order:
OPENING/SCENES 1A, 2A, 3A/GAME/SCENES 1B, 2B, 3B/GAME/SCENES 1C, 2C, 3C/ENDING
(Apologies for the lack of graphic representation; I couldn't even find a good one through Google, but there are bound to be some good ones out there.) Often times, the third beat (“C” in my display) will be a merging of all the scenes, but not necessarily. The important thing here is that the Harold is meant to be a platform for the exploration of ideas because it's repetitive nature encourages exploring similar ideas rather than spiraling away. You can think of this as a road map – and one that you will be infinitely grateful for when you realize you go for thirty minutes without stopping. The Harold is significant in my mind for a few reasons: a) nearly every improviser on the planet has started doing longform with the Harold and b) understand the Harold, and most of the next level of difficulty of forms comes easy, because they are all built on the Harold's blueprint. But one of the greatest things about the Harold is that it really is actually simple once you've done a few of them, which means it's quite open to improvise on the structure of the Harold itself. So, fellow Harolders – happy hunting in the great exploratory world of the Harold.
Further reading: definitely "Truth in Comedy", or just Google "Harold". Got improv questions? Leave them in the comments section below or email stagemonkeyssandiego@gmail.com.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Harold Sacrifice
I've been trying to book my group's first show for the last few weeks, and in the SD, there are very few places to choose from, and most of them want way too much for a group with a fan base you can count on one hand and a show budget of $0. One of the places I called was run by a very nice guy, who when I said “improv group”, instantly perked up, and wanted to know all about what kind of improv we do, what kind I've studied, etc. (Some people like this kind of questioning as interest, but for some reason I feel that some improvisers around here treat it more like an interrogation so that they feel like they know more about improv than you do.) He also wanted to make sure that we wouldn't go blue, which I assured him in a very diplomatic way that we don't go blue without actually saying “I hate cursing”. He also tried to pitch me on the San Francisco improv workshops as a great way to learn linear, narrative improv, and said that it was better than Chicago. I bit my lip, because after all I want this guy to let us have shows there; sorry man, but I'm an iO Chicago guy all the way, so that kind of talk is like insulting my Alma Mater (and I don't even have that strong of an opinion about my real Alma Mater). I also tried to repress the fact that I have been taught linear, narrative improv at the iO; they're no slouches. But he did have reasoning: their in house improv team has tried doing Harold's and the like in the past and has found that the audiences respond better to improvised plays than they do the more “artistic” forms.
About a week later, I met up with some longform improvisers from Lafayette, LA at an improv meet-up, and they seemed to echo the other guy's sentiment. When they do Harolds back home, they explain the entire structure of the Harold to the audience before performing it like they would a shortform game, to which I said, “You're doing too much explaining.” They claimed the same issue – if they just did the form, then the audience seemed confused, but apparently by giving a sort of map at the start of the show then they could follow it. Both different parties claimed that probably in Chicago, someone could do a Harold and not explain the improv particulars to the audience and it still work because the Chicago improv watching crowd was just more savvy when it came to improv. (Congratulations Chicago people – other parts of the country think you're infinitely smarter when it comes to improv than audiences anywhere else!) Now I find it hard to believe that people in SD or Lafayette just “don't get it”. I invited my whole master's program to see one of my shows, and while they are all very smart people when it comes to science, none of them know theater that well, much less improv, and none of them came up later and asked me to explain anything (and we were doing forms that my class had invented – they should have been more confused!) In fact, they only came up and quoted me from the show (in fact they still do – I'll get a Facebook wall post from time to time with my line in it.) The typical iO intro will only say that each group is going to go for about thirty minutes and will improvise scenes, games, or songs based on a suggestion from the audience, and while I would agree that on some nights there was a lot of improvising students in the audience, I can't believe that the entire audience was only getting it because they were students of the art of improv (or perhaps because they came and watched improv shows all the time).
Del Close said that we can't blame the audience for a bad show – especially for “not getting it”, because audiences are a lot smarter than we give them credit for. Often times, he said, they get it before the players do. So do we really have to sacrifice the Harold? Granted, it is the first form that most improvisers do, so as a result it's often the first one to go as they become more experienced, but if we eschew the Harold, won't we just start to get rid of the other ones too? Sure improvised narratives are fun (and they probably are, I admit, more accessible), but when we limit ourselves, we're sort of being anti-improv, and I think the audience is smart enough that we don't have to hold their hand.
About a week later, I met up with some longform improvisers from Lafayette, LA at an improv meet-up, and they seemed to echo the other guy's sentiment. When they do Harolds back home, they explain the entire structure of the Harold to the audience before performing it like they would a shortform game, to which I said, “You're doing too much explaining.” They claimed the same issue – if they just did the form, then the audience seemed confused, but apparently by giving a sort of map at the start of the show then they could follow it. Both different parties claimed that probably in Chicago, someone could do a Harold and not explain the improv particulars to the audience and it still work because the Chicago improv watching crowd was just more savvy when it came to improv. (Congratulations Chicago people – other parts of the country think you're infinitely smarter when it comes to improv than audiences anywhere else!) Now I find it hard to believe that people in SD or Lafayette just “don't get it”. I invited my whole master's program to see one of my shows, and while they are all very smart people when it comes to science, none of them know theater that well, much less improv, and none of them came up later and asked me to explain anything (and we were doing forms that my class had invented – they should have been more confused!) In fact, they only came up and quoted me from the show (in fact they still do – I'll get a Facebook wall post from time to time with my line in it.) The typical iO intro will only say that each group is going to go for about thirty minutes and will improvise scenes, games, or songs based on a suggestion from the audience, and while I would agree that on some nights there was a lot of improvising students in the audience, I can't believe that the entire audience was only getting it because they were students of the art of improv (or perhaps because they came and watched improv shows all the time).
