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.

The Rule Breakers

When I was in high school, I tried out for the part of drum major for the band, which was an altogether fun experience – I didn’t get it, but it was fun nonetheless. One of the things I learned for the tryouts was how to spin a mace. A mace, for the uninitiated, is the long pole, about five feet in length, with a large silver orb on the top of it. The mace is largely ceremonial, probably its only original purpose was to be a shiny object sticking above a marching formation so that the members can keep rhythm. Somewhere along the way though, some drum major got tired of just holding this thing, and after probably attempting to use it as a sword, decided to start spinning the thing around. Modern drum majors will almost always be seen spinning this ungainly monster of a baton (or sometimes two) causing it to dance, spin, and fly through the air to the delight of the crowd.

The band director who was showing how to do mace-work (his term) explained that there are two approaches to mace spinning: an east coast and a west coast. The east coast, he explained, was all about performing the mace-work with ultimate precision; every single move should be text-book perfection according to the east coasters. The west coast he summed up with a simple mantra: “Hey, check out what I can do.” The west coast wasn’t concerned with doing things according to any “official” pattern; instead they did their mace-work for fanfare and showmanship (and a heavy dose of one-upmanship). In other words, do things so unbelievable that no one else can copy you. The east coast was like a game of Horse, and the west coast was an “And 1” tape. It wasn’t until I was in college that I realized that this didn’t just apply to mace-work, but to everything – music, food, scholarly pursuits. Maybe it’s the weather.

In improv there is still those two different rules of thought, what I like to think of as the rule-followers and the rule breakers. A rule follower is always trying to improve upon an idea: that form worked mostly, except for this, so let’s fix that for next time, or that didn't work at all, let's scrap the whole thing and go in a new direction. Followers are about form and technique, so they focus on drilling basics and fundamentals and attempting to follow the rules. These would be the same rules that were published in “Truth in Comedy” many, many years ago and have since become more of a burden on the improv world than they’ve helped. Mick Napier denounced them in “Improvise”, and there are even rumblings all throughout the iO that the rules are not all they’re cracked up to be. The problem? The rules are largely negative in their wording (e.g. “Never ask questions!”) and they make improvisers think too much. “Oh, am I doing this right?” “Is this following the rules enough?” Give a man a rule, and he will do his best to follow it.

Except of course, for the breakers. Rule breakers cast aside simple notions like classes, workshops, and improv books in favor of a more customized approach: “Watch what I can do.” Even the greatest improv teacher in the world can only take you so far and at some point you have to be ready to come to a Zen level of connectedness with form, technique, and structure. At risk of sounding any more western (or Californian, heaven forbid) a “one-ness”. All improvisers are, for lack of a better term, artists, as the outcomes on stage are the result of our unified point-of-view and interpretation of the world around us.

The rules do have their place; they are the foundation for a basic appreciation and understanding of the art – but don’t be afraid to spin improv in your own way and maybe show it off, all the while screaming: “I dare you to follow me!”

The Chi-Connection

I don't think I need to tell you this Chicago is at the very least, one of the undisputed, reigning champions for improv. This isn't to discount what's going on in various other ports of call – every city I've visited has at least a couple of people doing great, challenging work – but I think everyone can agree that Chicago is the epicenter of what's going on. Now I'm an outed, unabashed Chicago-phile, and a lot of people may think that's just a strange knee-jerk reaction to this mecca of improvisation. This is not the case however, and my reasons for loving Chicago improv is also the reason that I love a lot of other place's improvs, but also one of the reasons that San Diego has been a troubling, frustrating city to do improv in.

Now a little background: when I was in Chi-town doing improv, I was also going to grad school at the same time. These two educations I was receiving simultaneously is, hyperbole aside, probably the single most important thing that has ever happened to me in my life. What was great about both of those schools is that while we did focus on specifics needed in each basic education, both had teachers that encouraged and espoused critical, independent thinking. It is not merely enough to teach students what is now – we must also teach them how to find the next what is. In grad school, emphasis was placed on analyzing problems and errors in judgment, or science, or ethics (or sometimes all three) and thinking about what they mean in the bigger picture, and my improv education taught analysis, creativity, self-reliance (and how to intersect all three). What I got out of the combined experience was the capacity to reason independently. I've found this exceedingly important as I remember a lesson my high school science teacher taught: there are two types of people who will not excel in this world, those who can't follow instructions, and those who can only follow instructions.

