They Who Shall Not Be Named

In mid-October, for about 6 hours, the San Diego Impov Collective (SDIC), a Facebook based page for members of the SD improv community, was on fire.  Normally, this would be considered a good thing - high traffic, lots of links, click throughs, comments (and comments to comments), and activity, but as with most conflagrations, heat and energy also indicate destruction.  The origin of this facebook post is multi-varied and long-term, and a story that could fill several blog posts (and has, on this particular blog).  I wish that I could have archived that entire post and everything attached to it, if only for posterity, though it truly would do no one any good should someone ever view that archive in the future.  One could also point out how quickly it devolved into name-calling, attacks on individuals, attacks on people's performative capabilities (all on both sides), and (most importantly), a grave misunderstanding of the underlying issues.

Like the young boy who sticks his finger in the dyke, we fail to understand and appreciate the real problem and instead just focus on going about our day-to-day and fixing only the current crisis.  The central problem in San  Diego is, quite simply:

SAN DIEGO HAS AN US VERSUS THEM PROBLEM.

We have basically two improv communities in town; one with people from one theater, and one with everyone else.  Again, I'll try to not get into particulars as to why this is, or who is at fault, or even to name names.  You'll just have to trust me that this thing exists, and we live under the shadow of it every day in improv in this town.  And, quite frankly:

IT SUCKS.

I miss my friends, some of whom I have known as long as I've lived here.  I miss getting to share in their triumphs and shortcomings, joys and sorrows, and just sitting with them shooting the shit at 2am over crappy food.  But as I was looking through all of the comments, some very passionate, erudite, and thoughtful about the issue (others...less so), I was struck by how much two groups of people who live in the same town and practice the same goofy, fringe artform don't know each other.  It's easy to pick fights with strangers or the "other", it's hard to do so when people are familiar.  We'll always have more in common than what makes us different, regardless of religion, race, sexual orientation, politics, nationality, birth state, class, education, gender, age, or devotion to bizarre theater that you can't fully explain to your coworkers. (It should be pointed out that none of the previous denominations were selected in any particular order, nor should their inclusion or exclusion of other groupings be representative of any percieved or actual status.)

The causal post is gone now - deleted into whatever magic archive all our supposedly "deleted" posts go to for Mr. Zuckerberg or his designated associates to read for their own amusement.  But the underlying root isn't, and certainly the memory of what was said (or wasn't said) will probably linger for some time. (I for the record, stayed out of the fray, an operand largely driven by 1) not wanting to go down the rabbit hole again and 2) the benefits of having a job where access to Facebook is largely impossible.)  But this doesn't change the fact that when you have two groups of people who don't know each other, conflicts easily arise, and not knowing someone else is everyone's fault.

VIIF Report

The approach to Granville Island from downtown Vancouver is on a 4-lane causeway over what is named, with what would be considered British meiosis, False Creek (which is far too wide to be a creek, and is, as it turns out, only a small bay cutting into the heart of Vancouver).  The Granville Street Bridge (which helpfully reminds you in crayon written messages on the periodic street lamp poles) pulls away from downtown to reveal Vancouver's picturesque quality: misty mountains feel comfortingly close to the city center and tall egg carton style apartment buildings fill the skyline, twinkling with green glass windows.  The only truly distinguishing buildings are the BC arena (where the Cannucks (hockey) and White Caps (FC) play) and the Telus Science Center, an Epcot shaped dome at the far end of False Creek's quayside.

Stateside, a bridge like this would likely not even have a pedestrian allowance and any walkers would probably be seen as potential jumpers rather than commuters, but in Vancouver, there is a steady stream of impossibly attractive people walking back and forth, dressed in the standard local attire of a rainproof jacket with attached hood.  For visitors to the Vancouver International Improv Festival (VIIF), this bridge will become a familiar crossing to reach Granville Island proper.  Once down on the far side of the bridge, a small walkway winds down under the bridge, and a short walk underneath it's gargantuan cement canopy leads to the entrance to the island.  Warm, red neon letters state where you are, with a helpful smaller neon sign reminding you that this is Canada.  It's here on the island that the VIIF is taking place - five days of workshops, shows, and fellowship, distributed among what seems to be an improbable number of working theater spaces.