Del Close said that we can't blame the audience for a bad show – especially for “not getting it”, because audiences are a lot smarter than we give them credit for. Often times, he said, they get it before the players do. So do we really have to sacrifice the Harold? Granted, it is the first form that most improvisers do, so as a result it's often the first one to go as they become more experienced, but if we eschew the Harold, won't we just start to get rid of the other ones too? Sure improvised narratives are fun (and they probably are, I admit, more accessible), but when we limit ourselves, we're sort of being anti-improv, and I think the audience is smart enough that we don't have to hold their hand.
Friday, October 2, 2009
A Barrel of Monkeys
I’m in Dallas, TX this weekend, for an improv convention. Only convention doesn’t quite sum it up, and neither does festival. It’s really something so much different than any other kind of improv meet up you’re likely to hear about. The first group I ever did improv with was the Stage Monkeys back in Hattiesburg, MS, but it’s not the only troupe to fly the banner of “Stage Monkeys”. The Stage Monkeys (full title “Cult of the Stage Monkey”) is actually a national confederation of improv groups, from the District of Columbia to San Diego, CA. Six troupes total and a huge smattering of what we refer to as “at-large” members filling all points in between. This effectively makes the Stage Monkeys one of the widest reaching improv organizations in the U.S., and one of the ways we celebrate this is with our annual meeting, the Barrel of Monkeys (clever, right?)
But like I said, Barrel sort of defies any kind of conventional titling that is typically applied to any sort of national improv festival. The Stage Monkeys are unique in our actually quite interactive and welcoming national-level discussions. Barrel is a weekend of workshops, sure. And it also has performances and socials, but it seems like calling it a festival doesn’t really fit the bill. The closest thing I’m familiar with it being similar to comes from when I was in the Boy Scouts honor society, the Order of the Arrow, where we would have a national meeting that we called the Conclave once a year. Conclave was where all the different chapters would get together, generally for no real reason other than fellowship. (Conclave as it turns out, has the definition of “a meeting of family members”.)
The difference is this: other festivals invite whoever will make the festival seem the most prestigious: the best teachers, groups, performers, etc. They also invite anyone who’s willing to foot the entrance fees, so as a result, the festival is filled with really great improvisers without a doubt, but they also don’t really know each other, don’t have much of an inclination to get to know each other, so it ends up being like back in high school. You’re all there for the same absolute purpose (i.e. go to school), but it’s heavily splintered under all the different allegiances to different cliques. Even within the larger theatres, even though everyone is very welcoming, generally speaking there isn’t a lot of organization wide camaraderie.
The Stage Monkeys in the end does have a bunch of separately operating groups but when they get together, it no longer matters. For example, this year’s organizer is a Monkey named Matt. Now I have actually met, and talked to in person, Matt three times in my entire life. I have exchanged emails and talked to on the phone maybe another 5 times, but every time I see him (including the first) it’s like seeing an old friend again. We hug (and I should point out I’m not a big hugger) and talk like we’ve known each other for years and have hung out thousands of times. This is the basic gist of my lesson this week to my chapter of Monkeys; they will never be as strong as individual improvisers as they can be when they work as a team. Improv is a team sport, but it’s also an art form, which means doubly more so it relies on collaboration with other improvisers.
The Stage Monkeys it seems, actively try to break down the barriers that hold “separatist” groups apart, and it generally works really well. There are no cliques, no little groups; there is just Monkey, which is really great. Now there will be workshops (which are taught internally for the most part), shows (which, to be honest, are primarily for our own benefit), but there will also be drinking, sharing of ideas, and good times. We emphasize teaching internally because we like to promote the free exchange of ideas and providing support to our fellow practitioners. I challenge someone to come up with an equally widespread improv organization that matches what we do. For example, when I moved from Hattiesburg, MS to Chicago, I was basically just accepted into the local chapter merely as a matter of course. We may all be from different cities, states, and we may in fact all be approaching improv differently, but we are united in a common philosophy and love for improv and for that reason, we are more than invincible. We are friends.
But like I said, Barrel sort of defies any kind of conventional titling that is typically applied to any sort of national improv festival. The Stage Monkeys are unique in our actually quite interactive and welcoming national-level discussions. Barrel is a weekend of workshops, sure. And it also has performances and socials, but it seems like calling it a festival doesn’t really fit the bill. The closest thing I’m familiar with it being similar to comes from when I was in the Boy Scouts honor society, the Order of the Arrow, where we would have a national meeting that we called the Conclave once a year. Conclave was where all the different chapters would get together, generally for no real reason other than fellowship. (Conclave as it turns out, has the definition of “a meeting of family members”.)
The difference is this: other festivals invite whoever will make the festival seem the most prestigious: the best teachers, groups, performers, etc. They also invite anyone who’s willing to foot the entrance fees, so as a result, the festival is filled with really great improvisers without a doubt, but they also don’t really know each other, don’t have much of an inclination to get to know each other, so it ends up being like back in high school. You’re all there for the same absolute purpose (i.e. go to school), but it’s heavily splintered under all the different allegiances to different cliques. Even within the larger theatres, even though everyone is very welcoming, generally speaking there isn’t a lot of organization wide camaraderie.
The Stage Monkeys in the end does have a bunch of separately operating groups but when they get together, it no longer matters. For example, this year’s organizer is a Monkey named Matt. Now I have actually met, and talked to in person, Matt three times in my entire life. I have exchanged emails and talked to on the phone maybe another 5 times, but every time I see him (including the first) it’s like seeing an old friend again. We hug (and I should point out I’m not a big hugger) and talk like we’ve known each other for years and have hung out thousands of times. This is the basic gist of my lesson this week to my chapter of Monkeys; they will never be as strong as individual improvisers as they can be when they work as a team. Improv is a team sport, but it’s also an art form, which means doubly more so it relies on collaboration with other improvisers.
