Elves = Virgins

Few character races are as indelible as the elf (save for maybe the dwarf). The elf has a wide reaching empire through the realm of fantasy stories; a tall humanoid with pointy ears, a forest dweller, slightly magical with heightened senses, and a master with the bow and arrow. But for all their useful additions to any group of adventurers, one question has always bothered me: are elves virgins?

So first off, we need to establish a few important facts about elves, the most important of which is their extreme age. Lord of the Rings (LotR) mythology says that elves, while they can be killed, are still technically immortal. Even non LotR canon that does not explicitly indicate immortality tends to making elves nigh-immortal, living for mulitples of centuries (i.e. still a very long time). And, like a number of other immortal races, elves remain roughly ageless (in human standards), keeping their same youthful looks, energy, and stamina, both physically and mentally. Therefore, we can make the assumption that elves may remain sexually vital, in at least reproductive terms for the vast duration of their either very long, or potentially endless lives. This is a very important point, because most other immortal or near immortal races are indicated to be incapable of reproduction; vampires (most universes, at least) and even the Highlander-universe immortals are all explicitly stated to be incapable of spawning children either among themselves or with normal humans. Now, if we assume that a single elf then is capable of living millenia (or forever), is capable of producing progeny, and is capable of producing said progeny for a comparatively long time, then we run into a very serious problem with the elven population over time.

In a normal species, reproduction is limited by the time it takes to come to sexual maturity (puberty) and then on the back end by gradual march towards death. Among humans, the lion's share of the bell curve for reproduction is focused between 16 and 51 (the average age of the last period for a woman and the onset of menopause). This is taking an average life expectancy of the modern human being 67 years of age. But part of what keeps our population stable is the ratio between death and birth rates. Too high on the death side, and the population declines in size, but go the other way, and the population grows. However, in the case of elves, when you have a death rate that is effectively zero (excepting any major wars), even a single birth causes the population to grow. If allowed to reproduce ad libitum, the elf population would grow exponentially, because a single elf mother could mother hundreds of elflings during her life, if she reproduced once per year. Allowed to deal with itself, the elf population could easily blossom and take over the world in a few hundred years, because they reproduce so readily with no deaths to offset the population growth. (Just look at what happened when rabbits were introduced in Australia – a small warren of 12 European rabbits were released in 1859, and within 10 years 2 million could be shot or trapped annually without making any change in population size.)

Now the Elves, given their longer lifespans and their reported wise natures, would no doubt have realized the potential their race has to completely dominate any planet they are on. Four elf mates can double themselves every two years, and they can do that forever. Given that elves don't want to drown out every other species (effectively killing their own species in the end due to overcrowding), elves would have undoubtedly made certain stipulations about mating (probably a maximum of one or two children per couple, like that Christopher Lambert movie Fortress) this is because the elven culture is always portrayed as wise and self-aware. But given that even small increases can almost permanently change the demographics (given that a new addition will never actually leave), what is more likely is that Elven leaders would hold a very tight hold over reproduction. For one, given that any new elves will have to become permanent members of the gene pool, the Elven high council would undoubtedly approve any mating to ensure that only the highest quality of new elf was being produced. In fact, look at the scene again from Helm's Deep when the elf army shows up to back up the Fellowship and humans, and tell me that those hundreds of elite and identical looking soldiers are not the result of controlled breeding and eugenics. Additionally, since LotR elves at the very least never die unless there is war, reproduction would likely only be approved after some elves died, or when the leadership decided it was time to increase the size of the population. (On the plus side, the massive casualties at Helm's Deep meant that there was a lot of state-dictated elf boning going on.)

So, back to the original thesis; given that Elves who are following the society-approved mandates cannot reproduce without state approval, and even then only if they meet certain genetic criteria for reproduction, and taking into account the dearth of available birth control methods (excluding Orc-skin condoms and pulling out), any attempt to copulate among elves, is a risky business, especially if it ends up in conception. (Think about how pissed Hugo Weaving was at Liv Tyler for falling in love with Viggo Mortensen in Fellowship. He's not mad because she's going outside of the race – he's mad because she is diluting a carefully constructed über-elf genetic makeup as well as potentially producing offspring that could potentially live forever, and offset the entire population balance of Middle-Earth.) Given the potential penalties for screwing with that, the only sensible solution for a wise elf is to avoid sex altogether, meaning that Legolas, and potentially nearly every elf seen in any fantasy story is likely still a virgin.

Shortform v Longform

I, like so many of my fellow improvisers, started doing improv in college, and started by doing what is commonly known as shortform improvisation. This is in contrast to longform improvisation, and though there is no “official” definition or difference between the two, the generally accepted demarcation is that longform is any improvisation that lasts, uninterrupted, for more than five minutes. Shortform is, well, everything else. Shortform is by far the most common form of improvisation, and prior to moving to Chicago, I was only exposed to longform very briefly and very sporadically. Shortform is so common, that it is even known to people outside of the improv world; I can’t think of a single person who, when describing what improv is to a friend, parent, relative, or co-worker, didn’t say “It’s kind of like ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?’”

In fact, shortform improv probably encompasses a good 75% of all improv ever performed. And with good reason: it involves the audience tremendously, is almost always funny, and allows for the kinds of outrageous characters and situations that audiences have come to expect of their modern comedians. Longform on the other hand, is unpredictable, often unwatchable if performed by even mid-level experienced actors, and if it uses crazy characters and situations, often collapses into a hot mess within minutes. The difference is largely in structure; while longform has attempted to codify itself by creating forms (e.g. the Harold, the Deconstruction, the Armando), adherence to the form is pretty much open to the interpretation of the director and/or performers and definitely not necessary. On the other hand, shortform is heavily dictated by rules and structure. In fact the success or failure of a game is largely a part of how well the players follow the rules and exploit the particular gimmicks of a game. Even the names show the difference in how seriously people take it: shortform pieces are called “games”, and longform ones “forms”. The former suggests that it is solely for entertainment, while the latter suggests a larger, more amorphous thing.

I like to think of shortform as ‘improv with training wheels’. Follow the structure of the games, and people will laugh. This is important in the beginning, as it allows improvisers to get a feel for the basics of improv, get comfortable on stage and with their fellow players, and most importantly have fun. The biggest plus of shortform is that the rules are designed to make nearly every attempt funny and by definition, the game can only last three-ish minutes. Even if it stinks, it’ll be over shortly with a bell ring, and you can start anew. (Whether or not those three minutes can seem like an eternity is discussion of relativity that is beyond the scope of this article.) Longform is generally not as popular among the general population, excluding of course, the forms that are very gimmicky. (The most significant is the various improvised musical acts, which consistently draw large crowds, probably not least of which because people love musicals in general.)

Now, while shortform is a crowd favorite, it is generally looked down upon by ‘serious’ improvisers. Shortform is seen as silly and valueless to longformers, while shortformers look upon longform as unnecessarily cumbersome and often unfunny. In fact, when I first started doing improv, my group watched one of our sister-troupes perform a Harold, and we all swore that we would never bother doing it. Uninteresting and unfunny. We’ll stick to our “Dating Games” and “Stand, Sit, Kneels”, thank you very much.

One of the big improv teachers in San Diego will only teach shortform, despite interest to the contrary. I asked her why, and she said that it wasn’t worth doing improv if it wasn’t on the level of “TJ and Dave”. For the benefit of those not in Chicago, “TJ and Dave” is generally considered to be the best improv show in Chicago, which pretty much makes it the best improv show in the world. To put it in perspective, they play on Wednesday nights at 11:00 to sold-out crowds. Every week. To say that these extremely talented players are the only ones who should even bother doing longform is like saying it isn’t worth living unless you’re going to be the smartest man alive. The point that I had trouble getting across to her was that improv takes time. Carol Hazenfield described longform as the “outback”, and to be honest, it takes time to cross the outback and see everything in it. You don’t become the best gunslinger overnight – you’ve got to rob a few banks first, and yes, botch a couple too. But shortform advocates see every longform failure as proof that the art is unworkable, and indeed many groups have fallen flat on their face as a direct result of not minding the gap between thirst and sense.