I'm here as part of the International Ensemble, an assemblage of ~2 dozen improvisers broken up into two teams (Bravo and Echo) who spend 4 days rehearsing and performing together.  Applicants to the ensemble submit as an individual, and, if selected, get to rehearse with players they've likely never worked with before, doing forms and shows they've likely never encountered before.  My team (Echo) has players from Vancouver, Atlanta, Winnipeg, Toronto, Edmonton, and Portland and represents a deep roster of modern improv talent and experience, filled as it is with regular performers, teachers, and theater heads.

The first thing I notice about my fellow ensemble players is the high level of familiarity they have with each other.  In contrast to the states, Canada thrives on two big factors that significantly drive the greater national community.  The first is a festival culture that has largely eluded the US up to this point.  Improvisers regularly travel to a number of similarly sized improv festivals both in and out of country, probably fueled not in the very least by a travel and vacation oriented culture that the US seems completely adverse to - as if we can work ourselves to death and productivity simulatenously.  But the second factor is probably the most significant: the Canadian Improv Games.  Every year, high school improv teams from around the country attend this competition, all united under a common banner from the time they entered secondary school.  Because of this, Canadian improvisers have often met and seen each other's work since the time they were 15 and have deep running ties and friendship to each other.

Stepping into the lion's den is a little un-nerving for me for a little while.  I won't cast aspersions and assume that I was going to be better than the Canadians that make up the majority of the cast, but I'm rattled by how easy it seems to be for them, and how professional they are.  Trying to step into a conversation with a dozen people who have known each other for a decade already is an uphill battle for everyone, except the Atlanta extrovert on my team who easily seems to slide into the right groove.  The work is challenging; 5+ hours a day spent rehearsing, in a blend of workshop, laboratory, practice, and class.  But the challenge is exhilerating too - a large group doing new work requires patience and perserverance and the learning curve feels tilted up to the heavens in a way that I haven't truly felt in a long time.  And I can't speak too little about the work ethic I see on display here; a dedication to care and diligence that I see far too rarely back home.

The festival feels huge (I amtold that 138 total improvisers are performing in the festival over 5 days) but intimate at the same time (there seems to be a veritable army of volunteers doing a litany of tasks, but I continually see the same rotating array of them).  The latter I think is due highly to the concentration of events - most improvisers are staying at the Ramada on Granville Street (an amazingly hospitable hotel that gives it's residents free umbrellas and has intimately close walls in the hallways and stairwells) and all the shows are on the island, so the festival quickly gains a camp-like atmosphere.  There are frequent Facebook posts on the performer's page asking if people want to get breakfast every morning, or to let everyone know of an outing to watch the Blue Jay's game at a pub near the old Olympic Village.  And despite the large sandbox feel and often 100+ member audiences, I start to form proximity driven friendships with people, in only the way summer camp (or good festivals) can do.

The festival is overseen by Allistair Cook, a dryly funny and self-deprecating improviser who seems to eschew the spotlight at every turn.  He takes a deeply personal care over the festival; I never see him on a walkie-talkie or cell phone, but I still see him everywhere: checking in on the ensembles at the beginning and end of every day, holding court in theater lobbies, and personally ferrying people to and from party or performance venues.  He seems to keenly know when his presence is needed, and when to allow the festival to run its course.  What I think really contributes to a very warm atmosphere is a bipartisan representation of the Vancouver improv scene - I know that Instant Theater, Blind Tiger, and Vancouver TheaterSports people are present based on the t-shirts I see, but the festival doesn't feel like the property of any company, it feels like it belongs to anyone, and represents everyone.

I see some truly outstanding performances; my personal favorites are an improvised TedTalk (TedXRFT, from Edmonton) and a duo that performed an entire set in gibberish (Chris & Travis, from Vancouver) that really demonstrate a high bar for improvised performance.  My two shows are excellent, the kind of warm, fun improv that I think exemplifies the spirit of experimentation that the VIIF is trying to accomplish.  My last night is relatively uneventful, a short appearance at the closing night party for a drink in a room that looks like a Nickeloden TV show's vision of a basement from the 90's (located at an unmarked door somewhere in SE Vancouver - where I can't really tell you because we take a short bus ride to get there in a vehicle that gives out Wurther's, has a disco ball, and plays 80's music).  I leave for the airport on Sunday morning, the festival a blur that I'll need a few days to still fully process as I slowly spin out of the orbit of this oustanding festival.

