I'm in the Band

I've been playing with a concert band for a while now, trying to get back into the groove of playing regularly, and noting the similarities between band and improv that I can see now that I've done both. Of note: group mind in improv is equivalent to both the director/conductor combined with the sheet music, and also blend (how the various parts of the music fit together) and balance (the relative strength/intensity/loudness of the various instruments being equivalent). But I had a significant realization when listening to a recording of a performance we had done.

What I noticed is that the sound you hear from the audience is completely different from the sound you hear being in the band. Playing bassoon, I can generally hear a couple of flutes, the bass clarinet, the French horns, and tubas clearest, but when everyone's playing, I generally can't hear much of the rest of the band unless I'm really listening for it. The songs we were playing sounded a certain way (that is to say, what parts I could hear) from my seat. But when I listened to our recordings – holy crap did that music sound different. The sum of all the parts of the band adds up totally differently from the point of view of the audience: harmonies suddenly stand out, small flourishes suddenly exist, and bass line sounds complete. (Also, the bassoon has disappeared, but alas, such is life.)

Now improv has a unique design when it's being performed by a team, in that there may 2-3 actors playing front and center, but you'll also have a gaggle of players off stage watching. These sideline players are typically thought of as an artifact or casualty of team play, but should really be thought of in a much more practical and utilitarian way. By standing on the sideline, these players effectively become an additional audience of sorts, and because they are no longer playing, they have the opportunity to step out of the show, in a way, and ask the question: “what does this show need?” This is the equivalent of me having a twenty measure break, getting out of my seat, and sitting down in the auditorium.

This is such an important facet of team play and collaboration that I'm astonished no one has (to my knowledge) considered before. A sideline player doesn't just listen for an opportunity to edit or characters to call back, but should also be taking the time as an audience-player (plaudience?) to think about what has been established thematically and scenically and consider what choices can heighten dramatic elements. With a few minutes of downtime, we can analyze the show and improve it, and this feature of improvisation is just as important being on stage and can help elevate a show from “randomly assembled series of scenes” to “art piece strategically arranged”.

Improv Class

If God created improv on a Friday, then by Sunday afternoon he would no doubt created the improv class. But the question is: why?

A student takes an improv class for a very simple reason – he wants to master the craft. Plain and simple. He's in an improv group, maybe saw a show, or maybe everyone just thinks that he's the “funny one” in the group, and wants to learn how to improvise. There are a number of viable learning routes open: read a book, find an improv blog (thanks for reading!), just plain do it, but the improv class carries with it a certain legitimacy. It's a true apprenticeship, and you will learn a lot (depending on who your teacher is) by doing it and getting notes. It's these early nudges, tips, pointers, and rules that will help beginning and intermediate improvisers get a handle on how to do this. Especially in the beginning where everything feels very random, for the very reason that it is improv – other than a few general (and ultimately sparse, and usually unexacting) rules, there is too much room, and the guidance is helpful. There's also something very legitimate about being able to say “I took an improv class”, and it's that last word “class” that makes it seem like we're really doing something instead of screwing around on stage, aimless.

A training center offers improv classes for an equally simple reason – to make money. Improv classes are pricey (most students will pay very large sums of money in the hopes that they will learn to do this well), and have very little overhead. In fact, teaching is one of the few ways that a professional improviser can hope to turn a living out of improv. Performing is inconsistent and certainly doesn't pay well enough to turn a career out of, so teaching classes and doing corporate training turn out to be fairly steady and lucrative enough to at least pay rent. This is why it's rare for a training center to drop students and very common for them to offer ways to keep making money off of former students who still are in the “learning” phase. Retake classes at half off! Elective courses! An unending “minor league”! The training center often becomes the big cash cow for a theater, generating a lot of income, and consistently too, because as long as students want to learn, they'll pay for it.

A theater operates a training center for a fair more complicated reason – indoctrination. Every theater I've ever been too, or talked to someone from (with the exception of one) has some sort of central philosophy, an ideology, or heck, even just a modus operandi that is universal across the people of that theater. This doesn't happen by accident, this mutual way of thought, its a deliberate creation that comes as a result or the training center. And every theater (with the exception of, actually the same one as before) requires that in order to perform on their stages, and to play under their banner, that they complete the training center. This is an attempt to insure not just that the players have a sort of minimum level of skill, but also to make sure that everyone approaches things the same way and has a common language, that allows the oldest and the newest graduates the capability of stepping on stage together with success. These are the things that the khakis of the organization find important – the iO for example, carries the group work thing very strongly, and its something that they want their graduates to have in their toolbox.

So that's it – the three reasons: learning, money, doctrine. In a way, everyone does get what they want.

After the Sunset

 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.

Even though Hollywood may not be able to make high quality pictures constantly, it appears that they remember every once in a while how to make entertaining movies. “After the Sunset” is definitely not ‘high art’, and neither is it particularly original or politically correct. But “After the Sunset” is a reasonably funny and entertaining movie, providing a nice break amid all the Halloween gore fests and pre-Christmas movies. “After the Sunset” is all about Max Burdett (Pierce Brosnan), a jewel thief who has successfully outwitted the FBI, led by Special Agent Lloyd (Woody Harrelson), for years with the help of his girlfriend, Lola (Salma Hayek). Following the successful theft of the second Napoleon diamond, Max and Lola decide to retire to the Bahamas and live out the rest of their lives funded by the profits of all their heists. But their retirement is disturbed as Agent Lloyd tracks Max down thinking that another heist is on the way. Agent Lloyd’s biggest worry is that Max will attempt to steal the last Napoleon diamond, on display in a cruise ship that is docked at the island. The situation is made worse by the presence of a local gangster (Don Cheadle) who wants the diamond to fund his own paramilitary operations.

At first glance, the movie appears to be just a heist movie, a la “Ocean’s Eleven”, but the biggest problem is that it tries to adhere to closely to the plot of a heist movie while getting sidetracked by all the subplots along the way. Lola for instance, is only interested in Max finally proposing to her, there is a local cop who wants in Lloyd’s bust, and some ‘odd couple’ type bonding occurring between Max and Lloyd. The plot gets a little frayed after the first forty-five minutes, and seems to have trouble getting it’s footing again. And, it being a heist movie, there’s a twist ending that makes the whole movie seem like a set-up. Is this ending really the best one? Probably not, but given the plot and concept, there wasn’t much else to do, and it could have ended a whole lot worse.