It’s true that longform is more challenging; I won’t argue that. It’s a full 27 weeks into the iO’s program before they let you attempt going for over five minutes. It’s scary being up there with no safety net; no team-member standing by the bell, no built in gimmicks, and no rules. But it’s also exhilarating and rewarding – a well performed thirty minute show blows away both audiences and performers alike. I won’t say that shortform doesn’t have its place; without shortform, I never would have been entertained with improv long enough to be still doing it. And audiences will always love shortform, but shortform has limited potential. Those rules are fences which keep improv focused and ‘normal’, but also limit its creative capacity, because just beyond those fences is a whole untamed, anything-goes world of scenes if you’ll just open the gate and walk outside.

Five Things Revisited

I've talked previously about a “trademark” game and about how this game was sort of the pinnacle of why longformers hate shortform because this simple “three” minute (in actuality a 7-8 minute) game takes upwards of 15 minutes to get set up (seriously, time it next chance you get). I was perhaps a bit harsh on this game. All of the things I talked about previously still stand, and I do still think that it takes forever to get the funny, but this game is not entirely without its merits. In fact, by removing nearly every inch of room to actually improvise in by burying the performers in suggestions, the game is as bare-bones as an improv game can be, and as a result, it bears open the two basic tenets of fun, successful improv in a way no other game ever has.

So the game, for those who didn’t read/remember my previous piece, runs down like this. Get five activities from the audience, exchange out elements of each activity with wacky things (He’s snowboarding, but the snowboard is a car, and he’s wearing a porcupine. Hilarious, and wacky.) and the other players have to clue him into the activity through pantomime and gibberish. So the first concept that the game readily shows off is one of audience transposition. You see, when the audience gives a suggestion (especially in a shortform show) they already have a pretty good idea of what that suggestion means to them. (This may be the reason that longform struggles against shortform. On a deeper subconscious level, audiences recognize that they only get to say one thing for a thirty minute show, and their “one thing” may only show up tangentially, at best.)

The moment the suggestion is accepted, everyone is subconsciously forming their idea of what that will look like. Now audiences don’t perform, and most don’t even want to perform (Hence, an audience. It would be something else otherwise.) for whatever reasons. Afraid of being laughed at, making a fool of themselves, etc. But instead of them doing it, they live vicariously through the performers. They want to see their theories confirmed, which is as simple as just doing it.

The second part to this pillar is one of character consistency. One of the popular theories (ideas? philosophies?) that is being taught in workshops is one having to do with characters: basically, when a performer plays a character, people want to see that character continue being himself, regardless of the consequences. Or, “oh, that is so something blank would say/do”. Comedy, at least as far as the theory goes, comes from this character constantly confirming his identity to the audience. They laugh because they see him being open and honest about himself. They don’t laugh when the performer does something out of character and thus denies his identity. They are constantly forming an opinion of this character subconsciously, and they want to see him fit their mental image.

The second pillar is an even simpler one, and its one of performer effort. At the same time audiences recognize (generally speaking) that they don’t want to be on stage, they appreciate the fact that we are. They like rooting for us, sure, but they also love watching us struggle. They love seeing performers confronted with some outrageous situation struggling to get their arms around it. And they love to watch performers getting frustrated against the rules of the universe. There’s a game I see sometimes where reporters are interviewing someone, and they keep getting lost/confused/stuck on strange points, and the interviewer gets increasingly frustrated trying to correct them. Same principle.

Do you realize how awesome this is for us as performers? These two pillars basically say that audiences want to see us take the obvious choice and love to watch us work to get there. Performers take heart: confirm their suspicions and fight like hell, and there’s a terrific chance the audience will love it. Almost makes all that set up worthwhile. Almost.

Resident Evil: Apocalypse

Back in 2004, I used to write movie reviews for the USM student newspaper, the "Student Printz". Because I occasionally feel lazy, and it seems a shame that all of five people ever read these, I've decided to repost them here, in the original versions that I emailed to my editor, Noel, all those years ago.

Resident Evil: Apocalypse is one of those movies you wish somebody would just shoot in the head so it would quit staggering around trying to eat your brains. Resident Evil: Apocalypse is like taking everything that is bad about a Paul W.S. Anderson movie and distilling all the good stuff away, oh wait…it isn’t like that, it is that.

Resident Evil opens just days after the first film finished, with our heroine, Alice (Milla Jovovich) waking up after her first encounter with the evil T-virus and its creator, the Umbrella Corporation. The Umbrella Corporation has been secretly developing this virus, which brings dead people back to life in a secret underground facility called the Hive. After zombies in the first film overran the Hive, the Umbrella Corporation has decided to reopen the facility, allowing all the undead creatures inside to spill out into the streets of Raccoon City, where an entire population of people are waiting to become zombie food. The Umbrella Corporation decide it would just be easier to vaporize the entire city, so they seal off the entire city (which thankfully has only one entrance) and the only people left alive are a small band of police officers and civilians led by Alice. They are contacted by an Umbrella scientist who offers them a way out but only if they rescue his daughter who is also trapped in the city.

Director Alexander Witt is working off a script by the director of the first movie, Paul W.S. Anderson. In fact, he’s practically stolen Anderson’s entire playbook, yet seems to have only a minimal grasp of the source material and script. He uses Anderson’s trademark computerized maps to cut between scenes and works the entire movie like its just one big computer game, with characters bumbling about from location to location with no rhyme or reason and the bosses getting progressively harder as the story progresses. Additionally, the lickers, who were only briefly featured in the first film get only about an extra minute of screen time in this movie, which allows them to introduce: the Nemesis. Another product of the T-virus research, the Nemesis moves like Darth Vader, looks like something Todd McFarlane doodled in his spare time, and wears a black leather slicker out fit that looks like it was stolen from the set of I Know What You Did Last Summer. Oh, and he’s bulletproof too, which is a brilliant design innovation.

While most zombie movies usually revolve around themes of commercialism or societies that are losing individuality, Resident Evil: Apocalypse decides instead to focus on giant, evil corporations who own everything (Who released the original “Resident Evil” game? Oh, wait that’s right: Sony.) The only thing that saves this movie is Mike Epps, who has all the great lines and Jill Valentine (Sienna Guillory) wearing an outfit that that is definitely not standard police issue.

To put it simply: if you must go see only one zombie movie this year, wait for Shaun of the Dead. As for Resident Evil: Apocalypse, the movie barely manages to pull enough entertainment to keep the masses from breaking into the theatre to eat the projectionist alive for making them sit through it.

Putting in the Hours

It is an oft-quoted statistic from Malcolm Gladwell's book “Outliers” that becoming an expert in any given field requires a devotion of at least 10,000 hours to that task. This September marks nine years of doing improvisation for me, so I thought it would be a fun experiment to see how well I was doing on reaching this goal. (I have purposely only included times when I was actively engaged in doing improv – watching doesn't count, but teaching does.)

So the first couple of years are the easy part, as I was only doing improv with the Stage Monkeys Hattiesburg chapter – I estimated from a sample school calendar at USM that there would be 15 weeks of practices, once every Thursday, for two hours each go, and I was in the group for four semesters (Fall '03 – Spring '05), and we did four total shows in my first year and six total shows in my second year (at two hours per show), so my first two years are thus:

[(15 x 2) x 4] + (4 x 2) + (6 x 2) = 140 (So far, so good.)

I also played with the Humorrhoids on the MS Gulf Coast, maybe 3 practices/shows, at 2 hrs per, so I'll add 6 to my total, bringing me to 146. From May '05 – December '05, no improv. It sucks, but it's less math at least. I moved back to Hattiesburg in Jan. '06, and played under the normal school schedule until May '07, so:

[(15 x 2) x 3] = 90 (bringing me to 236; and all of a sudden I realize how slowly this number is rising).

There were no extra shows during that period, so that's my total. June 2007, moved to Chicago, started doing iO once a week, 8 weeks per session, six sessions, 3 hours per, so:

6 x (8 x 3) = 144 (And I'm up to 380.)

I did a cage match for what I think was 6 weeks, which I'll say we actually improvised an hour per match, bringing me to 386. And we got together to do extracurricular practice maybe 10 times, two hours per, bringing me to 406, combined with a few iO electives (5 x 2 hours) gives me 416.