San Diego has been a tremendously frustrating city because the majority of the improvisers “in power” have no interest in innovation, and actively discourage other improvisers from independent work. An actual lesson that one of these teachers gave: some people try to continue doing improv outside of the theater after completing workshops, but no one ever finds any success, so don't even bother trying.

(While we're on this subject, two actual things I have been castigated and admonished for: “doing other projects”, and “motivating and inspiring players” (direct quotes). The first is because that theater doesn't endorse anyone else doing anything not within its own walls, and because they don't trust players who may have questionable allegiances, whatever that means (and also because you're trading on the implied authority of the first theater in other projects). The second is because, as it was explained to me, when I started doing longform in the SD, I motivated and inspired a lot of these previously shortform only improvisers into wanting to do more longform. That however came at a cost, as those players were now skipping regular rehearsals and showing up for shows tired due to conflicting interests with their other projects. Neither of these things are made up, because no one could make up that kind of logic.)

Now if a particular theater wants to run itself like the KGB, stamping out perceived enemies of the state who just want to do more improv, there's not much anyone can do to stop them, but I can still object to the attitude they take, especially towards younger, newer improvisers. This kind of discouraging, negative, and selfish view towards the craft stifles creativity, originality, and invention, not to mention breeding bitterness and animosity. As teachers, we have an obligation to encourage and engender improvisers to find and embrace the cutting edge. Teachers in Chi/LA/NY don't take a “go away, this is mine” mentality, they understand that the craft is more important than the individual (and also if you're good, you don't need to be defensive) but also that the next generation of improvisers are the ones who will solve the next piece of the puzzle. Try new things, see what works and what doesn't, build on what's been previously discovered, and add your contribution to the growing archive of knowledge – that's what science has done, and that's what most improvisers have done too.

If we are not teaching and – dare I say – inspiring and motivating our students and fellow players into pursuing more work, we are doing a grave disservice to them, not just as improvisers, but as teachers and human beings too. We are gravely failing our charges by not promoting independent work. Self-reliance and independence are noble character traits, not criminal trespasses.

(And to the teacher and coach who told me to not bother trying, the group I started just celebrated it's fourth year.)

Close Encounters of the Longform

I was speaking with the director of one of my short form groups a few weeks ago, and we started talking about how much we both want to see and do more longform in San Diego, and I confessed my love of longform; namely all the different kinds of forms and how they’re all useful, and how I want to see more groups capable of improvising beyond form. I didn’t realize it, but I was actually being interviewed, in a way. He asked me about different forms that I knew, how long it would take to do them, etc. Then, he asked me to teach his group some longform. He didn’t know anything about longform, and I said I would love to teach some workshops on longform. When I asked which one he wanted me to teach, he replied with the words it seems everyone would love to hear, but no one really wants to hear, “Whatever one you think is best.”

I’m certainly not an expert by any means on longform. I’ve seen a bunch of it, taken a bunch of classes, and asked as many questions of performers as possible, but that doesn’t mean I know everything about it. (I asked one of the Cook County Social Club members what their form was after a show, to which he replied “It’s not so much a form as it is a style.” Good luck to any other group trying to replicate their show, but no improviser should ever get their hopes up for cloning success.) Now, I do have a real love for longform – I love the things that it’s capable of doing, by being free to really run, and I love the philosophy associated with it that improvisers can actually be artists and make something on-the-spot and meaningful. But I was suddenly saddled with representing longform to a longform-naïve group, and hopefully making it interesting enough to make them want to do it again. Essentially, I was given two hours to introduce longform, conceptually and functionally. The one thing I can applaud the iO with teaching me that was more important than just how to improvise was how to yearn for expression, but heck, it took me a year of being there and almost a whole other year to begin to comprehend that concept. How do you convey that kind of mindset and teach a group how to longform in two hours? I feel that the two are intertwined: you can’t really do a Harold until you appreciate the “Theatre of the Heart”, and you can’t full comprehend formic creation until you’ve done a few by the book Harolds.

