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.
