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.

Ask Fors

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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.)

Our Scenes are Our Children

I still remember the first scene I ever saw that I actually knew was going on too long. It was Fall of 2004, we were playing a game of "Stand, Sit, Kneel", and after a minute or so of some intermittent laughter, the scene suddenly went decidedly unfunny. This isn’t to say that all the sudden someone was getting raped, or there was talk of killing puppies - it just ceased getting laughs. And it wasn’t that it just became unfunny, it (even worse) became uninteresting, and unwatchable. And gradually the audience began to tune out, and very quickly a feeling of panic swept over all the performers.

Everybody wanted the scene to end, but we also distinctively wanted the scene to have just one more laugh to end on. I was the one in charge of the bell during this little fiasco. Afterwards, I silently cursed myself for letting a scene run WAY too long, and also for not saving my fellow improvisers.

Generally, only very rarely will a scene pop up that is this bad, but boy when they do, they can easily cripple a show, especially if they come near the end. And they don’t always have to be three minute fiascos; I’ve seen thirty second scenes that have already gone on too long (though they often feel much longer).
It’s too easy and by definition wrong, to say that a scene was just doomed to failure from the beginning. (How depressing is it to hear that? That statement says that no matter what you did or how hard you worked, you wouldn’t have succeeded anyway.) As a general rule, a random combination of any number of performers from all across the universe should never be the death knell for a scene. This is because the basic dogma of improvisation is to just let any two people interact and enjoy the sparks that fly from basic human interaction.
It shouldn't be the premise; the previous scene's premise was a Boy Scout leader and two scouts at a strip club. Sure, maybe a premise that is a little too SNL, but certainly no one can say that that scene can't be funny or at least interesting to watch. And any postulating post-show with your fellow improvisers will undoubtedly prove any idea can become a funny scene (or course the difference here is the amount of time you have on stage versus the bar).

Here, though, the real question isn’t why it failed, but more why it failed so hard. And as a result, when and why we edit. As improvisers, we are all taught a basic rule, that all scenes have the potential to be great. If we can just be patient and follow all the improv rules we have learned, every scene can be a winner (hence all the talk of performers and premises). At the same time, we know that not every scene will work; something which we prove all the time in the laboratory of the stage. But just like any great theory, it’s still hard to say that this one is unproven (see the previous bar comment). This firm holding to this very basic rule of improv is what makes us hold on to scenes for dear life. Even good ones. If we take the time to get on stage with each other, we feel the need to explore each scene all the way out, often well past the edit point.

The other problem is part of our basic programming that we get from watching T.V., reading books, etc. We want to logically end our scenes. A big laugh, a logical conclusion to the plot, a change of heart in a character, or at a cliffhanger. Sure this is all well and good, but we operate in a universe where those things are not guaranteed, or even possible sometimes. So instead of holding out to tie up our work perfectly, or hanging on to our scenes like they are the only ones we will ever have, remember your primary obligation: to your fellow performers.

But possibly remember the even more basic tenet of improvisation: nothing is planned or pre-written, so who says you have to keep doing anything if you don’t like it?

The Harold Theory: Part 2

The twelve questionnaires for the first show revealed the following data: six subjects had seen some form of improvisation prior to the show, six answered that they definitively had not (one sheet put it simply: “No.”), had not seen any live, or did not answer the question. Of those that had seen some form of improv previously, there were three instances of 'Whose Line', three of NCT, and four I defined as “other” (meaning any reference to a group not explicitly named in the question which did include one instance of iO West). Note that this adds up to more than the number in the “yes” group – multiple named groups on a single sheet were each counted. One individual noted four different group instances as well as noting that he was an “improv junkie” (glad we could provide a fix). One individual in the “non” group stated that he had only seen primarily stand up. As this was not improv, this was not counted into the six affirmative improv watchers group.

The four questionnaires from the second show, one instance of Second City was mentioned, the other three mentioned no other groups or organizations.

A number of subjects used the questionnaire to air grievances (“Music is too loud”), or to single out specific players or scenes. This occurred both in positive and negative lights. Most took the sheets to provide constructive criticism on scenework technique for the group as a whole. From the first show, ten individuals responded yes to whether they enjoyed the piece, the other two did not answer the question (hope we did, guys). In the second show, all four responded positively that they did enjoy the Harold. In the second set, half (n=2) replied that they enjoyed how the different “plots” interweaved – one individual even stating that he thought the beginning was confusing, but then he “caught on.” Only two people answering the sheets in the first show explicitly stated that they would like an explanation of what the Harold is (17%). No one explicitly made that request in the second show. Of those two, one stated “Maybe an explanation of what the Harold is?”, so the author is not sure if this is trepidation about asking the question or perhaps not being sure if he needed a reply. A few in show one (n=3) replied with some variation on wishing for more structure, or being a little confused, but none of these sheets said they couldn't understand the piece. Instead, it seems that there was only difficulty in understanding the show (which may be related to us, in my objective opinion, no where near our best work in the past). Three people also replied that the piece was either “slow”, “too long”, or should have been “shorter”. Clearly, longer, meandering and confusing scenework may contribute to some difficulty in understanding the piece. If the players are struggling and the piece becomes amorphous as a result, then it will be difficult to follow for even experienced and informed players.