Now, that crisis avoided (by sheer virtue of probably being unable to convey it), now I have to decide which form to teach. Which form sums up the entire longform experience? Which one is the ultimate in inspiring creativity and play? Which one has the most room for artistic expression? Which one is easy? (I do only have two hours here, people.) Not to mention I want one that will allow everyone the chance to experiment around with it a bit (so Shotgun! and Dinner for Six are out) but also won’t require any special new skills (so long Armando, Orlando, and Eavesdropping). One that isn’t too complicated (sorry Close Quarters and JTS Brown), but that also fits the style of this particular group (Living Room, Deconstruction; gone, gone). Of course, there’s always the mainstay of the Harold, but I always feel like people who haven’t seen a few already seem a little daunted by the Harold.

These two crises now in full place, I thought about it in this way: if a group of aliens from another galaxy descended on to earth after hearing about longform but only having done shortform and only had two hours to learn before they had to return home, what would you teach them? What single longform structure and philosophy could you give them that they could take back to their home planet so that they could start exploring longform on their own? I spent a year studying in Chicago, and I only now just feel like I could go to some completely unknown place and inject new thought about improv.

Of course, I know that this will probably not be my only chance to teach improv to this group, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is my one chance to really get this group started off down the right track. This single ideological shift can change everything, if I can just get the points across right. After all, I really could teach any form (that is to say, there’s nothing stopping me), but I don’t want to teach just form – I want to teach the mysterious force about long form in general that I am so enamored with.

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?

Camp

(Author's note: this was originally published on the Camp Improv Utopia blog in August of 2012.  It received some negative feedback (likely from the same people who are being called out for their actions in it) and was taken down.)

What I've been telling everyone since I got back from camp, is that my favorite thing about the weekend wasn't the workshops or the teachers or getting to do some camp activities (though those were all great, I should emphasize, as was the wonderful conclave of improvisers I met and the food we ate). No, my favorite thing was the energy – the attitude, as it were, of everyone there. A noncompetitive, supportive, and overwhelmingly positive view towards improv being a gift; one that we were all fortunate enough to have received and even more fortunate to get to give to others. Now this is a wonderful 'tude, but could it survive outside the confines of a place where we were all gathered under the banner of “CAMP”, which is to say, could it last when we got back to whatever jingoistic tendencies we had back in the real world?

So a little background here: the San Diego improv scene has been dominated by one theater for the last decade, and the people in charge there have firmly self-enthroned themselves as being the pinnacle of improvisation in the city. (And I know from talking to other people that this, or similar behavior, is not unheard of in other burgeoning communities too, but San Diego's where I'm at, so it's where my examples come from.) They have their own space, five shows a weekend, and a regular training center. However, the folks in command have also become petty, insecure, and elitist about their work – and it's this negative aspect I've most become concerned with. I didn't realize it until I had gone to camp, but I had been tainted with this negative attitude; a wary, watchful, and defensive eye to anyone else trying to do nearly anything. All attitudes are contagious, and bad attitudes are perhaps the most viral, and it wasn't hard to ascertain where the disease vector was.

It's unfortunate, more than anything, because the city has started to get a very strong, active improv scene in the last few years, run by people who I consider friends, even though they have a different team name from me. People who don't care what flag they march under, just so long as they get to march. Which, some people (including those at the above theater) interpret to be some indication of untrustworthy, disloyal, or even seditious behavior, but others just see as people just wanting to do and get better at something they enjoy doing. Part of the issue is that this problem group also likes to think of themselves as the solenoid who gets to decide who is and who is not worthy of getting to improvise because they see lesser productions as being a detriment to their image. They play improv as poker - however it's not; poker is a zero-sum game, where one player will walk away the victor with more chips than anyone else, at the expense of the other players. In a zero-sum game, the totals of losses and gains all add up to zero, but in improv, everyone can win. We can all walk away from the table with more chips if we want to.