The Stage Monkeys it seems, actively try to break down the barriers that hold “separatist” groups apart, and it generally works really well. There are no cliques, no little groups; there is just Monkey, which is really great. Now there will be workshops (which are taught internally for the most part), shows (which, to be honest, are primarily for our own benefit), but there will also be drinking, sharing of ideas, and good times. We emphasize teaching internally because we like to promote the free exchange of ideas and providing support to our fellow practitioners. I challenge someone to come up with an equally widespread improv organization that matches what we do. For example, when I moved from Hattiesburg, MS to Chicago, I was basically just accepted into the local chapter merely as a matter of course. We may all be from different cities, states, and we may in fact all be approaching improv differently, but we are united in a common philosophy and love for improv and for that reason, we are more than invincible. We are friends.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Chicago vs. SoCal
This week’s blog is in reply to a question posed by Jessica from Chicago. Jessica has asked: “What have you found to be some of the differences (big, small or just blog-able) between improvising in Chicago and in that strange wonderland they call, "California"?”
Ah, SoCal: sunny vacation spot, home to Sea World, and mere minutes from the underage drinking capital of the world, Tijuana. I came to San Diego last year, arguably spoiled on Chicago improv, but I personally believe that the differences between Chicago and SoCal are endemic to really any comparison between pretty much any city and the big three (NYC, LA, Chi-town). Despite being the 9th largest city in the country (recently bumped down by Houston), San Diego (or “the SD” for those in the know) is something of a cultural wasteland when it comes to improv - I’ve even taken to calling it “the hinterlands” when writing about it.
For starters, there is one improv theatre in town (heck that’s more than most cities can boast), which generates consistently large crowds on a consistently entertaining shortform show that mirrors what I’ve seen Comedy Sportz do (from what I hear, the theatre used to be a Theatre Sportz site until ten years or so ago). They have a “longform night” once a month, where they do (drum roll, please) shortform! And about 15 minutes of what I would roughly call longform. Other than that, there is only a smattering of improv troupes (about eight independent groups, by my count) all of which are shortform, with a few dabbling in longform. However, I believe the problem in this case is not particular to improv; from what I’ve gathered from my performing friends, even when stage plays go up in town, they usually recruit from the giant up the 5, LA. The proximity to LA I believe really hurts the ability of truly interesting work being done, because people probably assume that they could just drive the two hours if they want to see cool shows, and as a result, everybody who would perform it just drives the two hours to perform it up there. (Or move up there, audition, get cast, and come back to the SD to do the show.) This siphoning means that, generally speaking, truly motivated and talented performers will probably just leave the city entirely.
The result is that most improvisers are really something else for their day jobs, and I don’t mean that in the way that Chicago improvisers are. Every improviser in Chicago (excepting a few players) has a day job down in the Loop somewhere, but the difference is that in Chicago, those people moved to Chicago to be improvisers, but took Loop work to pay the rent. In the SD, nearly everyone is employed as something else, and just does improv as a hobby. As a result, there is less motivation and dedication to the craft, which results in a smaller pool of energized, dedicated improv minds, which leads to a lack of innovation. I read once that Chicago was so great because with so many people doing so much improv, the art form moves ahead in phenomenal ways just because there are so many people working on improv. It’s not that the quality of players is necessarily better in Chicago – it’s the “economy of scale”. There is definitely a lack of interest in trying new things (most groups in town just do shortform), and that is particularly frustrating. I was speaking with the director of one of my groups who moved here from Atlanta, and by the time we were done, you could’ve sworn we were bloodthirsty zealots, hexing the satisfied and complacent improvisers of the SD. Longform is a word rarely uttered down here, a symptom of what I think could be called “Hinterland Syndrome”. I remember the philosophy from when I lived back in Mississippi: why monkey around with this complex, challenging thing when what we’ve already got works just fine? This is related to the fact that with fewer groups to compete with, there’s less drive to come up with something new. (Not to mention that there aren’t that many people who know how to do it.)
This also means that there’s a smaller community, with most groups greedily trying to stave off new groups like lions shooing buzzards away from a fresh kill. The groups seem to operated independently of each other, with no one really looking at any one else for ideas, camaraderie, or inspiration. Like I said, there’s the one theatre in town dedicated to improv, and there’s only a few places available to rent for a show. Even worse, there is very little rehearsal space for new groups (especially on the cheap). There’s just no infrastructure, even if there was a group motivated enough. This makes it very hard for new groups to get traction. In the large cities, if you wanted stage time, you just audition for one of the several stages, or get a group together and start by playing at any number of the “pay to play” nights. In the SD when you want to get a new group, you have to basically rent the theatre out yourself and do all of the legwork without any support. And this is all a shame, because there are more than enough interested, funny, talented players down here, and definitely enough available tourists to cater to.
Got an improv question? Leave it in the comments below or send an email to stagemonkeyssandiego@gmail.com.
Ah, SoCal: sunny vacation spot, home to Sea World, and mere minutes from the underage drinking capital of the world, Tijuana. I came to San Diego last year, arguably spoiled on Chicago improv, but I personally believe that the differences between Chicago and SoCal are endemic to really any comparison between pretty much any city and the big three (NYC, LA, Chi-town). Despite being the 9th largest city in the country (recently bumped down by Houston), San Diego (or “the SD” for those in the know) is something of a cultural wasteland when it comes to improv - I’ve even taken to calling it “the hinterlands” when writing about it.