Not Emotions

For a lot of us, the word emotion when it comes to improv is a scary one with a lot of panicking connotations. Most of the modern improviser are logical, right brained ones, a product, most likely, on an emphasis on game play. Game play is by it's very nature analytical requiring the ability to identify and amplify “unusual things”. Even game heightening, though necessitating a finesse best exemplified in ways that math cannot quantitate, can be broken down into a series of moves – that the UCB improv handbook reads like a science textbook is no accident. Combine this with the fact that most “comedy nerds” are comedy historians raised typically on static, witty comedy programming and you have a recipe for the typical improviser – smart, word-based, unphysical.

As a result, improv spends a lot of time on workshops about “emotions”. We're trying to remove improv from being a purely intellectual exercise into one that respects that it is a performative, acting experience. For new improvisers, the idea of emotions feels absolutely terrifying – I know that I feel a knee jerk response to avoid emotion workshops when I see them offered. Our western society frowns on the idea of “emoting”. Emotions are seen as being volatile, unpredicatable, and mercurial, which are not viewed as valuable in a society that likes consistent, objective, and reliable. Emotion also carries with it the “actor” connotation – which is to say big, theatrical emotions. This baggage presupposes that all “emotions” must operatic or at least soap operatic. We assume that to “emote” is to be melodramatic, which is the other incorrect assumption about emotions – namely that they must be maudlin or depressing.

Other synonyms also fall short; “feelings” for instance, conjur up ideas of either new-age frufruism or being on the psychiatrist's couch. Terms that equally do not achieve what we want: “sensitiveness”, “vibes”, “sentiment”, “sensation”, and “inspiration” all either fail to fully describe what is happening when we “act”, or go to far. This inaccuracy in terms makes it difficult to describe and to teach people how to do them.

If you've watched a really good improv show (or TV or movies), you've seen people playing humans, which is what makes them interesting and engaging entertainment. If you've taken enough improv workshops, you've probably also noticed an identical-ness in the way we teach two “separate” ideas. Namely, that we teach people that playing characters and emotions are distinct, discrete concepts, but in reality they are nearly the same thing. Both concepts talk about commitment to ideas, point-of-view, and being affected. This gut-reaction stuff is about being more human, playing more than just ourselves, occupying fictional spaces on stage as though they were actually happening is: (drum roll) acting. (Another scary word.)

I think we can roll all of this stuff up into a single unifying concept. These are all just “states of being”. You, as yourself, is a state, where you as a cowboy is a different state. Angry is another state, and angry cowboy is another different state. States make you reactive (and sometimes even proactive) rather than “bulletproof” as a state. If you've followed me so far, let's evolve this into chemistry. All elements are constantly in search of making complete electron shells, 8 being the ideal number for those of you keeping count at home. Those elements on the far right are called the noble gases because they don't react with anything, because they have completed outer electron shells. The entirety of the rest of chemistry in pursuit of completing those shells, either by gaining, losing, or sharing outer electrons with other atoms to get to the magic 8 number.

What I'm preferring to think of emotions as now are “valences” - valence states being the difference in atoms to make molecules. Valence, in operative improv terms, being the difference in self to achieve something else – either something lost to another, gained from anther, or shared with another. How much valence dictates how different from ourselves the state is. This doens't really change how we do things, and doesn't change the necessity for being human and reactive but hopefully may give some solace of a new term to people wh oneed something that feels less terrifying and more analytical.

Investments and Easy Riders

Around this time last year, my old improv team, the Stage Monkeys San Diego (SMSD), celebrated our 5 year anniversary. It was an amazing milestone for a team that started doing longform in San Diego when no one else was doing it, and when most people didn't even have faith that it could be done. Now this team isn't celebrating a six year anniversary this year, because about eight months ago it died out. This doesn't come as a true surprise – most improv teams don't last more than a few months, so a team that runs for 5 years is really like 50 in improv years.

Why do improv teams die out? Well there are obvious reasons: people get too busy, lose interest, better teams take all the slots, or the work becoming sloppy or careless are the commonly espoused reasons. But these aren't causes of teams falling apart, they're the symptoms. The center of the circle that connects all of those things is commitment. Commitment is the currency that all teams spend, and when the bank account runs low, that's when teams dissipate.

Where does the commitment come from? It's a product of each team member – the member's make periodic deposits into the group's commitment bank account and these deposits must be made routinely. An account cannot survive on debits alone. Okay so great, teams need commitment from team members, which is great, but surely we've all been part of teams where everyone says how committed they are to a group or a project or a team, and those teams are usually the first ones to expire. True deposits are made from sacrifice, and all teams periodically require it.