I can't, unfortunately, claim innocence in any of this, this petty, uncouth behavior. This darkness seeps out into our community and it was only when I came into contact with people who don't think about how to take advantage of each other that I see how far I've dropped (an issue I've explored in previous blog posts: 00george.blogspot.com). I think of a line from the Monkees theme song in particular:

We're too busy singing/To put anybody down

Time spent infighting is time not spent improvising, and that is a true waste. And it really is sad, because together, we have the capability to accomplish so much more when we're not worried about stamping out those that are different from us. Diversity should be encouraged; research has shown that being welcoming of diversity is not only good because it makes us not monsters, but because it makes biological organisms stronger and less prone to disease, and makes organizations and systems more agile and flexible. On an artistic level, the more people working on a problem, the faster the problem is solved and the larger the variety of solutions.

Do those good vibes survive outside of camp? The answer is yes – but unfortunately a non-emphatic, qualified “yes”. I have forged some very strong bonds with members of the other “independent” groups; we go to each other's birthday parties, we congratulate each other on successful shows, we help get each other gigs when possible. I meet people all the time down here who are excited about improv and just want to “do”. I also meet a lot of people who have become disenfranchised by the haughty and non-supportive attitude, and the strategy is to either put up with it or distance yourself (and of course, others continue to embrace it, which is even more unfortunate). Ultimately, it is our responsibility to promote the kind of energy we want (to which I could quote an endless series of seemingly trite kitsch slogans like “be the change you want to see in the world”). At least we can take comfort in knowing that somewhere out there (maybe not even a place, maybe just a group of people), there's a spot we can be free to work and explore.

A Cult

People get really put off by the word “cult”; my group, the Stage Monkeys, when it originally started in Louisiana, was (and still is) called the Cult of the Stage Monkey, but when it moved to Mississippi, dropped the “Cult” part, because nearly all of the Miss is in the bible belt, and they don't take to kindly to that kind of talk down there. But improv is in general, a cult itself, and not just in the way that other folks have pointed out before (we make you pay money, we steal your time, we make you more open, emotionally bare weirdos), I mean we are a cult of personality.

Even outside of the near religious reverence of people like Del Close (who does have a shrine at the iO Chicago, for Del's sake) – we revere the people that are involved in it. There are certain people, whose personalities are magnetic – players we love watching, regardless of what show we're watching them in, in fact, we may even prefer to see them in low-concept shows so that we can just watch them. I'm as guilty of this as anyone; you tell me Greg Hess or Blaine Swen or Dave Hill or -stop the presses- Bill Arnett is in a show, and I'm there – I don't even care what they're doing. That's a cult of personality: the devotion of a group of people or community to a single person, based solely on the fact that they are them. A religion built on someone's persona.

Now, in contrast, I just started playing in a community band and noticed something that I had really forgotten about bands – the melding of disparate voices into one sound (“one band, one sound”, to use my Drumline parlance). It's really there in the name: band, ensemble, etc., you have a bunch of very different sounds, that all work together to create a song. Now some instruments are stronger than others (trumpet, trombone) in their big, splashy (often brassy) sounds, while others are cooler, more mellow instruments (saxaphone, clarinet) – but the point is that the entire sound of the group isn't derived from a single voice; it's all the tones working together that complete the sound – it is the very nature of the myriad instruments working together that you can make music. Sure, you can still play some songs without some instruments, but you need all of them working together (and in the right balance) or what you're playing isn't complete.

By the same token, it's important that groups of improvisers recognize the need to have a “complete” ensemble to make “complete” improvs. You can't have an orchestra made of just english horns, and you can't have an improv group made of just smart-witty improviser types. We often lose sight of this when recognizing good improv, in focusing on one particular solo, and forgetting that it was the tubas and bass clarinets that finished the picture. And I say this being well aware that being in two-man improvs, it is all about the cult of personality. Two people can't just be playing the bass line; they've gotta carry the melody and the harmony just to make the song go. You watch a two-man improv, and you buy into the cult of personality: you're saying that what these two people do is interesting enough to sustain your attention.