For starters, there is one improv theatre in town (heck that’s more than most cities can boast), which generates consistently large crowds on a consistently entertaining shortform show that mirrors what I’ve seen Comedy Sportz do (from what I hear, the theatre used to be a Theatre Sportz site until ten years or so ago). They have a “longform night” once a month, where they do (drum roll, please) shortform! And about 15 minutes of what I would roughly call longform. Other than that, there is only a smattering of improv troupes (about eight independent groups, by my count) all of which are shortform, with a few dabbling in longform. However, I believe the problem in this case is not particular to improv; from what I’ve gathered from my performing friends, even when stage plays go up in town, they usually recruit from the giant up the 5, LA. The proximity to LA I believe really hurts the ability of truly interesting work being done, because people probably assume that they could just drive the two hours if they want to see cool shows, and as a result, everybody who would perform it just drives the two hours to perform it up there. (Or move up there, audition, get cast, and come back to the SD to do the show.) This siphoning means that, generally speaking, truly motivated and talented performers will probably just leave the city entirely.
The result is that most improvisers are really something else for their day jobs, and I don’t mean that in the way that Chicago improvisers are. Every improviser in Chicago (excepting a few players) has a day job down in the Loop somewhere, but the difference is that in Chicago, those people moved to Chicago to be improvisers, but took Loop work to pay the rent. In the SD, nearly everyone is employed as something else, and just does improv as a hobby. As a result, there is less motivation and dedication to the craft, which results in a smaller pool of energized, dedicated improv minds, which leads to a lack of innovation. I read once that Chicago was so great because with so many people doing so much improv, the art form moves ahead in phenomenal ways just because there are so many people working on improv. It’s not that the quality of players is necessarily better in Chicago – it’s the “economy of scale”. There is definitely a lack of interest in trying new things (most groups in town just do shortform), and that is particularly frustrating. I was speaking with the director of one of my groups who moved here from Atlanta, and by the time we were done, you could’ve sworn we were bloodthirsty zealots, hexing the satisfied and complacent improvisers of the SD. Longform is a word rarely uttered down here, a symptom of what I think could be called “Hinterland Syndrome”. I remember the philosophy from when I lived back in Mississippi: why monkey around with this complex, challenging thing when what we’ve already got works just fine? This is related to the fact that with fewer groups to compete with, there’s less drive to come up with something new. (Not to mention that there aren’t that many people who know how to do it.)
This also means that there’s a smaller community, with most groups greedily trying to stave off new groups like lions shooing buzzards away from a fresh kill. The groups seem to operated independently of each other, with no one really looking at any one else for ideas, camaraderie, or inspiration. Like I said, there’s the one theatre in town dedicated to improv, and there’s only a few places available to rent for a show. Even worse, there is very little rehearsal space for new groups (especially on the cheap). There’s just no infrastructure, even if there was a group motivated enough. This makes it very hard for new groups to get traction. In the large cities, if you wanted stage time, you just audition for one of the several stages, or get a group together and start by playing at any number of the “pay to play” nights. In the SD when you want to get a new group, you have to basically rent the theatre out yourself and do all of the legwork without any support. And this is all a shame, because there are more than enough interested, funny, talented players down here, and definitely enough available tourists to cater to.
Got an improv question? Leave it in the comments below or send an email to stagemonkeyssandiego@gmail.com.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Drink the Electric Kool Aid
I’m currently reading a book called “The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test”, by Tom Wolfe, and I feel it’s a happy coincidence that I’m reading it on the tail end of reading “Lamb or The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal”. (It should probably be noted at this point that I am, in fact, a heathen.) I say happy coincidence, because the two texts echo each other in the search for a certain divine thread that holds the whole of life in the universe together. “Electric” is all about Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, who, during the sixties were at the forefront of the psychotropic movement. They lived in a little communal in La Honda, CA and spent their time doing extraordinary amounts of LSD, DMT (DMT is extreme psychotropic by anyone’s standards. To reference the book, LSD is like “taking a long journey”, whereas DMT is like “being shot out of a cannon), amphetamines, weed, and any other pharmaceutical they could get their hands on and chanting, meditating, and being their way to some sort of consciousness. “Lamb” on the other hand, is a comical telling of the 18 years in Christ’s life that are left out of the Bible, as seen by his best friend, Biff. Christ makes his way through Afghanistan , China , and India
He was interested in psychotropics as a road towards opening the mind – unlock that brain with some drugs, and watch the grand splendor of the doors of perception being whipped open with the force of unimpeded imagination flowing forth like a typhoon (think about that metaphor, drug heads). It’s worth noting too, that around the same time the Merry Pranksters were gliding around the forests in Nor Cal drugged out of their gourds humming to each other,
(I do want to point out that I don’t propose drug use as a method to unlock your improv potential; quite the contrary – other than some sporadic (though occasionally heavy and sporadic) pot use, I find that the majority of improvisers are quite clean cut.)
One of the sections I liked quite a lot has to do with what the improvisers all call “living in the moment”. This is important because this concept echoes through Hinduism, Zen Buddhism, and what athletes call “the Zone”. Kesey explains that the fastest someone can hope to react is 1/30 of a second, and even then only if they are running at their utmost potential. Even with someone reacting as fast as possible, we’re still reacting to a movie of what went on in front of us 1/30 of a second ago. I list this as important because since leaving
And here, dear intrepid explorers of the mind, is where I bring it back to improvisation. We’re working on a game right now called Good Advice, Bad Advice (some Monkeys may recognize it better as the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, with the primary difference being the addition of a characterization to each seat). Game works like this: people from the audience ask questions, a panel of experts in turn gives them back good, bad, and worst advice to the question. I say working on this game, because I have yet to see it consistently work. Even a small, decidedly unscientific poll among my improv friends have turned up but 3 recallable instances of even one seat working. The problem, I feel, is in the moment. This game suffers from affording players too much time to think. This game (especially with the addition of characters) slugs along, with each seat trying to come up with something funny to say. When it’s played, these people are way behind the 1/30 of second mark. They’re, like, living in yesterday (man). I feel like most of the scenes I watch that don’t function right is because the scene isn’t moving along fast enough to keep the improvisers engrossed (or maybe their drug addled brains are wandering off), so they start thinking. And thinking. And planning ahead. And reacting slower, and slower.