This isn't virgin or animal sacrifice, it's a sacrifice of time. We don't often think of time as something that we spend in this way but it is, and time is the one thing we can never get back. You can only spend it once, and on only one thing at a time. What we choose to spend our time is a critical consideration and one that shouldn't be taken lightly, ever. (This coincidentally, is a good life lesson as well as a good improv lesson). No doubt you've had some people on your teams that seem un-committed; they show up for practices (usually) and shows (usually), but they seem generally absent from the team (symptoms may include: being on phone constantly, leaving early, showing up late, etc.). In game theory, these people are referred to as “free riders” or, to use the movie title, “easy riders”. All teams can suffer a certain percentage of these people will with no serious ill will and no fatal effects. But every easy rider needs someone else to make sacrifices on their behalf, because they are not making deposits and are enjoying the withdrawals.

Every successful team will be made of people making equivalent sacrifices for each other. You'll often hear these people refer to their teammates as “brothers”, “sisters”, or “families”. Everyone on the team is making periodic deposits into the team's account – making those sacrifices of time for the sake of the group. In an ideal world, everyone is making equivalent deposits, just since it is the duty of every person to make it happen; “many hands make light work”. Jane Jacobs' “The Life and Death of Great American Cities” essentially summarizes that neighborhoods (read: improv teams) fail because the people who populate them fail to actually “live” in them. Neighborhoods populated only by people “just passing through” are ones that are destined to perish. Successful teams (really successful ones) have everyone fully dedicating their time to each other continuously (making many deposits gives you more money to spend).

Some teams and their members refer to things like “team bonding time”, which for all intents and purposes is equivalent to the phrase “quality time”. This is a clichéd idiom with a basic underlying premise – that it is possible to “plan instances of extraordinary candor, plot episodes of exquisite tenderness, engineer intimacy in an appointed hour” [1]. Despite a lot of training, workshops, books, and blogs (like this one!) all dedicated to the principles of improvisation – namely that it requires patience, finesse, and being present – we are continually intoxicated by the promise “capturing lightning in a bottle”. More specifically, we assume that capturing said lighting means that we can force a storm to come rather than understanding that sometimes we will catch lighting, but mostly we only catch sparks that we will have to grow into lightning. In general though, there is no substitute for physical presence. All the promises, practices, and “group hangs” make no difference when members are unwilling or unable to dedicated (read: sacrifice) time to each other. Time is, and always will be the most valuable asset we can ever have and give to each other.

[1]http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/06/opinion/sunday/frank-bruni-the-myth-of-quality-time.html?action=click&pgtype=Homepage&region=CColumn&module=MostEmailed&version=Full&src=me&WT.nav=MostEmailed&_r=0

Improv Bubbles

In the 1630's in the Netherlands, Tulips (recently introduced into the kingdom) suddenly became status symbols; seen as having very high value. Some adult bulbs, such as the Viceroy, became so valuable that they started to be traded at 3,000 to 4,150 florins (where the average income of a skilled craftsman was 300 florins a year). The entirety of the Dutch populace became involved in the trade and sale of tulip bulbs. As the value of the bulbs increased, many became rich in what many economists and historians see as the first speculative bubble. Everyone imagined a market for tulips would last forever, and people speculated wildly on their prices, hoping mainly to resell them for profit. Then, on February 5, 1637, the price of bulbs dipped for the first time and the bubble had burst. By May 1, the price had completely plummeted and the economy for tulips collapsed (although it actually could be seen as a return to normal). In the 19^th century, when the hyacinth became the new fashionable flower, a similar economy fluctuation occurred.

Other similar bubbles have formed – notably the South Sea Company (officially The Governor and Company of the merchants of Great Britain, trading to the South Seas and other parts of America, and for the encouragement of fishing) was a British joint-stock company that had a monopoly to trade with South America. When the company began to set up stock, they created extravagant rumors of its potential trade profits to be made in the new world which also spurned a frenzy of speculation that drove prices from £100 to £1000. Again a herd mentality drove prices up – a belief that all the money would be made back and then some. This happened again in 1720, also around a monopoly, this one (The Mississippi Company) for businesses in the French colonies in North American and the West Indies. Those of us in the millennial age distinctly remember the dot-com bubble of the late 90's, built around free spending of digital companies whose only objective was to “get big fast”. As company's stock values rose, they drew in more investors hoping that it would continue to rise. Around the same time, the rapid increase in the apparent value of Beanie Babies catapulted their worth to unprecedented levels before a similar “burst”.

