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Monday, November 26, 2012

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.

Monday, November 5, 2012

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.