Now I can’t quite get completely behind the Pranksters in everything they were expounding (their commune sounds like living in a gulag, only with fewer functioning toilets), but I’ve got to feel like they were on to something. (It may also hurt improv that most improvisers are of the “analytical” type, nearly the exact opposite of the Pranksters.) But like fictional Christ learning Kung-Fu, I’ve got to feel like that mysterious improv current is out there, and you just have to tap into it and let it make you move at the speed of life (man).
And if you want, I know a guy.
Friday, August 14, 2009
No "Riding"?
Greetings, fellow improviser. Apologies for having no new posts this week (and a generally inconsistent schedule over the last month), I know all none of you have been holding your breath in anticipation. There will be a new post next Friday - life has been getting in the way, and will continue, but progress must be made.
In the mean time, want to help me write new essays? Post your questions down in the comments section below, or send an email to stagemonkeyssandiego@gmail.com.
Thanks for reading,
Chris George
In the mean time, want to help me write new essays? Post your questions down in the comments section below, or send an email to stagemonkeyssandiego@gmail.com.
Thanks for reading,
Chris George
Friday, July 31, 2009
Graduation Shows
Ah, the graduation showcase: the time honored final send-off for the recent graduates of an improvisation training program. It’s kind of like prom for improvisers; everyone gets dressed up, really nervous, some people kind of don’t even want to do it, but in the end, you’re glad you went. Afterward, everyone shakes hands, high fives, takes pictures, and then hits the bar. These showcases offer a unique opportunity for an improviser’s friends and family to finally get to see what their junior improviser has been up to every week for a year. It also affords a special chance for the senior improvisers to see the new crop and start picking who will get picked to go on to the main stage.
It’s this last purpose that can make the graduation show one of the most emotionally wrenching times for the members of that class. Let’s face it: if you are even remotely interested in doing improv, then you are heavily invested in getting a spot on the main stage. Main stage means more practice time, stage time, prestige, and presumably the chance to hobnob with the experienced folks in hopes of teaming up with them. It’s usually seen as more than just a stepping stone: it can easily be the big “break” that leads to all sorts of stuff. And for this reason, your fellow classmates will gladly slit your throat if it means they get picked over you. (For a bunch of comedians, improvisers take this stuff very seriously.)
The iO (formerly Improv Olympic) shows have a big leg up on the local program in that there are multiple shows, instead of the one (Duhn, duhn, duhn). What’s strange is the kind of overnight kind of switch that occurs with your classmates; these are people you joked with after class, grabbed a beer with, saw improv shows with, but just as soon as the specter of getting picked for a team settles in, all bets are off. Suddenly everyone is only interested in performing the best show (which is often interpreted as “the kind of show that gets you noticed”). Suddenly this one show becomes the end all be all. I have provided the following time line to get you familiar with the insanity, which is primarily applicable to those who have eight weeks of shows:
1. Two weeks before your first show – there is a flurry of emails between the members of a group. Everyone is heatedly arguing for a coach, practice time, etc. and everyone just generally seems to have their panties in a bunch. Also, a group of people will want to go see the current round of graduation shows (“To see what to expect.”), and another will adamantly oppose seeing the show (“I don’t want to get distracted/nervous.”) You also discover that Gmail can actually keep an email string with 300 replies active. Those guys are amazing.
2. First two shows – people are exceedingly nervous about performing, mostly because they want to impress the people who will ultimately pick them for teams. After they get off stage, they realize that none of the people who are picking are even there. Strangely, no one seems nervous about performing in front of family and friends.
3. Third and fourth shows – these will be the worst two shows you will perform. The early excitement over performing has passed; everyone gets a little sloppy when they realized how good that other team is. Everyone seems to say “Why should we even bother? That whole other group is going to get picked!”
4. Fifth, sixth, and seventh shows – these are progressively the best shows you will ever do, as everyone is slowly finding their respective grooves, figuring out the games/forms, and actually starts to have a good time.
5. Eighth show – this will, contrary to logic, not be your best show. It will be sort of like your third best show. At this point, everyone has just kind of given up worrying about the whole damn thing, and is really just having a good time. Plus, everyone realizes this is the last time you will ever perform together (Expect lots of hugging, picture taking, and making plans to get together and practice). (Improvisers love making empty promises like these. It says something about our mindset that we do an art form that necessitates a non-planned, free-wheeling attitude. That is, we’re as a whole unmotivated.) Also, this is the show the recruiters are watching.
6. A Week-ish after your last show – you find out who gets picked, and who didn’t. Generally there are no surprises. You also discover that you still talk to the people you actually enjoyed improvising with, who may or may not have been the “best” ones in class.
