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.