These results are comforting; they seem to indicate that a minimalist approach to explaining the Harold is sufficient to ensure an audience's enjoyment. I have on more than one occasion witnessed an audience glaze over during an explanation of a game or piece, so my recommendation would be to skip explanations of games and forms entirely (I'm looking at you “What are you doing!”) whenever possible. Certainly, the fewer hard rules in a particular section, the less needs to be explained. Games like “Fresh Choice” rely on the rules in order for the scene to function, but contrast to the Harold, which really has no rules, and can function with only a minor amount of structure.

The current study instrument is sufficient as a questionnaire, but the questions will need to be reworded for future work, as they don't currently assess the proposed theory sufficiently – instead, most subjects focused on answering whether parts of the show were confusing, instead of whether knowing the “rules” was instrumental to understanding. The difficulty is in designing questions that keep the focus on this area of research without leading audience members to a particular conclusion. This study is being expanded, so if you have a group that would be interested in joining the study, please contact me for instructions. All improv, short and long, is currently being investigated.

The Harold Sacrifice

I've been trying to book my group's first show for the last few weeks, and in the SD, there are very few places to choose from, and most of them want way too much for a group with a fan base you can count on one hand and a show budget of $0. One of the places I called was run by a very nice guy, who when I said “improv group”, instantly perked up, and wanted to know all about what kind of improv we do, what kind I've studied, etc. (Some people like this kind of questioning as interest, but for some reason I feel that some improvisers around here treat it more like an interrogation so that they feel like they know more about improv than you do.) He also wanted to make sure that we wouldn't go blue, which I assured him in a very diplomatic way that we don't go blue without actually saying “I hate cursing”. He also tried to pitch me on the San Francisco improv workshops as a great way to learn linear, narrative improv, and said that it was better than Chicago. I bit my lip, because after all I want this guy to let us have shows there; sorry man, but I'm an iO Chicago guy all the way, so that kind of talk is like insulting my Alma Mater (and I don't even have that strong of an opinion about my real Alma Mater). I also tried to repress the fact that I have been taught linear, narrative improv at the iO; they're no slouches. But he did have reasoning: their in house improv team has tried doing Harold's and the like in the past and has found that the audiences respond better to improvised plays than they do the more “artistic” forms.

About a week later, I met up with some longform improvisers from Lafayette, LA at an improv meet-up, and they seemed to echo the other guy's sentiment. When they do Harolds back home, they explain the entire structure of the Harold to the audience before performing it like they would a shortform game, to which I said, “You're doing too much explaining.” They claimed the same issue – if they just did the form, then the audience seemed confused, but apparently by giving a sort of map at the start of the show then they could follow it. Both different parties claimed that probably in Chicago, someone could do a Harold and not explain the improv particulars to the audience and it still work because the Chicago improv watching crowd was just more savvy when it came to improv. (Congratulations Chicago people – other parts of the country think you're infinitely smarter when it comes to improv than audiences anywhere else!) Now I find it hard to believe that people in SD or Lafayette just “don't get it”. I invited my whole master's program to see one of my shows, and while they are all very smart people when it comes to science, none of them know theater that well, much less improv, and none of them came up later and asked me to explain anything (and we were doing forms that my class had invented – they should have been more confused!) In fact, they only came up and quoted me from the show (in fact they still do – I'll get a Facebook wall post from time to time with my line in it.) The typical iO intro will only say that each group is going to go for about thirty minutes and will improvise scenes, games, or songs based on a suggestion from the audience, and while I would agree that on some nights there was a lot of improvising students in the audience, I can't believe that the entire audience was only getting it because they were students of the art of improv (or perhaps because they came and watched improv shows all the time).

Del Close said that we can't blame the audience for a bad show – especially for “not getting it”, because audiences are a lot smarter than we give them credit for. Often times, he said, they get it before the players do. So do we really have to sacrifice the Harold? Granted, it is the first form that most improvisers do, so as a result it's often the first one to go as they become more experienced, but if we eschew the Harold, won't we just start to get rid of the other ones too? Sure improvised narratives are fun (and they probably are, I admit, more accessible), but when we limit ourselves, we're sort of being anti-improv, and I think the audience is smart enough that we don't have to hold their hand.