So what's the point, and what does it have to do with improv? There have been recent blog posts and podcasts where comedy luminaries (like Bob Odenkirk) have indicated that an improv bubble has formed and that it is going to burst. UCB and iO (Chicago) have recently moved into swanky new huge headquarters, and improv is definitely on the rise. All across the US, even small market cities are now home to improv theaters doing excellent business and most mid-size cities probably have 2 or 3 theaters. Classes are full, shows are constant, and communities of improvisers are thriving. So we have to be in a bubble then?

Talking about how improv is either on the verge of breaking huge or breaking down is obviously one of the most common conversations held by improvisers (one that rivals “how did he get on a house team” in occurrence). We are fascinated with the idea of being on the ground floor of greatness or getting watch the fires consume Rome; but I think more basically we do want to see improv succeed so we are concerned with the idea of the bottom dropping out because it would mean the party would end. While I am by no means an economist, I personally do believe that we are in a bubble, but I don't think that we are going to see that bubble burst, and here's why:

1. Most everyone who actually knows things about bubbles says that you cannot identify a burst before it happens. Collapses in commodities can only be seen after the fact, so there isnt' a way to predict it. All we really know righ tnow is that churn in improv is increasing and the economy is growing, which may very well just be natural growth. To call it a bust is a bit apocalyptic and doomsaying.

2. All previous bursts have been built on commodity trading. That is to say that bubbles form when people drive prices up hoping they can re-sell the things they're buying at profit. We cannot re-sell improv no matter how hard we try. What we are selling, when we sell things, are shows (which are one of a kind memories that cannot be recreated) or education (workshops/classes) that only the person who participates in can enjoy. They can turn around and sell what they have learned as teachers or coaches, but they can't actually buy something that they re-sell at a mathematically equal level. To truly be a good teacher is to take a bunch of classes and do a bunch of shows, which effectively limits how quickly we can reproduce our product.

3. Bubbles are, by definition, when the trade of an asset (a tangible or intangible that is able to be owned or controlled to produce value) occurs at a price that strongly deviates from the corresponding asset's intrinsic value (what is actually worth, independent of the market). Essentially, when the price of a thing appears to be implausible based on views of the future. Any time a bubble has built up it is because people keep increasing the price of something over what it's worth, but here's the rub – what is this thing we do actually worth? Some theaters do free shows, or donation only, $5-10 is pretty common, but I've paid $45 to see one show when it was a really good show. Most coaches cost $25-50 for two hours, and most workshops around $30, but I have heard of coaches going to $75 for two hours and $100 for workshops depending on the teacher and the class size. But what we do doesn't have intrinsic value; we decide the value, and as long as we're willing to pay it...

4. Bubbles are built on frenzy. Bubbles form because the prices rise dramatically and form positive feedback loops encouraging more investment. Economies suffer lots of churn with rapid trading; but the nature of improv purchase limits how often it can be traded. One of the reasons that the tulip bubble formed is that tulip bulbs mature very slowly – but, improv can be instantly recreated constantly, but can only be purchased less so. We only do a few shows a week, one rehearsal a week, one class a week. We can only buy so much of it, and only so often. The limiting factor is in how quickly we can make trades happen.

5. Improv still isn't that big. All of the previously listed bubbles formed around huge populations of people buying and selling on a regular basis. The tulip bubble and the most recent housing one (cause of the Great Recession) involved trading on a global level. The movement of those commodities drove entire economies. Sorry to say, but improv is not driving any economy anywhere. It can be a significant cog, but it isn't the engine that is powering a city. Even a place like Chicago still has industry that dwarfs what improv generates in revenue generated.

This isn't to say that a downturn couldn't happen – quite the contrary. Prices only drive up because demand is present, which is largely dependent on us as a global community constantly adding new people into it. It would be short sighted to think that improv doesn't have some sort of draw. There is an unmistakable pull, like gravity, that brings people in and keeps them here. But if we ever reach a point where “the next big thing” happens that rivals improv (which I see as unlikely just because adults really, authentically just love doing improv) or where we don't see the investment of money (and time) to be worthwhile, then we will see prices drop. My point is simply that a “crash” - that is, an apocalyptic, craft shattering event is highly unlikely. Also, let's be thankful for the craft and it's resilience and adaptability.