Now comes the fun parts; I started teaching the SD Monkeys the first week of June 2009, which was 3 years and three months ago, for a total of 168 weeks (2.5 hours per week), which I'll say I've probably missed 10% of which due to work, being out of town, holidays, giving me:

[168 – (168 x 0.1)] x 2.5 = 377.5 (and a total of 793.5 hours)

I did four levels of NCT classes, 6 weeks per level, 2 hours per week, so:

4 x 6 x 2 = 48

And 2 years, 9 months of NCT SunCo, (to which I'll apply the 10% miss rule) and 2 hours per practice:

[(2 x 52) + (9 x 4) – ((2 x 52) + (9 x 4) x 0.1) ] x 2 = 252

And 9 months of ROAR, (10% Rule), two hours per practice:

[(9 x 4) – ((9 x 4) x 0.1)] x 2 = 64 (And bringing the total to 1157.5 (four digit numbers, yay!))

I'll say that I was in, conservatively, an average of 1.5 shows per month of SunCo's run and maybe 6 shows of ROAR, an hour per:

(28 x 1.5) + 6) = 48

I've done 55 As Ink episodes, for a total of 27.5 hours of improv, five Barrel of Monkeys, which were likely around 12 hours of improv per, bringing me to 1293 hours.

Throwing in a few random teaching gigs, improv camp, LA improv fest workshops, I'd bring that section to a total of 150 hours (this is the part of my record keeping that is unfortunately guessing) and my total comes to 1393 hours. Including Partial Credit, Mike & Chris, and Fourth Date practices and performances, I'd throw another 75 hours, giving me a total of 1518 hours. I've taught a four week workshop run, and two a month for the period of January to June 2012, and one a week since then (two hours each), giving me:

(4 x 2) + [(6 x 2) x 2)] + [(3 x 4) x 2] = 56 (Up to 1574)

I've done Dinner Detective for 15 months now, averaging around 2 shows per month, of which I'll be conservative and say I've maybe improvised for 1 hour a night (given the scripted beats, and that I've done seated roles here and there), and I'll be generous and give myself an extra 10 hours to account for any shorter gigs I may have forgotten. Combined with four Simply Symbiotic gigs, with two hours apiece, it brings my grand total, for 9 years of improv to:

1622 hours.

That's it. Nine years, and I'm not even 1/5 of the way to being a virtuoso/expert/adept. Now, by my estimates, it would take five years of someone working 40 hours/week to reach this mark, and over the last 9 years, I have worked on my craft an average of ~3.5 hours per week (which actually sounds about right). Oh, well, time to keep improvising.

Camp

(Author's note: this was originally published on the Camp Improv Utopia blog in August of 2012.  It received some negative feedback (likely from the same people who are being called out for their actions in it) and was taken down.)

What I've been telling everyone since I got back from camp, is that my favorite thing about the weekend wasn't the workshops or the teachers or getting to do some camp activities (though those were all great, I should emphasize, as was the wonderful conclave of improvisers I met and the food we ate). No, my favorite thing was the energy – the attitude, as it were, of everyone there. A noncompetitive, supportive, and overwhelmingly positive view towards improv being a gift; one that we were all fortunate enough to have received and even more fortunate to get to give to others. Now this is a wonderful 'tude, but could it survive outside the confines of a place where we were all gathered under the banner of “CAMP”, which is to say, could it last when we got back to whatever jingoistic tendencies we had back in the real world?

So a little background here: the San Diego improv scene has been dominated by one theater for the last decade, and the people in charge there have firmly self-enthroned themselves as being the pinnacle of improvisation in the city. (And I know from talking to other people that this, or similar behavior, is not unheard of in other burgeoning communities too, but San Diego's where I'm at, so it's where my examples come from.) They have their own space, five shows a weekend, and a regular training center. However, the folks in command have also become petty, insecure, and elitist about their work – and it's this negative aspect I've most become concerned with. I didn't realize it until I had gone to camp, but I had been tainted with this negative attitude; a wary, watchful, and defensive eye to anyone else trying to do nearly anything. All attitudes are contagious, and bad attitudes are perhaps the most viral, and it wasn't hard to ascertain where the disease vector was.

It's unfortunate, more than anything, because the city has started to get a very strong, active improv scene in the last few years, run by people who I consider friends, even though they have a different team name from me. People who don't care what flag they march under, just so long as they get to march. Which, some people (including those at the above theater) interpret to be some indication of untrustworthy, disloyal, or even seditious behavior, but others just see as people just wanting to do and get better at something they enjoy doing. Part of the issue is that this problem group also likes to think of themselves as the solenoid who gets to decide who is and who is not worthy of getting to improvise because they see lesser productions as being a detriment to their image. They play improv as poker - however it's not; poker is a zero-sum game, where one player will walk away the victor with more chips than anyone else, at the expense of the other players. In a zero-sum game, the totals of losses and gains all add up to zero, but in improv, everyone can win. We can all walk away from the table with more chips if we want to.

I can't, unfortunately, claim innocence in any of this, this petty, uncouth behavior. This darkness seeps out into our community and it was only when I came into contact with people who don't think about how to take advantage of each other that I see how far I've dropped (an issue I've explored in previous blog posts: 00george.blogspot.com). I think of a line from the Monkees theme song in particular:

We're too busy singing/To put anybody down

Time spent infighting is time not spent improvising, and that is a true waste. And it really is sad, because together, we have the capability to accomplish so much more when we're not worried about stamping out those that are different from us. Diversity should be encouraged; research has shown that being welcoming of diversity is not only good because it makes us not monsters, but because it makes biological organisms stronger and less prone to disease, and makes organizations and systems more agile and flexible. On an artistic level, the more people working on a problem, the faster the problem is solved and the larger the variety of solutions.

Do those good vibes survive outside of camp? The answer is yes – but unfortunately a non-emphatic, qualified “yes”. I have forged some very strong bonds with members of the other “independent” groups; we go to each other's birthday parties, we congratulate each other on successful shows, we help get each other gigs when possible. I meet people all the time down here who are excited about improv and just want to “do”. I also meet a lot of people who have become disenfranchised by the haughty and non-supportive attitude, and the strategy is to either put up with it or distance yourself (and of course, others continue to embrace it, which is even more unfortunate). Ultimately, it is our responsibility to promote the kind of energy we want (to which I could quote an endless series of seemingly trite kitsch slogans like “be the change you want to see in the world”). At least we can take comfort in knowing that somewhere out there (maybe not even a place, maybe just a group of people), there's a spot we can be free to work and explore.

A Cult

People get really put off by the word “cult”; my group, the Stage Monkeys, when it originally started in Louisiana, was (and still is) called the Cult of the Stage Monkey, but when it moved to Mississippi, dropped the “Cult” part, because nearly all of the Miss is in the bible belt, and they don't take to kindly to that kind of talk down there. But improv is in general, a cult itself, and not just in the way that other folks have pointed out before (we make you pay money, we steal your time, we make you more open, emotionally bare weirdos), I mean we are a cult of personality.

Even outside of the near religious reverence of people like Del Close (who does have a shrine at the iO Chicago, for Del's sake) – we revere the people that are involved in it. There are certain people, whose personalities are magnetic – players we love watching, regardless of what show we're watching them in, in fact, we may even prefer to see them in low-concept shows so that we can just watch them. I'm as guilty of this as anyone; you tell me Greg Hess or Blaine Swen or Dave Hill or -stop the presses- Bill Arnett is in a show, and I'm there – I don't even care what they're doing. That's a cult of personality: the devotion of a group of people or community to a single person, based solely on the fact that they are them. A religion built on someone's persona.

Now, in contrast, I just started playing in a community band and noticed something that I had really forgotten about bands – the melding of disparate voices into one sound (“one band, one sound”, to use my Drumline parlance). It's really there in the name: band, ensemble, etc., you have a bunch of very different sounds, that all work together to create a song. Now some instruments are stronger than others (trumpet, trombone) in their big, splashy (often brassy) sounds, while others are cooler, more mellow instruments (saxaphone, clarinet) – but the point is that the entire sound of the group isn't derived from a single voice; it's all the tones working together that complete the sound – it is the very nature of the myriad instruments working together that you can make music. Sure, you can still play some songs without some instruments, but you need all of them working together (and in the right balance) or what you're playing isn't complete.

By the same token, it's important that groups of improvisers recognize the need to have a “complete” ensemble to make “complete” improvs. You can't have an orchestra made of just english horns, and you can't have an improv group made of just smart-witty improviser types. We often lose sight of this when recognizing good improv, in focusing on one particular solo, and forgetting that it was the tubas and bass clarinets that finished the picture. And I say this being well aware that being in two-man improvs, it is all about the cult of personality. Two people can't just be playing the bass line; they've gotta carry the melody and the harmony just to make the song go. You watch a two-man improv, and you buy into the cult of personality: you're saying that what these two people do is interesting enough to sustain your attention.