Now, that all having been said, I did go to graduation show this week (and did see the recruiters sitting in the time-honored recruiter spot: the back row, with a clip board). The graduation show serves as an interesting case, though: it is a show after all, but then again it kind of isn’t. There are some people who will never make a team, some will move afterward to some other city, others may drop out entirely; but the real purpose of the graduation show is to give your friends and family an opportunity to come see what you’ve been doing – to watch you be funny, and put on a good show. The graduation show isn’t supposed to be groundbreaking; it’s supposed to be polished enough to feel good about and for all your friends to see just how freaking funny you are. A graduation show should be simple, because it’s easier to show off your talent that way. I make this last point because improvisers tend to overplay things when they’re trying to show off; they want to do the hardest form, the craziest games, and play everything hard core because they feel like they need to blow people away. (The lesson here: that never works.)
So, to my fellow graduates (and soon to be graduates): Enjoy yourself, ignore the man in the back row, play with abandon so your friends can laugh at you, and for god’s sake, give the emails a rest.
It’s this last purpose that can make the graduation show one of the most emotionally wrenching times for the members of that class. Let’s face it: if you are even remotely interested in doing improv, then you are heavily invested in getting a spot on the main stage. Main stage means more practice time, stage time, prestige, and presumably the chance to hobnob with the experienced folks in hopes of teaming up with them. It’s usually seen as more than just a stepping stone: it can easily be the big “break” that leads to all sorts of stuff. And for this reason, your fellow classmates will gladly slit your throat if it means they get picked over you. (For a bunch of comedians, improvisers take this stuff very seriously.)
The iO (formerly Improv Olympic) shows have a big leg up on the local program in that there are multiple shows, instead of the one (Duhn, duhn, duhn). What’s strange is the kind of overnight kind of switch that occurs with your classmates; these are people you joked with after class, grabbed a beer with, saw improv shows with, but just as soon as the specter of getting picked for a team settles in, all bets are off. Suddenly everyone is only interested in performing the best show (which is often interpreted as “the kind of show that gets you noticed”). Suddenly this one show becomes the end all be all. I have provided the following time line to get you familiar with the insanity, which is primarily applicable to those who have eight weeks of shows:
1. Two weeks before your first show – there is a flurry of emails between the members of a group. Everyone is heatedly arguing for a coach, practice time, etc. and everyone just generally seems to have their panties in a bunch. Also, a group of people will want to go see the current round of graduation shows (“To see what to expect.”), and another will adamantly oppose seeing the show (“I don’t want to get distracted/nervous.”) You also discover that Gmail can actually keep an email string with 300 replies active. Those guys are amazing.
2. First two shows – people are exceedingly nervous about performing, mostly because they want to impress the people who will ultimately pick them for teams. After they get off stage, they realize that none of the people who are picking are even there. Strangely, no one seems nervous about performing in front of family and friends.
3. Third and fourth shows – these will be the worst two shows you will perform. The early excitement over performing has passed; everyone gets a little sloppy when they realized how good that other team is. Everyone seems to say “Why should we even bother? That whole other group is going to get picked!”
4. Fifth, sixth, and seventh shows – these are progressively the best shows you will ever do, as everyone is slowly finding their respective grooves, figuring out the games/forms, and actually starts to have a good time.
5. Eighth show – this will, contrary to logic, not be your best show. It will be sort of like your third best show. At this point, everyone has just kind of given up worrying about the whole damn thing, and is really just having a good time. Plus, everyone realizes this is the last time you will ever perform together (Expect lots of hugging, picture taking, and making plans to get together and practice). (Improvisers love making empty promises like these. It says something about our mindset that we do an art form that necessitates a non-planned, free-wheeling attitude. That is, we’re as a whole unmotivated.) Also, this is the show the recruiters are watching.
6. A Week-ish after your last show – you find out who gets picked, and who didn’t. Generally there are no surprises. You also discover that you still talk to the people you actually enjoyed improvising with, who may or may not have been the “best” ones in class.
Now, that all having been said, I did go to graduation show this week (and did see the recruiters sitting in the time-honored recruiter spot: the back row, with a clip board). The graduation show serves as an interesting case, though: it is a show after all, but then again it kind of isn’t. There are some people who will never make a team, some will move afterward to some other city, others may drop out entirely; but the real purpose of the graduation show is to give your friends and family an opportunity to come see what you’ve been doing – to watch you be funny, and put on a good show. The graduation show isn’t supposed to be groundbreaking; it’s supposed to be polished enough to feel good about and for all your friends to see just how freaking funny you are. A graduation show should be simple, because it’s easier to show off your talent that way. I make this last point because improvisers tend to overplay things when they’re trying to show off; they want to do the hardest form, the craziest games, and play everything hard core because they feel like they need to blow people away. (The lesson here: that never works.)
So, to my fellow graduates (and soon to be graduates): Enjoy yourself, ignore the man in the back row, play with abandon so your friends can laugh at you, and for god’s sake, give the emails a rest.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Improv Birthdays
I celebrated my birthday last week – now a semi-proud member of the late twenties crowd, I feel that my life has perhaps finally started taking off (or maybe that’s all the cake talking). Birthdays are fun because we place so much value on age; someone who is 50 is considered to be refined, whereas a 30 year old is considered to be struggling in adolescence, and a teenager is still seen as having “his whole life ahead of him”. Some of it is societal, you must be 16 to drive, 18 to vote, 21 to drink, but after 21 the years all kind of blend together – just a mesh of experiences with no real markers other than the ten divisible years. One of my coworkers has even taken to calling me “old Chris”, because I’m now 3 years older than her (for the next two weeks, anyway). Even she is bemoaning turning 24 (heaven forbid) because she sees 23 as the last year when nothing is really expected of you (this coming from a Master’s graduate with a husband, a three-year-old (ages again!), and a mortgage).