I Do

I originally wanted to write a column about “improv coach pet peeves” (which is a topic I may still write about later), but everyone I talked to pretty much gave the same general answer as the biggest irritation in coaching a group – a flightiness, or lack of commitment to a group. Now one of the reasons that I'm hesitant to write about what makes coaches upset is that it's not a very “nice” topic, one that may put improvisers in a defensive or upsetting space in regards to the team/coach relationship, but I have noticed that that same pet peeve is actually quite common among team-mates and not just from coaches or directors, which makes me think it's something that bothers all improvisers, be it your peers or otherwise.

I was listening to an “Improv Obsession” podcast recently with Jimmy Carrane (who also hosts the “Improv Nerd” podcast and wrote “Improvising Better”) and the interview turned at length to the state of commitment when it comes to teams. The issue is the “over-commitment” of players to many teams, to the point where they may be doing improv multiple days a week, sometimes multiple times a day. The issue comes from an over-extension to multiple groups and a dilution of the time spent doing non-improv to inspire scenes. Jimmy invokes the venerable UCB as an example of a team that made the decision to move to New York as a team, and constantly renew their commitment to each other and the work their team was doing, generally really doubling down on their own work, and mourns the fact that he doesn't see another team capable of reaching those heights. I see a lot of passion in my fellow improvisers, folks who drive four hours on a weekday to watch improv in LA, who buy every book, take every workshop, people who I'm not even sure have real jobs, but I have to agree that while our passion is enormous, it's also a little crazy. We love improv something fierce for sure, but if improv was a woman, we don't marry that girl, we instead try to impetuously pick up every single woman we see.

Any discussion of commitment when it comes to an extracurricular activity is always couched in a very delicate territory. For nearly all improvisers, the player is making a balance between improv and other elements in their life such as family, work, and health, and those things generally do (and necessarily should) remain a higher priority. As such, conversations about it can be touchy in some cases, but it should also be noted that what we're talking about here is less about “can someone make time for improv” and more about “why is our attention so divided”. (Although I do notice that groups tend to be more accommodating to those who can't seem to find time over those that take their improv pursuits seriously. Let's meditate on that.) I find however, that those two elements are quite intertwined – two sides of the same coin. They all boil down to the fact that there are so many hours in the day (and in our lives), so how do we prioritize? And more importantly, why can't we settle down?