The most entertaining part is watching the interaction between Harrelson and Brosnan. Despite some blatant homosexual jabs, the scenes where it’s just them are just plain funny. There’s also some poignant dialogue about ‘sunset’ people, but some real interesting ideas about the meaning of ‘The Mamas and the Papas’ song lyrics. “After the Sunset” asks the viewer to take some awful big spoonfuls of scenes on faith (heist movie!) but keeps on flowing with the punches regardless. Provided you can roll with the punches as well, you’ll probably find this movie pretty enjoyable.

Saw

 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. 

I seem to recall a time when the big, Halloween-released horror movie was a scary and frightening trip. “Saw” is an interesting film to watch, but an enormous let down for those people in the mood for a quality scare and an even bigger let down for those who are in the mood for a quality Halloween flick. “Saw” is a decent movie, if you were expecting a crime movie, but it doesn’t make that jump into being a ‘horror’ movie. This movie definitely got the art of being creepy down right, but apparently cut class the day they were talking about fantastic displays of fright or gore in the horror genre.

“Saw” opens in a dingy, abandoned bathroom, where Adam (Leigh Whannell, who also wrote the script) and Dr. Lawrence Gordon (Cary Elwes) are chained to pipes on opposite ends of the room. Neither one can remember how they got there, how long they have been unconscious, or explain the dead body in the center of the room lying in a pool of blood. The only clues they have are from two micro cassettes, a tape player, and various goodies that have been hidden in the room.

Fortunately, Dr. Gordon has an idea as to who may have kidnapped the two: a psychopath known as the “Jigsaw Killer”. This is your typical kind of serial killer: trying to teach people lessons by putting them in life or death situations and setting up very elaborate situations for both his victims and the police. What the two do know is that if Dr. Gordon doesn’t kill Adam by 6:00, Dr. Gordon’s family is going to die.

James Wan (in his directorial debut) does a reasonable job of piecing the whole movie together, which already has a couple of significant of hurdles. One, it’s a horror movie, which instantly means that the movie should be scary and two, because it’s a horror movie, the script has rather sizable plot holes and more than a few contrivances. Getting the movie to work right isn’t helped by Cary Elwes presence in a main role: he manages to float by pretty well during the normal flow of the plot, but when it comes time for him to be excited or angry, his whole character becomes extremely British and very stiff. Plus, the whole movie is supposed to be a ‘Who Dunnit?’, which means you’ll probably find yourself gasping at the sheer idiocy on the part of both the good guys and the serial killer (but mostly just the good guys).

Despite these beefs, “Saw” manages to be reasonably palatable. The methods the Jigsaw killer comes up with are rather imaginative and creative, despite having an obvious tinge of “Fear Factor” to them. The filming and cinematography clearly indicates that the filmmakers know how to build the environment and tension as well as make the film look and feel professional (even though they use flash editing just to dramatize ‘boring’ segments. Additionally, I doubt anyone outside of the writing staff could see this twist-ending coming.

I suppose you can’t expect every horror movie to hit, but sometimes you see the trailer for one that could finally cut the mustard for being scary. This Halloween movie takes fewer notes from “The Birds” and “Poltergeist” and more from “Seven” and “The Usual Suspects”. These movies are excellent in more ways than one, but they just aren’t scary.

Shortform v Longform Part III

For those of us living out in the Wild West that is longform, we still cling to our shortform roots. You could think of shortform as city living in this example. It’s strongly codified and regulated, there’s electricity, running water, warm beds, and police officers to make sure that everything’s okay. Scene running on too long? Edit it into improv jail and start a new one. But outside the city limits, it’s a whole different story. Out here, anything can happen. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, but at the very least, it’s something different every time. Longform sheds old ideas of having to stop between scenes to reset or having gimmicky rules for the promise of something new. But we do like order, and west is mighty wild, indeed. The rules in longform are not short-sighted: they are about over-arching structure, weaving together complex and disparate ideas and themes into a way that makes the trip a little easier. You could think of longform as campfires, seedy saloons, tents, and the “Law West of the Pecos”.

Just like there is no “right” shortform game, there is no “right” longform. Sure there are common ones, let’s take the Harold for an example. The Harold in this case is a well-worn wagon master: experienced, good with a gun, better on a horse, and calm in the face of wild Indians. The Harold is a pretty codified form in its own right. Probably the most structured of all the forms, but then again, if this is your first trip out in the wild, you probably want the comfort of a guide that has traveled this way many times before. The iO runs a number of teams which are all collectively referred to simply as Harold teams. Does this mean that they are only allowed to use the Harold? Of course not. That would be against the way of the west. Do they do other forms? Generally not. Jason Chin told our class one day that when one of his teams proves they’re ready to move on to another form, he starts working with them on that. You can cross the west with ol’ Harold as many times as you want, but you can’t start riding alongside JTS Brown or Close Quarters until you’re ready.

But eventually, you get tired of riding with these other fellers. You’ve crossed the gap hundreds of times, and now you’re ready to make your own form. Most forms start by as variations on existing forms (“Harold used to cross this river, and then Deconstruction avoided this canyon”), but eventually you understand improv enough to completely through caution to the wind and design a path of your own choosing. But after all, this is improv, and we won’t be happy until we have completely improvised everything, stem to stern.

In 1973’s “Enter the Dragon”, the master asks Bruce Lee (do you like how we switch seamlessly from cowboys to martial artists?) “What is the highest technique you hope to achieve?” Bruce Lee replies simply: “To have no technique.” This is big stuff. The groups I looked up to, 3033, Deep Schwa, the Reckoning, all specialize in improv that is unbound by even figuring out anything ahead of time. Impronauts, perhaps, beyond even the rapidly shrinking west, exploring the outer reaches of creativity, where every thing is happening, right now. The problem is, beyond the initial rules from way back in the city, there’s not a lot that anyone can teach you. That is true frontier land out there boys, out into the land where there be dragons. But remember even the most savage territories still have people living in them, it’s just up to you to decide when you’re ready to step out of the city and start exploring.