The Onion's AV Club pointed out in a recent article that rock is currently a post-decadence period: we built nearly the entirety of music (and movies, and a lot of other art) on the backs of artists. “A gross display of power” was how they put it; popular musicians with easy access to money, drugs, and women, and in a lot of ways, we celebrated them for it. Sure, we want them to put out good music, but we also want to see how outrageously oppulent their mansions were, although, the AV Club does point out that now being a “rock band” is discouraged among rock bands. Look at the virtual indiffference to film like I'm Still Here, that follows the faux-destruction of Joaquin Phoenix. These are artistic endeavors nearly more focused on the behavior of the people making it than what they're actually making.

But it's that exact same reason that I am always more impressed to watch a group of people put something together than I am to watch a two-man show, it's just plain harder. You get more people, you add more voices to the sound, which both makes the work harder and at the same time more complex, distinct, and diverse. You are no longer relying on two people to do a duet or an accompanied solo, you're watching the whole orchestra folding themselves into each other to create a rich ensemble piece. Which isn't to demean or diminish the work of a great duo of improvisers, as that has its own inherent difficulties, but its to say that there is a difference between a note and a chord. When you diminish the inherent power of the individual, you heighten the value of the collective – the group mind, or in this case, the group sound. But remember that your group is playing a chord, and every instrument should be utilized to fill it out.

007, The Ivory Tower, and the Common Man

Bond is in trouble again folks. We find our hero immobilized, as a slow and painful death creeps closer to him. The villain is goading over his impending victory, drawing it out – when just at the last minute, the jaws of death slowly withdraw and Bond is spared to go on and win the day.

Now the Bond villain speech has become something a mock-able trope in action movies – Jason Lee's Azrael, when prompted for a missing piece of the puzzle in the film Dogma states: “No no, I've seen way too many Bond movies to know you never reveal all the details of your plan, no matter how close you are to winning.” The TV Tropes entry on “Bond Villain Stupidity” lists just 12 entries for non-Bond films, but there are likely countless more out there. Now, there are some “legitimate” reasons why a villain might choose to keep an incapacitated hero alive, notably: the villain wants to break the hero's spirit, a good fight, to manipulate the hero, or get the hero to switch sides. For our purposes, we won't be considering these as the logic behind this death trap, because as we'll see, this villain monologuing is actually central to the allure of the character of 007.

We'll start with the central villain of classic Bond: Ernst Stavro Blofeld, if only because he is the supposed head of SPECTRE (Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion), a key villain in at least three movies, and the mastermind behind the murder of James' wife. In On Her Majesty's Secret Service (OHMSS) – we discover two key facts about Blofeld and Bond's respective lineages, specifically their family mottoes: Blofeld's is “Of Heights and Soaring”, whilst Bond's is “The World is Not Enough” (which eventually became the title of a 1999 film installment in the series, TWINE). Blofeld's family motto here underlines a character trait that is common among all Bond villains; megalomaniac-ism and vanity. One thing could be considered fairly standard for a Bond villain, they don't dream small, from volcano lairs (You Only Live Twice, YOLT), to plains to kill every person on earth from a space station (Moonraker) and complicated impersonation plots (Diamonds Are Forever and Goldeneye). But more importantly, Bond villains are more than regular people, they are geniuses, shrewd businessmen, clever manipulators of people, politically and socially well connected, and oftentimes rich, which doesn't even include those villains (such as TWINE's Renard) who are also superhuman in physical ability (in Renard's case, that he couldn't feel pain).

Now Bond's family motto seems to suggest a certain haughtiness and arrogance, but yet can also have a secondary interpretation. In the film TWINE, the villainess tries to coax 007 by saying that she could have given him the world, and he replies with his saying that “the world is not enough”. In 007's eyes, a world's worth of physical, tangible possessions is insufficient, so what is enough? Bond is repeatedly presented in the books as a “civil servant” for Her Majesty's government, while he does have a housekeeper (May), he has few luxuries as possessions (outside of a car), and doesn't even have access to London's elite gentleman's clubs, requiring M to gain admittance for work in the novel “Moonraker”. Bond is a man of pleasures bending into the intangible: honor, loyalty, ingenuity. Bond is an English gentleman, but one with a blue collar upbringing: his father worked for the arms company Vickers, his parents died in a climbing accident, he was raised by an Aunt, and while he did get high-end education from Eton and Cambridge, he went there under scholarship (a point which is emphasized in Casino Royale, and which results in a fair degree of resentment for the character as portrayed by Daniel Craig). Bond is an everyman; he has little property, lives comfortably at home, but not lavishly, but can proffer his duty in service of his country.

Bond and his villainous counterparts represent the central dichotomy of elitism versus populism. Other than the post-Dalton films, most of the villains are not presented as seeming “regular” - they are smarter than the everyman, but they are also presented as fairly androgynous: they don't have girlfriends, wives, or even lovers, and the few female sub-villains that do exist are also androgynous: Rosa Klebb in From Russia With Love (FRWL), May Day in A View to a Kill (AVTOAK), and the ones that are overtly sexual use physical attraction either as a weapon (Xenia Onatopp in Goldeneye) or with passive disinterest (Elektra King in TWINE). Bond on the other hand, appreciates the passion and touch of a beautiful woman, the roar of the engine in a fast car, and the taste of fine drink. Now, one could see a hangup with this reading – the tuxedo is, after all nearly as synonymous with 007 as a shaken martini, and almost unavoidably the symbol of wealth and privilege, and still for Bond it is a disguise more than anything, and perhaps more importantly, a sign of 007's capacity of to blend and adapt – essentially his world-knowledgeableness. Bond can effortlessly go to any spot on the planet and is as informed as any local (Bond in The Living Daylights after he and Kara Milovy narrowly escape a crashing airplane: “I know a great restaurant in Karachi. We can just make dinner.”), he is the ultimate everyman – at home everywhere, and street smart, not book smart.

This conflict between suits and shirts is no new one; I think of the recent song “Red Solo Cup” by Toby Keith which has the line: “And Freddie Mac can kiss my ass” (though the entire song is a plaudit of the proletariat, and a condemnation of the snooty elite). Toby Keith has not had to worry about money issues for quite a while, but he is still appealing to his fan base, which is hard-working, appreciates simple pleasures, and harbors resentment for suits who get rich without breaking a sweat or getting their hands (or three piece suits) dirty. When Goldfinger, or Blofeld, or Mr. Big, lords over Bond, who is precariously situated in a death trap, what we're really seeing is an allegory of the regular everyday man: competent, capable, hard-working, but appreciative of simple pleasures, versus the characterization of the elite: morally hollow, erudite to the point of arrogance, and overdeveloped beyond the point of humanity. Bond wins because of his human-ness more than anything else, and the villains again prove their vanity by believing that they are more than human and somehow better.

The Right Way or the Highway

“If it bends, it's funny. If it breaks, it isn't.” - Crimes and Misdemeanors

I was asked a question recently that quite dramatically shone a light on strange dichotomy in improv that I had (until that moment) never noticed, but now seem to see everywhere. Here are the two dicta of improv that are at the root of all the trouble:

1. Play the reality. If you want to leave a room, do it. If someone is acting crazy, say it.

2. Raise the stakes. Increase the tension, the consequences, and the frustration with every move.

The way I see it (to back up a few steps), goes all the way to back to basics. Now, full disclosure, I am a hardliner populist when it comes to improv, which means that I think anyone can improvise, because, well, really anyone can. The absolute definition of improvisation is to “do without prior preparation” - which means every single person on the planet improvises everyday; when you walk out of house in the morning, you encounter a dynamic world, one that would be impossible to accurately predict every last encounter of to make a complete plan. In effect, we improvise every action we do that is not pre-rehearsed, from driving your car (because the traffic patterns will have to be adapted to) to talking on the phone (because we have no idea what Becky said about Amber, but we'll need to figure out how we feel about it in the moment) – though these are, arguably, fairly simple tasks that some presets to them (we know how to drive the car, and we know whatever is going on with Becky and Amber based on past experience). But in terms of theater, whenever anyone steps on stage on does something that is not pre-written, rehearsed, or practiced – it is improvised. As a result, literally anyone can improvise by the mere act of going on stage and doing/saying something.