1. We'll start with a fairly non-toxic idea, and that is that improvisers have fairly broad interests, and we may need multiple groups to fulfill some of those needs. For example, not every improviser is into improv musical stuff, so some players need that team as an outlet that others won't. Conversely, people in an improv musical group probably just want to do musicals, and may not be the best fit for some slow, two person mono-scenes (not to mention cast size constraints). So very simply, having a couple of groups to have different ways of working the muscles doesn't seem so bad, akin to using different equipment at the gym.
2. The most obvious reason to me is a relatively new term “Fear of Missing Out” (FOMO), and its a fairly new idea – the product of being overly connected with Facebook and Twitter and the fact that generally the only things posted are good news. As a result, it can leave a feeling that everyone is always having a better time than you. (If you hadn't heard the term before but have experienced it, doesn't having a name for it make it feel less “bad”?) I do think that a lurking sense of FOMO makes improvisers feel that they need to do everything, because they don't want to miss out on some great playing opportunity. Related to this is a “don't put all your eggs in one basket” mentality. A lot of players I know wouldn't commit to one group, because they don't want to invest everything if there's a possibility it won't work out. Together they reflect the same issue: it's easier to live a life of disappointment (in that you may never have a successful team) than to risk it on a single bet. Unfortunately, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: the less likely team members invest in their group, the more likely the group won't succeed.
3. There's also an issue with vulnerability – it's no surprise to anyone at this point that more meaningful scene work requires a degree of acting, which requires a degree of vulnerability. A raw, tapping of the emotion is needed to create something more than “Five Things”. The high bar we aim for when we shoot for “improvised theater” requires brutal honesty. Now, we're aware of that, and that it's necessary, but we're attempting to shortcut the process. Instead of opening ourselves up in one place and really baring ourselves to one group of people, we diversify our investment in multiple groups, thinking that we won't have to reveal so much of ourselves (which is scary) while still increasing our skill.
4. In this “golden age of improv”, one would think that a lot of people take the craft very seriously, but this is not always the case. Sure there are those who view improv as just a hobby – a fun thing to do every once in a while, and not one to relentlessly strive for. And it is easy for those people to get swept up in the jet-wash of more passionate players. But even among people who seem to indicate strongly that they are interested and enthusiastic players, I find players who don't seem to think that rehearsals are important. Improv is intoxicatingly deceptive in its simplicity – it can seem so easy to do, but is exceedingly challenging to do well. If you have players that won't acknowledge that, then those same players will constantly put other activities over practices (and sometimes shows, if those shows are seen as less urgent). One other thing is at play here, and that is the issue of pay. I think we all realize that you don't make money doing improv, very few do; we do improv because we love to do it, and we are always in relentless pursuit of the craft. Nonetheless, I (quite recently) had a player who claimed that because we weren't paying her, we were a low priority. Unfortunate. A passion and an attitude of cheerful service can't be taught and if players don't have it, we just have to keep lighting the way and hope they find it.
5. We all want roughly the same thing out of improv, be it to be the next Bill Murray or Chris Farley, get on SNL or movies, or become the next TJ & Dave, it all boils down to wanting to become comedic actors, and ones that hopefully get paid for what they do, or at the very least respected for their accomplishments. I think that is a powerful motivator, we know what the objective is, and we want to get there already. We have a goal, and we are always desperately scratching at that objective. This is endemic to our culture here in the U.S., where we have over-glorified the idea of “busy”. We canonize the productive, and especially those who are productive at an early age. As a result, we don't enjoy the ride of learning (and living), we just grumble that we haven't reached the finish line already. And resultingly, and not surprisingly, the effect is that we have a tendency to sell each other out at any moment for individual gain. A show or group comes along that has more clout, and players jump ship in an instant in the constant pursuit of fame or notoriety.
6. That people are kind of scattered shouldn't be a surprise; look for example at Netflix. This great tool has revolutionized and epitomized modern media consumption (of course the DVR in general trail-blazed, but Netflix did a plus one to that idea by adding a library of shows as well). You miss a TV show, no worries, you can watch it whenever you want – even shows that you missed multiple seasons of can be easily caught up on whenever its convenient (hello sick day). This has materially changed the way shows are built as a result, and exactly how that's changed is (unfortunately) outside the scope of this essay, but suffice it to say, it's unlikely a show like Mad Men would have survived in an age of having to be home at a certain time in front of the TV set to catch it (I still remember having to program a VCR for my mother if we were going to be out of the house when “Buffy” was on). This is, of course, great, and I don't think anyone would want to return to those days, but it is undeniably changed the way we view everything. We don't make hard appointments for things anymore, and we've evolved into a culture of people that is easily distracted, and can't be bothered to commit to even a TV show unless we can watch it whenever we want – where we can gorge on twenty episodes in a day and then not watch it again for a month. The mere fact that we try to meet every week seems to reduce the urgency of presence, we trade into the idea that we can catch up whenever. The idea of “we practice every week so I can miss this one” very obviously mis-underestimates the craft – a pilot wouldn't say “I fly the plane from Chicago to Denver every week, so I'll let my co-pilot do everything this time and I'll phone it in”, so why should we?
7. One of the assumptions that Mr. Carrane makes about commitment is that the UCB gang were all friends, and I think that is an important distinction against modern groups. We all have fairly lofty goals (see #5), and a lot of times I think we approach achieving them from a fairly cut-throat approach. We don't necessarily make participation choices from the viewpoint of “what will be fun” or “what do I want to do”, but more from the perspective of “what will have the most prestige” or “what will give me the most recognition”. We do multiple groups because we want more networking or notoriety (a status of “omnipresence”, a kind of esteem by way of ubiquity), and we don't commit hard to groups because we approach improv like a business or a task to be conquered, and not like the UCB folk did, which is as friends with a mutual goal. I see over and over again teams filled with casual acquaintances, and I don't think a new revolution in improv can start without that.

I wouldn't want to begrudge someone the opportunity to do lots of improv, because practice will make you a better player, but at the same time we need to be aware of the consequences and effects our choices make. If we treat improv like a series of drunken bar hookups, we shouldn't be surprised at the ultimate community product.

I was taught that a good rule of thumb for selecting team-mates is to find people you “wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with”, but that rule tends to overlook the commitment issues it seems that a lot of people are encountering. Differing and conflicting levels of commitment from players will un-erringly result in disagreement, conflict, and disappointment. Knowing that you can count on your fellows and that everyone is equally invested in the end product is obviously central to success. I think a better rule of thumb is to pick people you “would happily go into an elevator with knowing you're going to be stuck together”. And knowing that no matter how long you're in the elevator together, you are, at the very least, in it together.