I Hate Improv Class Part II

So improv class has been going well, I’ve now survived week three without completely screwing something up, and now that I’ve gotten to know some of the people a little better, the tension has definitely eased. I should add that I kept my head down and didn’t mention that I had already taken improv class until week two, and then only when the teacher specifically asked “Has anyone taken any improv classes before?” Better still, only three people, including the teacher, knew what that meant.

But, I’ve spent more time thinking about how much I hate improv class. Last August, I went to meeting in D.C. with some people that I’ve done improv with for a while, some of whom I met only shortly after I started. Our group has been trying to get in the habit of meeting once a year, mostly for fellowship, but also to exchange notes and what we’ve learned, or been experimenting with. When I arrived (late, the weather in Chicago kept me grounded for an additional hour or so), I was treated as an old friend, even though some of these people I’ve never met before and the rest I’ve only met two, maybe three times. Yet, when it came time for the late night “jam” session, I sat in the audience, drinking a beer. Why? If you read my last article, this should come as no surprise: fear. I was the only member who had taken a “real” Chicago improv class (at the time, I had completed the program, and was in the last leg of my 5B shows). Bad improv here would be even worse; for some reason I now felt I was representing all of Chicago to these people.

I realized what I hate about these jam sessions, and workshops, and everything else. Even though improv is a team sport (a point hammered home by my teacher in the first week of my new improv classes), it is still at its heart, a performance art, and hence an activity where we are judged for our skill. Every improviser is compared to every other improviser. In Chicago, every team is judged against the near impossible standard of “T.J. and Dave”. Back in Mississippi, my college group went to a weekend gathering of a bunch of college troupes and we compared ourselves to the best of those. In improv classes, we compare ourselves to the best in the class. Bill Arnett wrote in his blog that there are three phases to an improviser’s development, the second of which is where we do medicore improv because we are trying to emulate improvisers we consider to be good. In Chicago, it’s even worse than other places; I remember during some of the closing weeks of our 5B shows, everybody got very ancy and tense. Why? Because at the last show, the ominously named Harold Commission sends representatives to the shows to evaluate performers and decide who gets to be on Harold teams. Bear in mind, no one even gets paid to do Harold shows!

Now, I know that improv is a team sport. But, I would argue that one of the most stressful parts of improv is that because it is so team sport-y, the heat is on even more to contribute and be a team player. No one wants to be the guy who the group doesn’t invite back because he can’t hold his own. Team sport or not, the fact is we are always still trying to prove ourselves to our fellow improvisers. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with trying to continuously improve our art, but there is danger to be had in trying so hard so that people will think we’re good. It may not always be easy when we’re doing an audition with seven people we’ve never met, but if we’re not having fun, then what the hell is the point of it all?

So from now on, this will be my mantra, and I encourage you to use it too:

“Fuck it, let’s have some fun.”

Hero

 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. 

If I were to use one word to describe Hero, that one word would be: ballet. That’s really it in a nutshell: beautiful, well performed, poetic and just not very thrilling.

Hero (or Ying xiong, as it is known in its native China) takes place over 2,200 years ago in the land of pre-unified China, where the king of Qin is attempting to conquer the six kingdoms of China in order to become the land’s first Emperor. Standing in the king’s way are the three assassins who have tried for years to kill him and free the land from oppression: Flying Snow, Broken Sword, and Sky (respectively, Maggie Cheung, Tommy Leung Chiu Wai, and Donnie Yen). Fortunately for the king, word has just reached him that one of his own prefects, known only as Nameless, has successfully killed these three assassins, and now the king wishes to know: how? Enter Nameless (Jet Li, playing the same statuesque, stoic part he plays in every movie. At least he plays the part well.), carrying the weapons of the fallen warriors, prepared to retell his exploits to the king. But all is not what it seems: through the course of the retelling, things don’t seem to sit right in this warrior’s story. Gradually more layers of truth are revealed until we discover that Nameless is actually there to finish the job the other assassins could not.

This movie is so much fun to look at, its no wonder that other elements of the film seem to fall apart at times. For example, the telling and retelling of the different story possibilities of exactly what Nameless did happen with so little evidence of time and place change that if director Zhang Yimou did not have a strong visual style, you would probably be dumbfounded as to exactly what you were watching and when it all took place. Fortunately, the director uses some beautiful and vibrant colors in each story element to help the mind delineate and clarify the parts of the story (green/red/blue/white/etc.) Following in the same cinematic style as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Hero also features some beautifully crafted and executed fight sequences, where the warriors hurl themselves like projectiles, sprint across the surface of lakes and fight about each other like dancers in some lethal tango. Of course, most of the fight sequences are of little to no consequence for the story, but when did that ever stop anyone?

But a movie cannot be built on beautiful cinematography alone, as Hero undoubtedly proves. While the individual fight scenes are thrilling and exciting, the film fails to transfer the thrills from the individual stories to the overall movie, and Hero suffers as a result. Additionally, the film just barely manages to have even a modicum of substance, which only shows up in the last fifteen minutes, making it appear as though the “theme” was tossed in at the last minute (Not surprisingly, the American version has lost ten minutes to the Chinese version, presumably to put the fight sequences closer together). The only worthwhile theme actually shows up indirectly, when we discover that on top of being a master swordsman, Broken Sword is also a master calligrapher: the marriage of violence and art. Violence may be a wicked thing, but it can also be work of art in itself.

Hero is without a doubt the most beautiful and fun to look at film I have seen in ages. It’s just a shame the director couldn’t put the same energy into the story direction as he did into the visual style.

Silver and Gold

-->

One of the basics I was always taught when choosing people you want to improvise with is to choose people “you wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with”. This is to say that because improv is such a personal art form, and also one that is so reliant on your teammates for success, that the mixture of different people is the show – it's what drives the engine. By that logic, the key to a good improv group is to have a mix of people that can enjoy playing with each other – however, I've noticed that just having a good group of people means nothing if you can't get them into the elevator, and is not the only indicator of a “successful group”. What's equally as important to having good group chemistry is having complementary levels of ambition (which, come to think of it, is a facet of the elevator theory).