Now, that's an awesomely populist framework, but anyone who's ever seen or done improv knows that there is a difference between good and bad, and enjoyable and un-enjoyable improv (much as there is for really any human endeavor). There's no questioning that a talented and experienced improviser can create something more interesting and watchable than someone who is not those things. The difference here is simple – anyone can improvise, but not everyone can improvise well.

The context of the question I was asked was during a scene in class; I was lecturing how one player just seemed to kind of take the punishment of another character without really reacting to it, and the student's response was simple – he didn't understand how to play the scene truthfully (he said that with the character acting as he was, he just wanted to leave) and also how to have a good scene. In real life, when someone acts strangely, it's true that most people would just leave (or maybe try to see what was wrong with them), but this makes for boring scenes. We go watch theater because we want to see people doing the things we can't do in our lives (because of the consequences, often), but still acting human (because not reacting to a crazy person is, well, crazy). It's the difference between just improvising, and improvising well. A good improviser knows how to carefully play with the balance between adding the strange or ridiculous, while at the same time keeping the reality alive (often in the form of emotional reactions).

Just as any improviser can improvise and doing it well requires striking that balance, it should be though of this way:

1. There is no wrong way to improvise.

2. There are, however, some ways that work better, and make the work more interesting.

(Writ another way: there are strong choices, and there are weak choices.)

Ultimately, this is the long-term goal of teaching improvisation (and comedy, in general): to learn the very distinct line between playing the reality and playing the dramatic scene. And there is a very fine division between knowing when to deploy “playing it real” and “upping the drama”. Learning the fine points, and the often very subtle intricacies of a scene, and when to deploy which one is what distinguishes a good improviser from a great improviser. There are few, if any hard rules, but being an artist is knowing when to follow the preexisting rules, and when to break them; when to leave the room, and when to stay.

Frozen Stakes

Improvisers talk a lot about stakes, which, in my effort to de-mystify a lot of terms that get used, but are not well defined, will be part of this essay's topic. What stakes are is a very ambiguous thing to define, so it's easier to think of them as “what's at stake”, rather than remaining nebulous. In gambling terms for instance, we talk about the stakes being what's at risk; what has been wagered is what you stand to lose or win based on the outcome of whatever event is being bet on. Now when we talk about stakes in improv scenes, so what is your improv director actually looking for? The improv stakes are just the same as in a chance game (when really, isn't improv a chance game anyway – in that we don't know the outcome at least) – what is this character risking in the scene? A character has to have something in danger of being lost, and that thing has to have personal or emotional weight; as in the loss of this thing is of interest, involvement, concern or share to to the person in question.

Okay, easy enough; so we know what stakes are, so it's pretty easy to see why they need to be there. If the two characters in a scene don't have anything at risk (or things at risk they don't care about), then they don't have any investment in the outcome and won't fight to win, and the struggle is where the drama is at. Compare these three scenes:

[A] Ralph has taken Martin's car on a Tuesday night. Martin is okay with that, because he wasn't going anywhere that night, he stays home and watches T.V.

No stakes, nothing at risk, right?

[B] Ralph has taken Martin's car on a Tuesday night. Martin really needed to run some errands that night, but now can't and will have to do them on Wednesday instead. This will cause him to be late for a meeting, which he kind of wanted to go to.

All right, something at stake here, but the problems are relatively easily solved.

[C] Ralph has returned Martin's car on a Friday night completely totaled. To top that off, Martin had a date scheduled that night with Stacy, a girl he really likes, and now he will be late to meet her at the restaurant and his car is destroyed.

Now we've got some stakes – Martin stands to lose the girl of his dreams (I'm editorializing him here a little) because Ralph took the car and wrecked it. Martin stands to lose something that he had at risk (and has lost something else, which may lead to confrontation with Ralph) and it's something he really cares about. Stakes we see, really have one important dimension – importance. Example:

[A] Will loses a plastic sword he used to play Knights and Dragons with. Now with no sword, he plays Cops and Robbers instead.

[B] Sir William loses the Sword of Destiny in a battle, and now cannot defeat the evil dragon.

Option A feels anti-climactic, because there is no consequence to the loss. B feels like the start of a story because there is already a lot at risk.

So stakes are the result of a) someone risking something, and b) the something has to have importance to the character (it should be noted that the stakes don't have to be world-ending, just world-ending for that character). I, for example, am a boring gambler. I don't like the idea of losing money (or at least a lot of it), so when I bet, which is rare to begin with, I don't bet much. The last time I gambled, I put a total of $30 on the line, which is a risk, but doesn't really have a lot of importance to me, and thus would make a very boring scene. Now, had I bet $30,000, then we're getting somewhere. Make that 30 grand the property of a notorious gangster because I was trying to impress a girl, and we're really getting somewhere good. The sub-dimension of stakes, we now see, are consequence. The loss of $30,000 if a I'm a millionaire may have some importance, but if there is no consequence, then the stakes are lost again. The audience needs to feel the risk that a character losing will be important, and have effect to that person. Heightening the stakes, then, are just putting more on the line – the bigger the bet, the bigger the odds; win or lose.

Hulk Versus Superman

I just finished reading the DC versus Marvel trade paperback. I remember catching a few issues way back when it first came out, but I wasn't really in to comics at that time, so it sort of fell by the wayside for me. The premise, for those of you who haven't read it, is that two all powerful beings, one from each universe, decides they will pit the greatest warriors from each universe against each other, to see which universe is superior. Simple, right? I even remember having similar conversations with a friend back in college: who would win in a fight between Hulk and Superman? (Superman, duh. Come on, people.)

If we think about it though, this simple question is essentially the perfect set up for an improv scene. In ten words, we have the whole scene. Who? Two characters, Hulk and Superman. What's going on? They're fighting. When? The present (no time like it). Where? Doesn't really matter.

But notice I didn't ask "why". That's because it really doesn't matter. When we ask questions like this, the why is so unimportant. The comic, for that matter, essentially glosses over the whole topic. There are two supreme beings we don't care one lick about. They were created for this story alone, and will never be discussed once the last page is turned. Their plot is distinctly unimportant, and really only exists to hang the whole thing together. Even the heroes, when summoned for their respective battles, just go along with it.

Remember how I mentioned improv earlier? A scene begins, two actors on stage, and they set to improvising. For our purposes, we don't really care what they're doing, just so long as they're doing something. We also don't care why they're there, which one of them is to blame, or why they're friends (or coworkers, or whatever). What we care about is what's going on, who they are, who they are to each other, and how the whole thing is going to shake out (whether Hulk or Superman will win).

Here's a fun experiment: the next scene you're in either a) start blaming the other person for causing the situation (or just recount how you got there) or b) start asking your other player why he is acting the way that he is.
In the next scene either a) don't worry about why you got there, just accept the fact that its reality or b) treat the other person like this is how they always act (because if they are actually a friend (or coworker, or whatever) this would be how they'd always act).
We don't want to see people argue and bicker, we see enough of that in real life. We go to see performances to see people be honest and deal with each other. Any time we try to "fix" the other person or the situation, we're essentially negotiating the scene with our partner. And time spent negotiating scene points is time wasted.

We don't want to see Superman and the Hulk argue amongst themselves about their predicament, or try arguing with supreme beings as to whether they actually have to do this. We want to see two superheroes go toe-to-toe, and fight each other like they mean it.
Who cares why you're friends or why you're there? You are, so deal with it, and act like this is normal.

The audience wants it.

The Three Types

A couple of months ago, I did a workshop on the improvised narrative, and ended up getting into a rather heated discussion with some of my fellow improvisers. There statement was that they had performed many Harolds, and that the Harold was finely suited to support a longform narrative; mine was that I had never seen a Harold done well that used a narrative plot based structure. (Also worth noting is an Improv Etiquette lesson learned that weekend – Rule #1: never, ever tell an improviser that the way they are doing the Harold is wrong.) They did present an engaging argument: they have done a number of Harolds in the past and had success using it for plot.

My problem with using the Harold in this way is that the Harold was, in my opinion, never designed to support plot. In fact, few of the strict forms hold up plot, which is why when I teach I use the concept “plot shreds improv”. The problem is two fold; the first is that the opening, conclusion, and group games don't really fit into a narrative easily – they stick out a little awkwardly. Additionally, if the form is being used fully, you wind up with a problem of “three lines some waiting”. You have your A plot, which is hopefully very engaging and interesting, but if you stick to the form, it has to share stage time with possibly uninteresting B and C plots. Or even worse, you have three A plots, none of which ever get resolved or linked up in a meaningful way. Now sure, you can do some other scenes here and there, or shift around the weight of the other scenes, but then you're not really doing a Harold anymore, are you. (Go ahead, call me a Harold Purist, but may I remind you of Improv Etiquette Rule #1.)