Retroskeptic: 40 Days and 40 Nights

The concept of Retro Skeptic works like this: rather than review a movie I have seen recently, I analyze a film based on what I remember about it some time later. A film's true impact can only be measured in context, and when it was present, there was an incomplete picture of context. Also, how memorable is a film? The rules are simple; review a movie that I haven't seen in a while, and I'm not allowed to look anything up on IMDb, Wikipedia, or anything, I can only evaluate it's merits based on what I remember about it.

The film in question this time is 40 Days & 40 Nights (2002, and I think it was released in Spring to capitalize on the Easter demographic). I first saw this in theaters during it's initial run, and I may have encountered it on cable a few times since then when I was home from school visiting my parents. Bottom line: I may have seen this movie three times.

The film opens on a montage of home movies that provides an ellipsis of a relationship between a character that I'm pretty sure was named Josh and is also played by Josh Hartnett and his girlfriend, who was named Ashley maybe. So we see that they used to be really happy, but somewhere along the line the relationship soured and she dumped him. Josh is in a low place, depressed and whatnot, but he salves his depression by having a lot of wanton, casual sex with random women (including one whom it seems slept with him to apologize for having spilled coffee on Josh). Everything about this should be swell, but when Josh is having this sex, he keeps seeing this crack forming on the ceiling above him. His roommate, the stoner from Road Trip (Paul Costanzo, I want to say) is no help because he brazenly likes having casual sex. Josh's brother, a Catholic priest is also no help, but then Josh talks to the Chief Priest (that's a thing, right?) who tells him about Lent, because despite Josh being a Catholic, he's never heard of Lent before. Josh decides to give up all sexual contact in every form for the movie title. Oh and somewhere in here, Ashley gets engaged which makes Josh more despondent.

Cue a music montage where Josh throws away all his porn. Now this plan of his would be all well and good, save for the fact that Josh's coworkers at an internet-selling business learn of his plan and make a betting structure to see how long he'll last. Also, Josh meets a cute girl, who I'm going to say was named something vaguely west coast-y, like Serene (played by Shannyn Sossamon, and aside here, what the hell happened to her?) at the laundromat and they start chatting in that early relationship kind of way. She clearly likes him, and he her, and then Serene gets mad at Josh when she learns of his weird sexless Lent thing. Serene works at a net-nanny company, because in the early 2000's every 20-something living in San Francisco apparently had to have some sort of internet related job. Maybe their was a city ordinance or something. Oh, and I think Maggie Gyllenhaal was Serene's co-worker.

So despite this hiccup, Josh and Serene start seeing each other, and at one point they have sex, kind of, using a feather as a proxy. Josh's commitment gets tested in a couple of ways in the meantime; his boss decides to follow Josh's lead and also gives up on sex to get back at his repressive wife. Two of his female coworkers corner Josh in a supply closet because they're worried his bet will take away the power of women, further re-enforcing the idea of a worldwide woman conspiracy. One of his male co-workers wants to win the bet, so he tries to slip a priapism causing pill into Josh's drink, but the boss drinks it instead. And somewhere in here, Josh visits his sexually forthcoming parents and Josh's priest brother is leaving the priesthood because he wants to diddle nuns. This is all leading up to act 3, where Josh finally reveals it was Ashley who indirectly initiated the Lent thing (not, you know, his sexual Bacchanalia), Ashley's engagement gets broken off, and she hears about the bet. Sensing a way to make some cash, Ashley goes into Josh's apartment on the last night of Lent and has sex with Josh while he's unconscious and handcuffed to a bed. Serene is heartbroken when she sees Ashley leaving, and Josh wins her back by buying her laundry detergent at the laundromat where they originally met. Then they have a lot of sex, because Lent is over, baby! Oh and there was a character named Bagel Guy, who I'm pretty sure was the elder Pete from the Adventures of Pete and Pete.

So ultimately I think this was a modestly forgettable romantic comedy; it has the fairly requisite funny friends, the story was serviceable, and the stars are likable. It's this last one that is of the most interest, though because the casting of Hartnett and Sossamon was clearly intended to capitalize on what was seen as rising star power for both of them at the time. Hartnett did Pearl Harbor and Black Hawk Down around this same time, and Sossamon had done Knight's Tale the year before but neither had done much since (excluding a very small role for Hartnett in Sin City). Most entertaining is that in this universe, not having sex is not only a sin on some level (I think a character asks of Josh early on in if he “hates his penis”) but also toxic – Josh near the end is pale, gaunt, and sallow with all the not-sex. This is a fun little movie; light and frothy, perfect even, for a spring afternoon on TBS.