This is a tricky artform that we do, and its mutability, ease of doing, low cost, and even worse, it's capacity to be just picked up and dropped just as easily makes it very easy to treat it with a certain degree of flippancy, especially for the 90% or so of improvisers that do it as a hobby. The life things that can eventually derail a group altogether are at work everyday; it's just that most of the time, they don't mount up to the point where they mess with your schedule. You have to work late, miss a week so you can go to a family reunion, meet a new boy/girl that you want to spend every moment with – all these things happen all the time. The mastery of improv is a long, grinding process, one that is less a product of talent and more of temperament, which is why having a group of people you can enjoy slogging through it with is important.

The big lesson I teach now to everyone is that “the most important person on stage is the other person”, but this concept doesn't (or shouldn't, at least) start and stop when you are on stage – it should extend to off stage as well. Jimmy Carrane wrote in his book (and has covered additionally in podcasts) that overextending yourself to a bunch of projects is a less powerful use of your time than committing to one or two projects. This is something that has taken me a while to fully appreciate, since one of my goals is to do improv every night for a week. I've realized in the last year though the added value of having people you can rely on. We all have a finite amount of improv scenes in us – we should endeavour to make the few we have the very best.

But what makes the difference, is your commitment to your team mates. No one can decide for you how much you want to play with your team – only you can. Every time one of these life “things” happens, you decide how much you want to keep doing it. You're having a lousy day; do you go to practice anyway, or just stay home, watching T.V. instead? Finding people who want something valuable and are dedicated and are fun to play with is all the more rarer, but that is the special sauce that makes great groups. The ones that stand out to people are ones with long records of constant support. Not every fun improviser will be a good fit dedication wise – some just want to do a practice a week and perform occasionally, and that 's OK. But if you're someone who wants to go further than that, it's important to find the people that match your eagerness. Being in a group with people who are far more ambitious than you will only lead to resentment, and being with people are less interested will always leave you feeling dragged down.

Short term shows or groups probably don't have to worry about this sort of thing, and neither do more casual players. But more invested individuals (which probably includes you, if you're reading this) and definitely those that are interested in creating long term artistic adventures must at least consider the appetite facet (which again, it should be emphasized that this is only a part of the elevator theory) when looking at the people that are fun to play with. Don't just find someone you wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with – find people who would agree to join you in a stuck elevator.

Opinions and Facts

-->

One of the founding principles of improvisational theater (improv) is the idea of “yes and”. It's such a basic building block for everything an improviser does, and you can find its DNA in practically every higher level concept and idea, sort of the binary machine code all improv is programmed under. It indicates both a positive, supportive good nature that improvisers have towards each other as well as a much more technical agreement – as elements are established in a scene (e.g. people, places, things) they become gospel. To disagree with these elements has the effect of confusing observers and performers alike and halting a scene. The “yes” symbolizes and acknowledgement of facts and the “and” indicates an adding to or heightening of established elements. (“I am a doctor.” “Yes, and you are the finest heart surgeon in the world” - or - “Yes, and the drunkest, most incompetent anesthesiologist in the world.”)

In scenes, responding to offers (i.e. facts) in a mechanical way will allow scenes to proceed, but also has the effect of making scenes feel fairly stilted or robotic, which is why a better response is “I know, and” which stands in for the agreement of “yes and” while allowing for responses that can have more nuance, or at least more humanity. So an improv scene is constantly built around agreement, which must mean that actors can never say the word “no”, right? This was a misconception of improvisers for quite awhile, but the Arnett Axiom says that anything we say in real life we can say in an improv scene, and most scenes would be rather strange (and brief) if players agreed to be shot when prompted: “May I kill you?” (unless the character has a death wish, which is the exception rather than the rule). Instead, agreement must be thought of as being based around facts. “We are on the moon” - and now we are. To cast doubt on these facts unravels the world we're in.

This is important, because facts cannot be disputed, but opinions can. Two actors who are playing doctors in a hospital are facts. That one is the best and the other worst are also facts. That one loves the other is an opinion. (Opinions being any fact that is not shared by all individuals.) People are often not descripted in a vacuum, they exist relative to other descriptors. The best heart surgeon in the world at an All-Star Heart Surgeon Convention is fairly unimpressive. That same surgeon at a convention of witch doctors is in a different predicament. Both facts and opinions have to be respected as valid, and treated with the same reverence – one doctor who loves another doctor has a factual component and an opinion component: the other doctor can disagree with that assessment. Often facts can contribute to opinions and vice versa and give us great comedy as a result. Take for example one of my favorite Woody Allen jokes (from “Annie Hall”):

There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions."

Having opinions provides the stopgap that is not accounted for in “yes, and”, which can make for detail rich ideas; but also makes for scenes that can meander aimlessly or be talked about in a listless, apathetic monotone. Opinion indicates emotional investment and tension as a result. That Duncan is King of Scotland is fact – that Macbeth should kill him and how far he is willing to go are matters of opinion, and that drives the “Scottish Play”. These make for great conflict (which is often present in narrative, but I would argue about it's absolute necessity) since facts cannot be disputed. But with both facts and opinions, we provide improv with the clarity and specificity needed in good writing, and also the humanity and expression found in good acting. Or that's my opinion, at least.

The One Where They Build a House

-->

The classic approach to describing how an improv scene is built is to refer to it as like chess (although sometimes tennis is used) which likely (as Bill Arnett points out) because as improvisers, we like to think of ourselves as being very clever. A chess analogy nicely makes improvisers feel like our craft is lofty, regal, and very smart. The problem (which Arnett also pointed out) is that it implies that there is a degree of strategy and planning involved in performing an improvised scene – just as the grand master sees his opponents six moves out, apparently a grand improviser is able to plan his moves out, which goes directly against the basic principle of improvisation. (Though it should be conceded that there are, have, and likely always will be, performers who do plan (or at least try to plan) scenes out ahead of time. Equally it should be noted that the shorthand, invisible, and sometimes telepathic group mind that some performers have with each other does flirt the line with “planning”.)

Bill's alternative was to describe a scene as a game of “Battleship”, where the two players take turns sinking each others fleets – an analogy that does correctly capture the principle that scenes are not planned and are built by scene partners taking turns in the process. Where this analogy falls short (with all due respect to Bill) is that every game of Battleship is played exactly the same. Sure the winners, length of game play, and individual tactics may vary, but the game has the same mechanics and end point. No game of Battleship has ever been played differently – but improv scenes are played differently all the time. How improv scenes conduct themselves and how they end is different for every scene that has ever been and ever will be played.

