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.”