But what’s great about birthdays is everyone celebrating not only reaching that next mile marker (level sounds a little too D&D), but also celebrating what you have accomplished, and what you will accomplish. I have noticed however, that improv is quite the opposite. As improvisers we tend to be a little myopic about our own accomplishments. We only see how far we still have to go, instead of how far we have come. (On the other hand, improvisers tend to gladly celebrate the accomplishments of others. I guess that makes us the most complimentary group on the planet, right?)
Bill Arnett has already written a fantastic essay which I will only link to here (http://blogs.iochicago.net/bill/wordpress/p?=38), where he talks about how we mature as improvisers. (I feel I must link over to Bill’s stuff every once in a while, a) for being one of the largest influences on my improv philosophy, b) for being so damn smart, and c) for putting up with my constant pestering in what has rapidly become a J.D./Coxian a la “Scrubs” dynamic.) But what I think is important is that Bill even has to smooth some feathers over, because as students and performers of improv, we lose sight of what we’re doing and get bogged down in the tedium of mastering the craft.
I never hear anyone talk about how much they’ve improved, only what could have been done better. And while I am a big proponent of pushing yourselves, it’s also important to step back every once in a while and remember just how good you’re doing things. And this is why, this September, I plan on celebrating my improv birthday. I want to celebrate just how much better I am than when I started back in 2003, I want to celebrate the good scenes I’ve had, and every single good friend I have made while doing improv. I choose to celebrate because I want to proud of the work I’ve done up to this point. Were there bad scenes? Sure. But I had a lot of fun, and I really hope that if you’re improvising that you’re having fun too. The only unfortunate part is, I can’t remember the exact day that started doing improv (it was sometime in early September, this much I know for sure), but I want everyone else to think back to the first time they stepped on stage and became the Pillsbury Doughboy (my first scene ever; a game of “Party Quirks”).
So my experiment for everyone is this: figure out what your improv birthday is, and celebrate the shit out of it. I will be six improv years old this year, and by god I want to see what I’ll be like when I can finally take the car out of the driveway.
But what’s great about birthdays is everyone celebrating not only reaching that next mile marker (level sounds a little too D&D), but also celebrating what you have accomplished, and what you will accomplish. I have noticed however, that improv is quite the opposite. As improvisers we tend to be a little myopic about our own accomplishments. We only see how far we still have to go, instead of how far we have come. (On the other hand, improvisers tend to gladly celebrate the accomplishments of others. I guess that makes us the most complimentary group on the planet, right?)
Bill Arnett has already written a fantastic essay which I will only link to here (http://blogs.iochicago.net/bill/wordpress/p?=38), where he talks about how we mature as improvisers. (I feel I must link over to Bill’s stuff every once in a while, a) for being one of the largest influences on my improv philosophy, b) for being so damn smart, and c) for putting up with my constant pestering in what has rapidly become a J.D./Coxian a la “Scrubs” dynamic.) But what I think is important is that Bill even has to smooth some feathers over, because as students and performers of improv, we lose sight of what we’re doing and get bogged down in the tedium of mastering the craft.
I never hear anyone talk about how much they’ve improved, only what could have been done better. And while I am a big proponent of pushing yourselves, it’s also important to step back every once in a while and remember just how good you’re doing things. And this is why, this September, I plan on celebrating my improv birthday. I want to celebrate just how much better I am than when I started back in 2003, I want to celebrate the good scenes I’ve had, and every single good friend I have made while doing improv. I choose to celebrate because I want to proud of the work I’ve done up to this point. Were there bad scenes? Sure. But I had a lot of fun, and I really hope that if you’re improvising that you’re having fun too. The only unfortunate part is, I can’t remember the exact day that started doing improv (it was sometime in early September, this much I know for sure), but I want everyone else to think back to the first time they stepped on stage and became the Pillsbury Doughboy (my first scene ever; a game of “Party Quirks”).
So my experiment for everyone is this: figure out what your improv birthday is, and celebrate the shit out of it. I will be six improv years old this year, and by god I want to see what I’ll be like when I can finally take the car out of the driveway.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The "Perfect" Improviser
I rode with a fellow improviser to L.A. a few weeks ago, and we bided our time talking about T.V., movies, and of course, improv. (Put two improvisers in a semi-enclosed space for five minutes, and I guarantee all they’ll talk about is improv after just three of it. Doesn’t help we were also going to see improv.) My friend hasn’t been improvising all that long and we were talking mostly about basics, but I revealed to him my ultimate improv secret: even after doing improv for the better part of a decade, I still feel like I suck.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want people think I’m overly down on myself, pressuring myself unduly (which I do) and being a perfectionist about my own work (which I am). I even know that I am infinitely better than I was just two years ago. What I mean is that even after doing improv this long, every time I step off stage I wish I could have been a little better. (At this point he asked “What have you gotten me into, Chris George?”)
Personally, I feel that this quality makes me a better improviser, by sheer virtue of having it. I’m not happy with what I do at all, and want to be better. I go watch teams like Beer Shark Mice, 3033, or Deep Schwa and hold myself up against that kind of ideal not because I’m a glutton for punishment, but because I see that as a goal that is, in fact, quite reachable. Because whether we want to admit it, we are artists, and we have to take pride in our art. We need to be unsatisfied with everything we do. It is only through our unyielding desire to be better that we improve at all. It is when we get complacent and lazy that what we do starts to suffer.
Now that I’ve successfully terrified a few people into never wanting to improvise again for fear of failure, allow me to share the other quality that makes a good improviser. “Truth in Comedy” has a chapter simply titled “Face the Fear”. At the same time that I’m not happy with what I do (ever), I also respect myself and anyone else willing to step on stage with the absolute potential of falling flat on our faces. The name of the game is improv, which by its very definition means that we don’t know what will happen. The corollary of course, is that while we have the potential to blow people away, we also have the potential to come crashing down just as hard (and boy is it easier to fall). But what makes a good improviser is someone willing to hop right back up there and try again with no hesitation.