My hardliner stance for the Harold arises because, in my mind, the Harold is an extremely unique form, and we should be trying to explore what it can do instead of trying to hybridize it with other non-congruent types. Of all the improv I've seen, I would say all longforms fall into one of three categories: Narrative, Deconstructive, and Constructive. The narrative is exactly what it sounds like – it's the improvised story. The Improvised X is riddled with the narrative types, where X is Shakespeare, Star Trek, Movie, etc. This is the one with plots, recurring characters, increasing stakes, climax, and resolution. If you're telling a story, you're doing the narrative type. The deconstructive forms are ones that are based around a central piece, which will ultimately be used as inspiration for scenes, by looking for meaning in the central piece. The Deconstruction (obviously) is the prime one, but Armando, Living Room are also members of this type. The last is constructive, which is where ideas and meaning are all being generated organically by the group. This is the artsy one, and the only form I see fitting this category is the Harold. It's supposed to be a weird, art piece of longform. This one relies on group mind in its group games and beginning. Meaning is found by looking at the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated ideas, and is largely up to the audience to discern.

So, is there anything wrong with using the Harold as a platform for storytelling (Rule #1; if you're happy, I'm happy)? Does the Harold support narrative fluidly and easily? In my humble opinion, no, but then again what the hell do I matter? But I would pose this question – aren't there already enough forms that do narrative (and if you want to do that so much, why aren't you?) or deconstructive things? Seeing as the Harold is so unique, shouldn't we see what it can do for us when we really pursue the constructive things it can do? Shouldn't we be equally interested in finding the places we can get to when we embrace the weird, non-linear, organic nature that Harold can give us?

A Reunion

Frequent readers of my blog know that I am an unabashed American Pie enthusiast, so let's not waste any time with a build up, or a fancy intro and get right down the most important question of the new film in the canon, American Reunion: how does the film hold up in terms of my ongoing exploration of its themes of authenticity versus artifice?

But first, a review of the film – Reunion is based around the 13-year high school reunion for the East Great Falls class (don't worry about why it's the 13^th, it's callously explained away with one line of dialogue, so let's not dwell too much on that one particular). Jim and Michelle have settled into a comfortable (read: sexless) marriage with kid, Kevin has a beard and a wife, but appears to be kind of restless with both, Oz has gone on to be a hammy sports show host and a former runner up on a “Dancing with the Stars” type show who is apparently discontent with his raunchy blond girlfriend, Finch has just returned from some sort of globe-trotting adventure, Stifler is a door stop intern at some sort of finance or law firm (maybe even both), Vicky has been living in New York since high school working at something (possible art related), Heather is now a doctor (I guess), Jessica is a lesbian, Milf Guy #2 (seriously how he is listed on IMDb) is organizing the reunion, Jim's Dad is now a widower, Stiffler's Mom is still a milf, I guess, and the Sherminator is divorced.

If that sounds like a lot, that's because it is, and while the formula of having multiple protagonists engaged in their own particular conquests worked in the first film quite well, here it feels a little too much. The difference is that while in Pie there were four protagonists all engaged in their own escapades, the goal was the same for all of them: lose your virginity. Here, everyone has a problem, but everyone's problem is different. (Though surprising, and also maybe refreshing, is a real dearth of sentimentality for “days past” - it's there mind you, but it's cooly minimal. And even more surprising, it's not Kevin dealing with it.) And the whole desire to get the entire band back together for the big finale (choke on this – the theatrical Pie releases now form a Quadrilogy), there's a few too many things going on here at once for the audience to feel concerned or even particularly interested in any of them, and as a result the things that should have some emotional resonance don't.

Now what I find unique about this series is how it exists in a fairly small category of films that explore what it's like for a group of friends to have grown up with from each other, to actually watch a friendship evolve. Other singular films have explored a moment, but this is a unique franchise where we can actually watch that evolution occur. This is particularly difficult for comedies, because a lot of that genre's function predicates on the maintenance of peculiar points-of-view or situations. Could you imagine a 40-Year-Old-Virgin 2? You'd have to get a new virgin. Just look at the backlash to Hangover 2; it is very hard to create a same character sequel without just retreading the same ground.

Now, on to my continuing argument regarding authenticity versus artifice: it's here. Oz is discontent obviously because he abandoned the “real” thing he had with Heather. His new life feels like a farce, because it so obviously hangs on him like a poorly tailored suit, particularly in the way he glumly reacts to people recognizing him for his “Dancing” appearance. Finch has been actually lying about his world traveling (which makes me wonder about the similar claims in Pie 2), a lie that actually lands him in jail. What is probably the most glaring evidence of technology being a crutch is when Stiffler tries the old our-car-broke-down-can-we-come-in-and-use-your-phone, and the wary homeowner inquires why the boys don't have cell phones. Stiffler's response is as succinct as could be desired: “The last time I did this cell phones didn't exist.”

Jim and Michelle are sexually frustrated because of their child, which isn't being honest to each other (in addition to the pre-title sequence built around watching porn on the internet and a bathtub water wand that I already discussed in my article about the trailer, they also try a little bondage as before the end of act II to spice things up). What should be the most important factor though, is the guys needing to be honest about where they are in life; they can't stay up drinking all night, they can't party and tussle with high school age kids, and they are grown up now (maybe the fact that this isn't really a big issue demonstrates how well matured everyone is?) so they can't really have shenanigans because responsibility, that's why. Hell I'm starting to think the screenwriters read my blog (Hey Jon and Hayden!), because the antagonistic high school kids show up on jet skis to antagonize people . But in a positive approval of a non-technology, Luddite stance, the fun, carefree, high-school Bacchanalia takes place at “the Falls”, an unstructured series of bonfires, beer coolers, and camp chairs gathered around a beach and waterfall. It's honestly gotten to the point where I can't think of a scene that doesn't bristle with a condemnation of technology. (I may have issues.)

Still this movie met all expectations, it just seems unfortunate that they were so eager to include a catch-up with everyone that the narrative suffered from an over-burdening. They had managed to bring everyone back for the second film, but it should be pointed out that Oz's story was practically non-existent, Finch and Kevin had very “B” stories, and Stifler didn't have an issue – he was just an instigator, a role that Seann William Scott excels at. The second and third films are really Jim's movies. We do get some nicely pleasant moments with the gang all back together, and this is a group of friends that I, for one, do enjoy spending time with.

Guess Who?

Back in 2004, I used to write movie reviews for the USM student newspaper, the "Student Printz". Because I occasionally feel lazy, and it seems a shame that all of five people ever read these, I've decided to repost them here, in the original versions that I emailed to my editor, Noel, all those years ago.

Sure, Ashton Kutcher may not be known for high quality or “deep” films (e.g. “Just Married”), but he has surprised moviegoers with some reasonable acting chops (e.g. “The Butterfly Effect”) or at least with entertaining films (e.g. “Dude, Where’s My Car?”). His latest film, “Guess Who” is officially the bottom of the barrel for this star. Unfunny, and rife with the exact kind of stuff that makes most people uncomfortable, “Guess Who” is only slightly worse from last week’s other premier, “Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous”.

“Guess Who” details the story of Simon Green (Kutcher), an investment banker who is traveling with his girlfriend, Theresa (Zoe Saldana) to meet her parents and announce their engagement. Unfortunately, Theresa’s father, Percy Jones (Bernie Mac) is reasonably upset that his oldest daughter has selected a “white boy” to be her mate. While Simon fights to please Theresa’s family, Percy is aimed at destroying Simon’s reputation and saving his daughter from making a mistake. By the end of the movie, we can be sure that Simon and Percy will get along, and Simon’s relationship to Theresa and her family will be cemented so that everyone can live happily every after.