The metaphor I propose is that building an improv scene is like building a house (not a big stretch to be sure, and it does not adequately, or at least explicitly, provide the back-forth shared responsibility like “Battleship”). Every house is different – even if only in location; but there are larger manor houses, mansions, two-story ranch homes, huts, shacks, duplexes, single story dwellings, with attached garages and not, with multiple bedrooms or bathrooms, attics, basements, and any number of variations inside. This, I feel, better describes the idea that scenes serve different functions, and achieve those functions in different ways. Some scenes are slow-burn scenes that sustain for 30 minutes with no edits; much more theatrical and character-rooted. Other scenes are simple, one-line button scenes that last for 30 seconds, like a round thatch hut. But because scenes can vary so much in how they play and what they're supposed to do for an audience (e.g. laugh, cry, grumble) it is important to remember to focus on what each individual scene provides. While we all might like to live in a penthouse suite in Central Park West, some people have to live in a lean-to in Outer Mongolia.

As I was thinking about this analogy, I was struck by the idea of a keystone – which in a figuratively architectural sense is a central supporting element of a larger structure. The keystone is the first idea that sets the entire scene in motion – the one that tells us what this scene is going to be about (a “key” piece of information). In Johnstone terms, it is the tilt that occurs after the platform has been established; in other scenework approaches, it's often the game move, or at the very least a gift (movement, action, or line) that, when acknowledged and used, causes the scene to actuate. Keystones are useful because they are what can prevent a transaction scene from being just a transaction scene – they only require attention and a willingness to use. Here's an example from a recent Seersucker show:

Man and Woman enter Man's apartment.

MAN

Well, this is my place. Feel free to look around, I know how you women like to touch things.

MAN's MOM

(Entering)

Oh don't mind me, I'm just going to touch some things.

(Starts touching everything)

What followed was a scene about a family dynamic that was heavily rooted in physical contact of everything and everyone, which could only be achieved because the keystone (the line about touching things) was used. (This scene can only really last so long since it is so based on a simple game move – I would say given the commonality of this kind of scene that it was a two-bedroom house in the suburbs.) This isn't to say that this was the only keystone that could occur in a scene; had that one not been used, another one probably would've popped up in the next line. (Keystones, which are synonymous with game moves and tilts, likewise occur usually in the first five lines of a scene.) Does a scene have to have a keystone? No, just as buildings don't have to have one to stand up (keystones are more common in vault and arch structures). A simple round walled hut was the popular home during the Medieval period because it is simple to build – place a post in the ground, attach a rope to the post, and then walk around the pole at the end of the rope marking off the outer wall. Scenes without a big single keystone will likely have some smaller ones sprinkled throughout, and will probably be a slower burning scene that will need more effort to build in a way that won't cause collapse. The keystone though (and how we use it) tells us what kind of house we're building.

None of this contradicts, nor negates, the need to continue to add information to a scene (building walls, doors, stairs, closets) or the need to listen and respond to your partner and build the house together (don't put a second kitchen in a single bedroom abode). It's just another way of thinking about the process of building a scene, so we can all live inside of it together.

Drink the Electric Kool-Aid Part II

I've finished reading Wolfe's “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test”, and I've made a few more observations. While we're on the subject, you recall in Part I that I could only guess that maybe Del Close and Kesey may have knew each other, as they were both interested in drugs for enlightenment and living in the same area at the same time, well, I've found the proof. Near the end of the book, a reporter goes to an Acid Test and sees Close and Severn Darden at the event (doing what else, but improvising some scenes right in the middle of the party), of course at the time Kesey was hiding out in Mexico, so no direct line just yet. But what I was struck with was Kesey's final lesson to the Merry Pranksters (and all drug users really), that doing all these psychotropics was cool and all in that it gave man a way to really dive into himself, but in the end, we had to figure out a way to get there without the drugs.

The Acid Tests really were this, an attempt to reproduce the introspection you get from LSD without having to take it (except for one party where someone actually did spike the punch with acid, but then again, they weren't call the Pranksters for nothing). They would play the weird music, do light shows, the whole shebang, trying to mimic the experience. I have to think Del probably made the same connection – while the kind of crazy, off the wall spiritual experience you got while doing LSD was awesome, you couldn't really do scenes or relate to any audience while you're on it, so the next obvious step was trying to bottle that lightning in a way that you could use it on stage. A lot of the early Close Harold openings were based around this concept (including the “3 Rituals” and the “Invocation” - still used today), and Close even said that he loved it more when audiences gave the most mundane suggestions, because that really gave them the opportunity to wow them by elevating something bland into something extraordinary, or even God-like. The Beatniks (who preceded the Hippies in drug use by a decade) discovered this too. The Beat culture was addicted to Benzedrine and Dexedrine (amphetamines for those of you following at home) instead of LSD and DMT, and they were doing it for different purposes (artistic productivity, including writing for the Beats, while the Hippies used it for spiritual exploration), but they reached the same conclusion. Eventually, you have to figure out a way to capture that without taking pharma. (This is compounded by the fact that it requires increased doses for amphetamine, some individuals pushing as high as several hundred milligrams and eventually toxifying themselves to hospitalization or worse. Ah, the pursuit of artistic endeavor.)

I taught a Harold workshop recently to a group that is relatively inexperienced in longform (though they have been experimenting with a very Commedia del Arte approach to it in the last couple of months, and that's pretty cool). The director asked me to teach some longform, and said I could teach whatever I wanted, and after a great deal of internal debate I settled on the Harold for its simplicity of structure, it's influence on other, more complicated forms, and also because every other longform player I know of started on the Harold, so it seems a good place to start. The biggest lesson I learned teaching this two and half hour crash course, is that you can teach the structure relatively easy, but that's only really half of what the Harold (and by extension, Longform) is about. The other half has to do with that paragraph right up there (go ahead and read it again, I'll wait). The other half is largely what I think Close contributed to improv – it's the attitude: everything from the “Theater of the Heart” all the way up to artistic integrity (e.g. play to the top of your character's intelligence/integrity). And it's this way of thinking that would explain why exactly it is that when my first group back in college tried Harold's (twice) that we failed miserably. We were missing that piece of the puzzle that makes longform different from shortform, and what makes longform more than just “longer scenes” but transforms it into something mind-blowing. In a post crash course sit down with the group I taught, one of the players said she didn't like the Harold because it seemed too chaotic; which she was right about, but the Harold I can teach in two hours, sure. What I can't teach in two hours is the mindset of how a longform improviser approaches a piece. This is one of the reasons why the big three cities holds a tight hold on “good” longform – they have the right mindset. Running all the way from Kesey to Close and up to every improviser performing longform today (or at least the ones who can trace their improv lineage back to the original drug users) runs a line that has to do with artistic integrity, discovery, and group mind. This is what makes a longform improviser – not the form he does.