These two elements are not entirely disparate, either; it is the fear that continually focuses us to be uncompromising. Give in to the fear, and you are unwilling to take chances. Allow the fear to control you, and you will compromise to almost anything if it means you get some modicum of success.
Be fearless and uncompromising? Sounds like good advice for life. And that’s what I’ve gotten you into.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want people think I’m overly down on myself, pressuring myself unduly (which I do) and being a perfectionist about my own work (which I am). I even know that I am infinitely better than I was just two years ago. What I mean is that even after doing improv this long, every time I step off stage I wish I could have been a little better. (At this point he asked “What have you gotten me into, Chris George?”)
Personally, I feel that this quality makes me a better improviser, by sheer virtue of having it. I’m not happy with what I do at all, and want to be better. I go watch teams like Beer Shark Mice, 3033, or Deep Schwa and hold myself up against that kind of ideal not because I’m a glutton for punishment, but because I see that as a goal that is, in fact, quite reachable. Because whether we want to admit it, we are artists, and we have to take pride in our art. We need to be unsatisfied with everything we do. It is only through our unyielding desire to be better that we improve at all. It is when we get complacent and lazy that what we do starts to suffer.
Now that I’ve successfully terrified a few people into never wanting to improvise again for fear of failure, allow me to share the other quality that makes a good improviser. “Truth in Comedy” has a chapter simply titled “Face the Fear”. At the same time that I’m not happy with what I do (ever), I also respect myself and anyone else willing to step on stage with the absolute potential of falling flat on our faces. The name of the game is improv, which by its very definition means that we don’t know what will happen. The corollary of course, is that while we have the potential to blow people away, we also have the potential to come crashing down just as hard (and boy is it easier to fall). But what makes a good improviser is someone willing to hop right back up there and try again with no hesitation.
These two elements are not entirely disparate, either; it is the fear that continually focuses us to be uncompromising. Give in to the fear, and you are unwilling to take chances. Allow the fear to control you, and you will compromise to almost anything if it means you get some modicum of success.
Be fearless and uncompromising? Sounds like good advice for life. And that’s what I’ve gotten you into.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Four Teachers
Last week, I started directing my very own group for the first time. I have taught a few (read: two) workshops in the past, and even refer to myself as a Co-Director of a troupe for a period of time, but I don’t feel that I have given a single improviser any advice that has actually helped them improvise better. I was nervous and excited about my first ever class, with a bunch of relatively inexperienced improvisers, all looking to me for advice. Would I give good, insightful advice, like I had seen so many people that I admire capable of doing? And more importantly, what kind of teacher would I be? As my fellow Monkeys in Hattiesburg
It was about then that I started trying to think about all the teachers and coaches I have had through the years and tried to figure out what they do that I like. And me being the kind of guy who loves to analyze and define, I started categorizing them. Thus, I created my methodology of the Four Faces of Improv (Teaching). I imagine it being laid out in a box, with a type at each corner, and cross lines inside the square. These aren’t hard and fast rules by any means, and in fact a number of teachers sort of straddled two corners, and I assume that varying degrees of hybridization between each corner gives us all the different kinds of teachers we have.
Artistic: This is the kind of teacher (and nay, improviser) that believes that Meisner and Stanislavski make the cornerstone of any improviser. To them, improv is but an extension of acting that all of improv must be approached treating it like, well, art. They hold high regard to the great craft (and will often go out of their way to call it a “craft”). Generally, most scenes done under their tutelage are not necessarily funny, but they are real. Artistics favor things like depth and meaning over entertaining. Required reading: “Impro” by Johnstone, or any book that when you read the word “actor”, you imagine the writer pronouncing it with very round vowel sounds.
Shamanistic: This is the kind of improviser that insists that everyone stretch for twenty minutes prior to practice in the dark, with shoes off and soothing music playing. This improviser is very insistent on things being organic, and that everyone strive for deep levels of interpersonal communication, usually by improvisers “connecting” by staring into each others eyes for long periods before starting scenes. Required reading: Hard to say. The particularly deft ones in this category have read “The Inner Game of Tennis” and the “Zen of Archery” (which, I must admit, I have read both), but all of them usually talk of Buddhist philosophy, emotional openness, etc.
Analytical: After fifty years of improv, we understand the mechanics of what’s going on fairly well now (at least well enough for a search of “improv” on Amazon.com to turn up just shy of 500 results), and the analytical is the master of breaking down improv into the gears and springs that make it up. These are the minds that came up with The Rules that are now quoted nearly everywhere, under the belief that under enough torture, a scene with confess to almost anything. That’s not to say that’s bad, because the analyticals are the ones critically thinking and writing about improv. Required reading: “Improvise” by Napier for sure, but the analyticals are the ones who own every improv book they can get their hands on.
Fun: These people don’t really want to worry about anything in an improv scene (and really, aren’t they better off that way?), and instead are really only concerned about entertaining the other people in the group. They value teamwork, creativity, spontaneity, and having a good time. These improvisers almost always come from a short-form background (or no previous experience), and just like doing this because it’s interesting and entertaining, and they like making people laugh. Basically, a “funnie” leaps headfirst into the melee, and doesn’t look back until everyone’s at the bar having a beer after the show. Required reading: “Truth in Comedy” by Close, Halpern, and Johnson, and usually nothing else.
Sure, I may have categorized the whole thing, but half the fun is finding out what particular combination of these four elements you have. What kind of teacher am I? It’s perhaps too early to tell, but you may as well just go ahead and ask my Monkeys; they probably have a better idea than I do.
Oh, and I note to
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