“Guess Who” is a pseudo-remake of the 1967 classic “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner”, starring Sidney Poitier and Katharine Houghton. In the original, the only difference is that it’s a white girl bringing her black boyfriend home to meet her parents. I’ve never seen the original, but something tells me that a movie with that kind of premise debuting in the heart of civil rights movement had to have been well done, not to mention the presence of Sidney Poitier and Spencer Tracy in leading roles. “Guess Who” makes no effort to bring itself to any level of anything worthwhile, and instead of showing some fusion of the two very different cultures, all it does is get lost in a sea of stereotypes and non-progressive attitudes.

Especially given that “Guess Who” is classified as a ‘comedy’ one would at least suspect the film to be funny, but it achieves little more than sporadic and isolated humor. Combine that with the stale racial commentary, and the movie achieves little more than a predictable melodrama. Most of the character relationships are poorly portrayed, and despite Simon being in a household of a different race, he acts like an idiot, being cornered into moments of racial tension and then doing the exact wrong thing. Even Bernie Mac, usually the comic relief in movies needing a little humor can’t carry this picture, especially when they give his character racial blinders for the first three quarters of the picture.

I had hoped that by now that filmmakers would make some effort to actually doing something with their art form, be it pursuing new relationships between radically different strata of people or entertaining the audience. But when a movie achieves neither of these and merely seeks to enforce the differences between people, it’s time to go a new direction. “Guess Who” could have been something interesting if somebody had sat down and picked a premise to focus on, instead of just spinning gears with a boring, predictable plot based around two racially terse people.

Theater of the Hate

(Author's note: I wrote this essay in 2008 - the mentioned fellow improviser and I have since mended the misunderstanding, and are now quite amicable with each other.)

I went up to the iO the other night for a panel discussion and reading regarding the "Lives and Legends of Del Close", in celebration of Kim "Howard" Johnson's recently published a book of the same title. The panel discussion was fine, about what I was expecting: Charna, Kim, Robert Falls (directing manager of the Goodman theater), and a few of Del's first students talking about Del, the good old days, patting each other on the back, etc. There was, however, a few gems of parting wisdom: as Del lay on his deathbed, with the doctors prepared to administer the morphine that would end his suffering, one of his last thoughts was: "We created Theater of the Heart, a theater where people cherish each other..." In his final moments, he was most proud of creating an art form and an ideology where actors cherish each other for their ideas.

Just over twelve hours later, I logged on to the computer before leaving for work, to find a message from a fellow improviser in another city, who opened his message with "I don't mean to be a dick, but...", which as we all well know is a direct indication that the words that follow will be undoubtedly very unpleasant, to say the least (it is the rough equivalent to the words "I'm not a racist, but..."). The following tirade proceeded to chew me a new one, for what was an immense misunderstanding. I replied with a polite, placating message, and left for work. At work, I was greeted with another two messages, each more angry and vitriolic than the last. At this point, I had to make a delivery across campus, so I rather predictably kept turning over the interchange in my head for the next 45 minutes.

Now, when you're verbally abused in any way, you usually respond by lashing back, but for some reason, I wasn't angry. Anyone who knows me will at this point realize how strange this is (to say I have a short fuse is giving a bit too much credit), and I started to wonder why this was, and after a good fifteen minutes I realized why: last night's Del Close discussion, or more specifically, one of the last things he said (the message above).

I wasn't angry, I was disappointed. I realized in that moment, that perhaps the high-minded ideas spread by Close, of cherishing your fellow improvisers, treating them like poets, artists, etc., i.e. the theater of the heart, were maybe just too idealistic. For about five minutes, I honestly considered just ending my nearly five year "relationship" with improvisation, over the simple violation of what to me, was Del's most important lesson. To me, it just wasn't worth even doing this anymore if I was just going to get yelled at by fellow improvisers. While I'd probably just brush off a similar encounter from a stranger, why bother dealing with improvisers I respected and considered to be my friends. I relented of course (I was obviously still thinking in an irrational manner, even if wasn't acting it), realizing that to give up was probably a bit excessive.

But then, I started thinking about whether or not the encouraging and accepting environment exists at all. After all, improv is still at its most basic sense an art form, which as a necessity, requires criticism in order to improve. Of course Del was also a harsh critic of his students (perhaps the harshest), but the root of his criticism was probably still love of his fellow improvisers (I think I can only say probably, it may be to presumptuous to know his motivations). I've been around the Chicago scene long enough to know that some people don't really subscribe to this "heart" philosophy, but undoubtedly most, at least, try to. And it's then that I realized that respecting your fellow performers was as much a skill as "yes, anding". It wasn't just a natural reflex (we are all human after all). We, as well rounded improvisers (or at least improvisers in the Del Close methodology), have to A)want to respect each other and B)practice respecting each other.

I then grew concerned: with improv growing as fast as it is, will the theater of the heart become crowded with people who are not caring, loving, and respecting? Will a small part of improv theory that is almost more of an afterthought be just disregarded because it's just too much work to be nice to each other? What kind of mutual respect can we expect if we violently lash out at fellow improvisers over minor mistakes? Of course, it will always be easier to cherish those that are already our friends, but are we really challenging ourselves by only liking those that we're already close to? And if the pool becomes dominated by violent and harsh improvisers, imagine what kind of "art" they'll start producing.

Fifteen years ago, only a handful of people knew what improv was. Ten years ago, few outside the inner circle knew who Del was. Five years ago, troops were still mostly relegated to large cities and universities. Today, high school troops are coming by the iO for workshops and short courses. As improv continues to expand and be performed by more and more people, the only question I have is: will we still love each other tomorrow?

Shit. I'm already missing the good old days.

Alone in the Dark

Back in 2004, I used to write movie reviews for the USM student newspaper, the "Student Printz". Because I occasionally feel lazy, and it seems a shame that all of five people ever read these, I've decided to repost them here, in the original versions that I emailed to my editor, Noel, all those years ago.

Let’s face it: if you watch enough movies, every once in a while you run across one that is really bad. Most of them, you can switch your brain off, sit back, and enjoy the flickering lights. Others are even worse, and they required the creation of shows like “Mystery Science Theatre 3000” to actually make these films palatable. And yet there is still a tier just below those films: movies so bad, you can’t help but watch them, if only to please the same part of your brain that loves rubbernecking to see horrific accidents. “Alone in the Dark” is a movie so horrible, so god awful, that it should be avoided by everyone; even after two days, I still can’t wipe out the impression it left on my skull.

“Alone in the Dark” opens with a narrated story about the Abkani, a Native American tribe who were wiped off the face of the planet by a race of dark creatures called Zenos. When gold miners uncovered some artifacts from this culture, the government started Bureau 713, an organization dedicated to investigating the paranormal and supernatural phenomena surrounding these artifacts. Leading the investigation into the Abkani is Edward Carnby (Christian Slater), a former Bureau 713 agent and orphan who is missing several years of life as a result of a failed Zeno symbiote implantation. Assisting Carnby is Commander Burke (Stephen Dorff), leader of Bureau 713, and Aline Cedrac (Tara Reid) a “genius archeologist”. Carnby’s investigations lead him to “Shadow Island” and the machinations of former Bureau 713 leader Lionel Hudgins and his attempts to do something with the Zenos that is never fully described.

If the title sounds familiar, that’s because “Alone in the Dark” is based on a video game series of the same title, and if it doesn’t sound familiar, that’s okay, because only a small handful of people ever actually played the game. All I remember of it was that it was like a cheap “Myst” and it refused to uninstall off my computer. Director Uwe Boll’s last venture “House of the Dead” (also based on a video game) made only slightly more sense than this catastrophe. Watching this movie is like hanging out with your best friend’s younger brother: all he wants to do is make you think he’s “cool”. As a result, the movie is a horrible amalgamation of gunfights, bad synthesizer background music, horrible, over-clichéd dialogue, and bad “Matrix”-ized fight scenes. “Alone in the Dark’s” “scariest” moment amounts to little more than a production assistant flipping some light switches on and off. Most of the movie doesn’t even make sense, with a huge collection of short little occurences that have no bearing on the story, which are never explained and welded together with slipshod editing.

The Bureau is perhaps the most entertaining part of the movie: they wear reject “Power Rangers” outfits and act with less prowess than the ensigns on “Star Trek”. The Zenos aren’t much better: they are the creation of really bad CGI and look like a combination of the xenomorphs from “Alien” and the insects from “Starship Troopers”. Fortunately Slater and Dorff are at the very least tolerable, but unfortunately Reid is at an all career low for her ability, and her “genius” character isn’t done much justice by every other line being “hey guys, check this out”.