On a personal note, my group is chomping at the bit for some longform, but I don't want to drop that on them until they've attached themselves into that lineage. Once they have, the Harold will be easier than breathing.

Fever Pitch

"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. 
With the baseball season getting ready to move into full swing, it’s no surprise that we would see a movie release tied to the sport. The usual style of the underdog baseball story is nearly tired out by this point, after years of movies like “Major League: Back to the Minors”. “Fever Pitch” offers a slightly different perspective on the genre, incorporating more of a romantic comedy feel with less-than-spectacular results, especially against this month’s James Bond/Indiana Jones hybrid, “Sahara”. Romantic comedies typically perform poorly when up against big budget action movies, but not being very good doesn’t help its case at all.

“Fever Pitch” follows the story of Ben (Jimmy Fallon), a high school geometry teacher who meets Lindsey (Drew Barrymore) while she is giving a tour of her accounting firm to several of his students. The two immediately hit it off, until March rolls around and Lindsey discovers Ben’s ultimate flaw: he’s a Boston Red Sox fan. Ben’s entire apartment has in every square inch decorated with Red Sox memorabilia, and he even has season tickets next to the dugout that he inherited from his uncle. Though Lindsey likes Ben, his obsession with the Sox brings friction to their relationship that puts her job in jeopardy, injures her, and ultimately leaves Lindsey wondering if loving a man this obsessed is even possible.

Based on the autobiography by Nick Hornby of the same title, the love story also coincides with the 2004 season that nabbed the Sox their first pennant in nearly a century. The plot is pieced together such that the state of the Ben/Lindsey relationship is reflective of how well the Sox are doing, and of course realizations about the nature of the sports team and its players give the characters stuff to relate to their own life with. 

This also marks the most recent work by the Farrelly brothers, since last year’s easily forgettable comedy, “Stuck on You”. Usually this would mean that the movie should be very funny, but their recent work is far less entertaining than their earlier work. “Fever Pitch’s” entire comic fuel is centered on Jimmy Fallon, and even then the movie can achieve little more than a few chuckles. They haven’t really tried their hand at the typical romantic comedy yet, and it shows, as their best work is in conveying the wonder of America’s favorite pastime.

Drew Barrymore’s presence is becoming routine for April romantic comedies, after movies like “50 First Dates” and “The Wedding Singer”, but her veteran knowledge of how to make romantic comedies entertaining is lost here. Her earlier work had her teaming up with Adam Sandler, but fellow Saturday Night Live alumnus Jimmy Fallon does not have the chemistry with Barrymore that was required to land this film safely into “good” territory. On a positive note, this is Fallon’s best on-screen work yet, especially after “Taxi”, as he steals all the funny moments and is usually the only thing keeping the movie from faltering and collapsing mid-plot.

“Fever Pitch” may come off as a baseball movie, but its real message is about how men and women are on different emotional wavelengths. The problem is, “Hitch” did roughly the same thing two months ago, and “Fever Pitch” doesn’t have the humor, chemistry, or sufficient pacing to keep the movie enjoyable. But “Fever Pitch” does have a more down-to-earth feel that, though probably not a conscious decision by the directors, complements the spirit of baseball rather well.

Meditations on Meditation

-->

I've been listening to the “Zenprov” podcast for a while now, and those guys are way into the meditation as a good way into improv approach. First, as full disclosure, let me say I've never pursued meditation seriously (or semi-seriously, for that matter). I don't feel like my brain is the kind that really takes to meditation well – I can't really sit still with an empty mind much, if at all. I do appreciate some of the things that they talk about that are adjacent in the topic, things that are found in both Zen Buddhism and some improv texts – being in the moment, reacting honestly, and I really do feel that they do know what they are talking about. Just not for me, is all I'm saying.

That having been said, I do have a beef with meditation as a way to warm up before improv. I was in an improv troupe that did pursue quiet meditation, stretching, yoga and other things which I'm sure have names, but I would probably end just calling “that thing where we did the one thing”. Now, I know that one data point does not make a pattern, but I would say that my experience from that group tells me that meditation as warm up may not be the best choice. What are warm ups intended to do? Establish group mind, get energy up, get the mind working, get the players listening – these are all good reasons. Meditation, doesn't appear to do those things. This group would dutifully follow the whole routine, spending 15-20 minutes clearing the mind and whatnot, and then get up on stage and yell at and ignore each other.

I can see the benefit of the meditative approach: spending some time focusing on yourself, the environment, the other player (not necessarily in that order) before you muddle the whole thing up with words. Really paying attention to things, instead of just waiting for your chance to talk, sure, I can get behind all of that. My point is that I have seen much better work come out of a group that has taken the time to focus on the group at the start of a practice with “zip, zap, zop” (which focuses on energy, listening, and responding quickly) or a pattern game (focus, listening, paying attention) that I have with silent solo meditation. There has been a lot of talk from a number of different people who are all saying the same thing, that we must first take care of ourselves, but improv still is a team sport, and we need to still pay some focus to our fellows on stage. Even the meditative approach to scene starting (what my friend calls the “shut the fuck up” method) is about tuning in to what is going on with you and your scene partner.

This whole approach goes back to those very Zen like principles of quieting the mind so you can a) turn of your internal policeman that criticizes and second guesses your instinctual reactions and b) really listening. Ultimately though, a warm up regimen must be selected that fits your groups personal style and benefits them, and if meditation isn't doing it for you (as in getting you do all the good things you should be striving for), then you've gotta try something new.

Improv Metric

I’ve been toying with an idea in my head for a little while, and I can’t quite seem to get my mind into it. Let me explain. In chemistry, for instance, someone might ask me how much of a certain compound is in a solution. Easy, I figure out the concentration (using Science!), and give them the result. If they already knew the concentration, they could grade me based on how close I got to the correct result. This much I understand, but what I can’t, really, is how you judge an improv show.