Of course, this movie might have been pretty awesome if Boll hadn’t directed this movie, permanently infusing his ultimate lack of talent with the film forever. With the absolute abundance of plot holes in this movie, I’m surprised one of the characters didn’t actually see them and walk right through it into a good movie.

How To Be Friends and Act Like Idiots - Toolkit

Back in December, I talked about my realisation that characters are interesting when they are being human – namely, that they are flawed, and act on those flaws. The human condition will always be endlessly fascinating and intriguing, and funny as well. My group has been working to try and capture some of the capacity for this kind of play, so I present to you now some exercises that dovetail nicely into “Being Friends and Acting Like Idiots”. As a sidebar for when working on this type of exercise is that everyone should be in the mindset of being affected majorly by everything that other players offer, and also that characters are human and are fallible and do have flaws.

“It's Tuesday” - this exercise is all about overaccepting offers; split the group in half onto opposite sides of the space – a person from line A steps forward and offers any line of dialogue, preferably something fairly mundane, and a person from line B overaccepts that offer. This could be thought of as yes anding in all capital letters. Players should be encouraged to make the overacceptances intensely personal in nature – it is very easily to fall into the trap of accepting an offer in a way that doesn't invest the players on a personal level, or to be dismissive but in a big way. Alternative: That's a great line because; A steps forward and initiates with a minimal line as before, only now B steps forward to the audience and says why this is the best initiation that could ever be given in the history of the world. After a two line exchange, switch sides. After a few goes, repeat with A delivering rich lines.

Character Monologues – player steps forward and delivers a character monologue about a subject, specifically detailing the character's opinion about the subject; good/bad, and most importantly why this subject is that way. Players should not be hesitant about playing characters with ridiculous opinions or ridiculous motivations or reasonings. Stupid or irrational characters make for great theater.

Two person opinion exchanges – forgive the rather clumsy title; as before, A steps forward, only this time, giving an opinion about a subject to B. B can then choose to agree or disagree with the opinion, then both sides provide supporting arguments or additional details for why they feel the way they do. Remember to maintain a balance of agreement and disagreement scenes, and also that both parts have to try an maintain their points-of-view in each scene, and continue to dig deeper into their supporting arguments.

Party Scenes – Four players, and each player silently labels the other three players with how they feel about them: stupid, smelly, and attractive (so one of the those labels to each other player). These four players now treat each by those silent labels, and the scene is that all four characters are at a party. It is important to maintain a level of treatment that allows the scene to proceed (treating someone someone as stupid too strongly, for instance, can alienate the character and grind it to a halt. The location being a party is because there is an obligation to be polite given the social situation – remember that you're not trying to solve the problem of someone being smelly or stupid, you need to find civilized ways to deal with it.

NPC's – one of the key elements of these types of shows is the interplay between the main players, but it is contrasted by the existence of, in role-playing game parlance, a non-player character (NPC). These are characters who are not part of the main group, have distinctly lower or higher status, and are ones who behave more reasonably that a PC. They often have everyday functions in the real world (e.g. cop, lawyer, boss) and act as foils to raise the stakes or frustrate the PC's. Playing with NPC's can be accomplished with the two person opinion exchanges as above, by either a) when a shared opinion has been reached, by acting as the opposing opinion (expressing it in a non-extreme way) or b) with an opposing opinion, but having the “b” player be more rational than his counterpart. As another tangential possibility, having any NPC act as a heavily characterized person (e.g. heavy accent) is usually a surefire way to make someone outrageously more extreme than a PC.

MAAP(ing) – the remaining element is to heighten the language that the characters talk in; this is done by deploying: Memory, Aphorism, Analogy, or Philosophy (MAAP) in the dialogue. Memories are any remembered thing that happened to a character (they usually being with “Remember the time...”). Aphorisms are colloquial sayings, e.g. “A stitch in time saves nine” or “A penny saved is a penny earned.” Analogies compare something to something else, usually using like or as (to quote “The League”: “You're like a gay Iron Man.”), and philosphies display a person's viewpoint on the world (to quote “League” again: “Hey, I can lead a horse to water, but I can't make it not have sex with me.”). It's best to try deploying these one at a time, so have two players step forward, and do a scene where they only have to worry about doing one of the MAAP elements. After, you can have the players use them ad libitum.

Good luck friending!

So This Was Last Year

I started 2011 with one specific goal in mind for this particular blog: have a new posting every two weeks, which, excluding posting one a week late back in June, I've managed to actually maintain this year. As a little change from last year, I thought I'd start 2012 off with a re-cap of what I covered in 26 unique posts over this last year.

January – Make some improv resolutions – be invested in making yourself a better person. “Real” actors are weird with their scripts and whatnot, but work harder than improvisers. Seriously – we are a lazy bunch of artists. Also, we continue the tale of how I spend way too much time thinking about “American Pie” that started in November 2010.

February – Referring to good scenework as being based in just naming a relationship (e.g. “Dad”) is shortsighted and ignorant. The rule that you must know each other for amount of time X is equally inconsequential and narrow. Instead, worry about the dynamic (“How do I feel about this person”) - this will always have more consequence than time or identifiers. Also, I advertised a workshop that I ended up running in April.

March – A follow up to my writing in February, I presented some exercises that can be useful for developing a framework for defining scenes by the dynamic, rather than time or name. Also, I discussed how to approach doing an improv charity show.

April – The stirring conclusion to my essay trilogy examining the philosophical implications of “American Pie” - tis better to have legitimate honest relationships, than rely on technology, it seems. (Luddism 1, Technology infinity). Also, talk on erring in improv, both major and minor, and how it affects the scenes we do. Improv lacks controls in it inherently – it's up to us to keep the thing rolling.

May – More on errors: things are only mistakes if we allow them to be so, and paying attention to the details (i.e. slowing down) can help avoid erring. Also, the conclusion of the errors trilogy – coming to grips with facing the fear, making choices, and committing to them. After all, it's all pretend anyway.

June – Movie(s) review – college, graduation, and the cinema.

July – A response to “Why Improv Sucks”. Crappy players drag down teams, and we've convinced ourselves that being nice to them because they're “family” means keeping them around forever. The choice is: break new ground, or be friendly. Also, a review of status, and why large status differences drag scenes down. Longer, more representational scenework is rooted in narrow status choices.

August – The downside to the game “Hot Spot”, and where it fails us in teaching us to back each other up, and the conclusion to being Soft Skilled. Spending time with your fellow team mates will never be time wasted. Also, a thank you letter for teaching improv to the YMCA.

September – I rip into a guy I saw do improv three years ago for hogging the stage, stomping on his team mates, and not playing into the group mind. And, the human brain can't cope with stimulus not creating change. Be affected – by everything. There are also the pictures from the YMCA workshop.

October – I led off with a movie review for “Team America: World Police” that I wrote back in 2004. And, being affected means you get to make someone else be awesome. Honestly, I can't think of a better reason to let someone else change you on stage. (Also, I went to Australia!)

November – More about badasses and cause & affect – how even the tiniest things can be made monumental by being deeply and profoundly effected by them. A review of “Sideways” that I wrote back in 2004 as well.

December – I review my thoughts on the upcoming “American Pie” movie – Reunion. This installment represents the end of the innocence that was established in the first movie. Also, technology will probably embarrass someone in a significant way in the middle of the second act. And finally, I presented my unified theory for playing good characters – make them human.

And where am I after that year? The scripted show I talked about in the beginning of the year folded after two shows, but they were fun shows. I joined the Dinner Detective San Diego, and have found a large share of success with a fantastic bunch of performers who really take their craft seriously. I taught workshops for two youth groups, did a four-week longform workshop and a one-shot using improv for professional development for UCSD, and also a fund-raiser. (My blog has, however, gotten two shout-outs from Zenprov now (thanks Tracy Kobble (sp?).) My two-man team with Claire Yale has started to really develop some good legs, and the team I coach, the Stage Monkeys, was blessed with two separate professional improvisers coming down from LA to work with us. Also, I started doing an improv podcast (As Ink) that now has ten listeners (trombone glissando). As for where I was last year, I still feel pretty stagnant – I can't really tell if I'm improving anymore, but mostly I'm just trying to put in the work, and find ways to keep pushing myself.

“I resolve to accept challenges. When someone says that something is impossible because it's never been done before, that just means I'll be the first.”

“I resolve to not get comfortable. Nothing is ever 'good enough'.”