I can ask a group of improvisers “What is the best show you’ve ever seen?” and “What is the worst show you’ve ever seen”, and will immediately get answers, but the harder question is “Why?” What would also be a fun experiment would be to compare the results of that brief questionnaire to a non-improviser, where you might be surprised at the disparity between the two tastes. My point is simply that there is a concept in science that expectation changes observation, which is kind of tied into Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. (That little gem says that we can never know the position and speed of subatomic particles because by the sheer observation of them, the impact of the light we used to observe them causes them to change. In quantum mechanics (This is an improv blog, right?), we only describe subatomic things by certainties, as in “It’s Friday, so there is a 75% chance that Chris George is at the movie theatre”, but never “It’s Friday, so Chris George is at the movie theatre, because he is lame (only 25% odds on that, ladies.))

But expectation changing observation goes further into the world than the mysterious tale of the quanta; the idea is that because we are looking for stuff (scientific term), we change what we see because we filter it through the current frame of mind that we are observing things. For example, when Gregor Mendel’s pea plant experiments (the hereditary ones that proved recessive/dominant traits) were repeated in modern day, it was discovered that Mendel’s recorded observations were closer to “theoretical” than to “experimental”. Did he forge scientific data? Maybe, but he saw what he wanted (or needed, maybe) because that’s what he predicted. (I may be a heathen, but I won’t call a monk/father of hereditary genetics a liar.) We can never fully, objectively observe anything, because we focus on the things that prove our point. (Experiment you can try at home! 1. Go to a bar and look for an attractive woman/man/woman-man/whatever floats your boat because we make no judgments here. 2. Catch her eye, and watch as you instantly misinterpret a “getting a stray eyelash” gesture for a “Come over here, sexy man/woman/man-woman/whatever. 3. Science!)

Therefore, if we can never truly observe anything, then we can never truly judge anything. Thus, my Grand Improvisational Corollary is: 1.) We are improvisers, so we have trained in classes, workshops, and rehearsals. 2.) The average audience member (excluding those guys who are also improvisers) has not. 3.) Neither side will ever observe the same show, because both have a different set of expectations. 4.) No non-improvisers write improvisational blogs, so we can get away with saying just about anything.

Shortform v Longform Part II

I have previously extolled the virtues of shortform improv on many occasions. It is still, in my opinion, a fine art form, and I have come to understand that each has its place. It would be ignorant and pretentious to presume that longform is the only improv worth doing because of this or that. And to be fair, shortform still has a lot going for it – it’s simple and fun, and most importantly, it is highly structured. Humans (pay attention here, aliens) like structure for the most part. We like rules, even if just to break them, and shortform has got rules in spades. Even better, shortform shows are not just four people goofing off on stage for an hour and a half; they’re presentations, especially the successful ones. Comedy Sportz, and I’m sure others, present some two hours of entertainment as a whole freakin’ show, with lights, sound, and an emcee (usually referred to and dressed as a referee) who dishes the whole thing as a big variety show.

Why do we need to do this? Because shortform is boring. I mean, not all the time, but most of the time. But each scene is referred to as a ‘game’ for a reason. Each game has a different set of rules and components, and it takes time to get them set up. Most importantly, with library of probably more than 200 games (although I can tell you from personal experience that improv groups regularly use maybe 5% of that, strange), it’s unreasonable, and probably impossible to expect the average audience member to recall the rules for even a small portion of the games. Heck, most people probably couldn’t accurately recall all the rules for Monopoly or Sorry, and those are way more common than Scene in Reverse. What this means is that for every scene, there is one to three minutes of informing the audience what the game is, what the rules are, what the catch is, and then finally getting the suggestion for the scene. That’s a lot of setup for three minutes of improv, especially given that for a longform show of several teams will usually do five minutes of set up in the very beginning, and an ask for before each set of thirty minutes. This makes the ratio of improv to setup roughly 10:1, whereas shortform has a ratio of more like 2:1. This means that if you pay 10 dollars for either show, you’re paying 3 dollars in the shortform, versus 90 cents in the longform, just to listen to people talk. Jason Chin famously hates setup; in his opinion, a lot of setup before a show is like a magician telling everyone how the bunny is inside the hat the whole time, and then doing it.

My own personal example is a show I did back in Mississippi with my college group. Our show design was that we had two competing hosts (I was one of them), each with their own games list, and the audience would vote on which of the two games they would rather see. The audience loved it, the performers loved it, but I hated it. Part of what everyone liked was the banter between me and the other host between games. While it may have been funny, it seriously cut into improv time, and worst of all, it involved setup up two games every time, just so we could not use one of them!

My reason for bringing this up is that I’ve been paying a lot of attention to the local improv house. It being the only real improv game in town, I’m keenly interested in getting on a team there, and I noticed a key problem with one of their games. In fact it’s not just any game: it’s their signature game (I mean if iO can have the Harold, then why not?). It’s called “Five Things”, and here’s how it plays out. One player leaves the room, and the audience is asked for five activities. When the player comes back in, the other team members have to get him to guess the activity using mime and gibberish. But of course, there’s a catch: elements of the five things will be changes (e.g. swimming, but instead of water, he’s swimming in tangerines! Are you laughing yet?), and the player will have two and a half minutes to guess all five things (the title of the game!) and the two-three changes per activity. Here’s the problem, and I’ve timed it several times now. The game will last two and a half minutes, that’s laid out in front. But the game requires a minimum of 15 ask fors, and upwards of 20. No only that, but you have to explain the game, and then the team giving the clues gets to pick the order, and then the host reminds the audience of all the “things” again. It takes between ten and fifteen minutes just to get a less than three minute game going.

Now, I won’t argue that the game isn’t funny, because it can be quite entertaining. (If you really want a rabbit-in-the-hat secret for this game though, in class we learn that because the same suggestions come up so often, the players have no trouble with them because they’re so familiar with the clues.) But the problem here is indicative of the whole problem with shortform. It gets in its own way all too often. This entire show runs just shy of two hours, with nearly twenty minutes of introductions, setup and ground rules before the players are even on stage. The entire show has barely ten games for the whole run. So, now the reason for the showmanship becomes apparent. In film presentation, there’s a thing called “persistence of vision”. Essentially, when you watch a movie in the theatre, half of the time you’re watching a black screen, because there’s a moment between each frame when the projector has closed off the light to move the film. We don’t see the gap in image though, because the image lingers on our retinas. The same thing is applied here; in order to keep the momentum going, the show has to be presented as a seamless act of energy in order to keep the image of comedy lingering on our mind’s eye.

So shortform figured this trick out a long time ago, but the lesson has not carried over to longform. My coach Danny Mora would chide us for not beginning a scene the second the previous was edited. If you don’t fill the space, the vacuum of an empty stage threatens to drown the entire piece. We spend a lot of energy getting an audience pumped up to watch us and to get performers pumped to perform it. If we don’t use that energy, we’re going to lose it to the atmosphere.

Keep that image alive, boys.

Ask Fors

-->

The suggestion or “ask-for” lies at the very heart of the improvising endeavor. The ask-for is our way of proving to the audience that we are authentically creating stuff on the spot. The only group I’ve ever seen get away with not taking a suggestion is “TJ and Dave”, and even they have to open shows with the line “Trust us, everything is here is completely made up.” Alternatively, I once played a show where we tested out a new guessing game, but didn’t take the guessed item from the audience. The player just picked one in his head at the beginning, and audience members were convinced that the piece was rehearsed.

The ask-for is, an ultimately very tricky element; we want interesting, and most importantly, unique suggestions on which to base our pieces. Because we built improv around the concept of suggestions, it almost doesn’t operate without it. The suggestions are our inspiration; our clay and muse rolled into one thought. And while in theory no suggestion has ever been the reason for failure, truth is some ask-fors are better than others. In shortform, we hear a couple of suggestions constantly: Tourette’s, dildo, and Michael Jackson. It’s not that we don’t like these suggestions or that they can’t be used more than once (Well, dildo maybe. But the rest?), it’s that we would like occasionally to explore new ground. (For a fun social experiment, at the next show you go to, listen to the proposal and then silently make your response. I guarantee you that you will hear your response from at least one other person, and a good 75% of the time it will be the one selected.)

Part of the problem is that even though we’ve performed a Michael Jackson with Tourette’s talking to a dildo scene a thousand times (roughly), the audience hasn’t. Also, short form audiences tend to be kind of dicks. They’re filled with a bunch of people who want to shout the most disgusting things possible. Why? Because they think it’s funny. (They are at a comedy show, after all.) To a typical shortform audience member, the suggestion is 90% of the joke. And most shortform troupes rarely deliver beyond the suggestion anyway. Longform largely minimizes this effect by only taking one suggestion for a thirty minute plus show. Suddenly, the onus is on the audience to make it good. In either case though, it is important to respect the audience’s responses. That whole ‘no mistakes’ thing in improv extends to audiences as well.

In a show this past weekend, I saw probably the worst example of ask fors I have ever scene. After the proposal (name a foreign country), the team just allowed the audience to shout responses for a little while, and then cherry picked what they felt was the best one. This goes strongly counter to the entire idea of asking for a suggestion at all. Heck, you might as well just pick all your ideas in the green room before the show. That isn’t improvised any more, at least not in the truest sense; it’s more like herded improv.

I’ve been privy to a number of ways to procure those precious ask-fors over the years; some simple, and some downright complex as hell. There may never be a perfect way to obtain our suggestions, so we may have to live with what we’ve got for quite a while, but the important thing is that every suggestion is a gift from the audience. We must treat each and every one with respect, because we never know where it might take us. (Probably to Dildo.)

Assault on Precinct 13

 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.
There’s something pleasant about a nice and tidy action movie: no emotional strings, little character involvement, and an ample body count combined with mounting destruction. Best of all is the sense of watching somebody accomplish something under a sort of trial by fire, be it the protagonists or the antagonists. “Assault on Precinct 13” is exactly what it’s made out to be: simple entertainment in the form of violence, and the end result is a typically Hollywood movie with few disappointments.

“Assault” opens with an undercover drug bust gone awry and the only survivor is Sgt. Jake Roenick (Ethan Hawke). Fast forward eight months and Roenick is now a burnt out cop working the graveyard desk shift at Precinct 13. On this particular night though, Precinct 13 is scheduled to close down permanently, and to cap the whole deal off, a busload of prisoners have to be kept at the precinct overnight until the roads clear. Among the prisoners is Marion Bishop (Laurence Fishburne), an organized crime boss, who had a number of dealings with dirty cops, led by Marcus Duvall (Gabriel Byrne). The one thing this group of dirty cops won’t let happen is for Bishop to reach trial and end all of their illegal activities. The result is a full out assault on the precinct and all of its inhabitants in the hopes of killing the key witness.

Granted, this movie is a remake of a 1976 movie by John Carpenter and almost the same overall movie, but what’s even more important is that this is basically just a remake of any old western “hold down the fort” kind of movie. Be it cops or Indians outside the safety of the fort, it’s still the same movie. Director Jean-François Richet’s remake modernizes the original story, giving it new action sequences and even (gasp) adding some new plot twists. Whether these plot twists are there for independent intentions or are merely there to differentiate from the original is a topic that I will ignore for the purpose of being polite. The movie does boast a nice supply of good, wholesome violence and provided you can ignore the convenient plot devices (dark and stormy night, forgotten tunnels, forest in the middle of Detroit, etc.) “Assault” ends up being a pretty solid piece of work. You don’t want to fool around with dirty Detroit cops, since they have more firepower than the army and better high-tech resources than the C.I.A.

Laurence Fishburne is playing the same ubercriminal that Alan Rickman made great in “Die Hard”, only this time the proportions of ruthless criminal to intelligent villain are verging on cartoonish. Gabriel Byrne is there, playing the overanalyzing leader, only this time, he seemed to be a little confused as to exactly what type of character he was supposed to playing; merciless killer one minute followed by a river of deep moral conflict and personal reflection the next. Maybe there were two different scripts; heck, that might explain the minor inconsistencies in the plot.

“Assault” is a pretty entertaining movie all around, especially if you enjoy some good gunfights, big explosions, and a solid film about good guys shooting up a bunch of bad guys.