The Onion's AV Club pointed out in a recent article that rock is currently a post-decadence period: we built nearly the entirety of music (and movies, and a lot of other art) on the backs of artists. “A gross display of power” was how they put it; popular musicians with easy access to money, drugs, and women, and in a lot of ways, we celebrated them for it. Sure, we want them to put out good music, but we also want to see how outrageously oppulent their mansions were, although, the AV Club does point out that now being a “rock band” is discouraged among rock bands. Look at the virtual indiffference to film like I'm Still Here, that follows the faux-destruction of Joaquin Phoenix. These are artistic endeavors nearly more focused on the behavior of the people making it than what they're actually making.

But it's that exact same reason that I am always more impressed to watch a group of people put something together than I am to watch a two-man show, it's just plain harder. You get more people, you add more voices to the sound, which both makes the work harder and at the same time more complex, distinct, and diverse. You are no longer relying on two people to do a duet or an accompanied solo, you're watching the whole orchestra folding themselves into each other to create a rich ensemble piece. Which isn't to demean or diminish the work of a great duo of improvisers, as that has its own inherent difficulties, but its to say that there is a difference between a note and a chord. When you diminish the inherent power of the individual, you heighten the value of the collective – the group mind, or in this case, the group sound. But remember that your group is playing a chord, and every instrument should be utilized to fill it out.

Theater of the Hate

(Author's note: I wrote this essay in 2008 - the mentioned fellow improviser and I have since mended the misunderstanding, and are now quite amicable with each other.)

I went up to the iO the other night for a panel discussion and reading regarding the "Lives and Legends of Del Close", in celebration of Kim "Howard" Johnson's recently published a book of the same title. The panel discussion was fine, about what I was expecting: Charna, Kim, Robert Falls (directing manager of the Goodman theater), and a few of Del's first students talking about Del, the good old days, patting each other on the back, etc. There was, however, a few gems of parting wisdom: as Del lay on his deathbed, with the doctors prepared to administer the morphine that would end his suffering, one of his last thoughts was: "We created Theater of the Heart, a theater where people cherish each other..." In his final moments, he was most proud of creating an art form and an ideology where actors cherish each other for their ideas.

Just over twelve hours later, I logged on to the computer before leaving for work, to find a message from a fellow improviser in another city, who opened his message with "I don't mean to be a dick, but...", which as we all well know is a direct indication that the words that follow will be undoubtedly very unpleasant, to say the least (it is the rough equivalent to the words "I'm not a racist, but..."). The following tirade proceeded to chew me a new one, for what was an immense misunderstanding. I replied with a polite, placating message, and left for work. At work, I was greeted with another two messages, each more angry and vitriolic than the last. At this point, I had to make a delivery across campus, so I rather predictably kept turning over the interchange in my head for the next 45 minutes.

Now, when you're verbally abused in any way, you usually respond by lashing back, but for some reason, I wasn't angry. Anyone who knows me will at this point realize how strange this is (to say I have a short fuse is giving a bit too much credit), and I started to wonder why this was, and after a good fifteen minutes I realized why: last night's Del Close discussion, or more specifically, one of the last things he said (the message above).

I wasn't angry, I was disappointed. I realized in that moment, that perhaps the high-minded ideas spread by Close, of cherishing your fellow improvisers, treating them like poets, artists, etc., i.e. the theater of the heart, were maybe just too idealistic. For about five minutes, I honestly considered just ending my nearly five year "relationship" with improvisation, over the simple violation of what to me, was Del's most important lesson. To me, it just wasn't worth even doing this anymore if I was just going to get yelled at by fellow improvisers. While I'd probably just brush off a similar encounter from a stranger, why bother dealing with improvisers I respected and considered to be my friends. I relented of course (I was obviously still thinking in an irrational manner, even if wasn't acting it), realizing that to give up was probably a bit excessive.

But then, I started thinking about whether or not the encouraging and accepting environment exists at all. After all, improv is still at its most basic sense an art form, which as a necessity, requires criticism in order to improve. Of course Del was also a harsh critic of his students (perhaps the harshest), but the root of his criticism was probably still love of his fellow improvisers (I think I can only say probably, it may be to presumptuous to know his motivations). I've been around the Chicago scene long enough to know that some people don't really subscribe to this "heart" philosophy, but undoubtedly most, at least, try to. And it's then that I realized that respecting your fellow performers was as much a skill as "yes, anding". It wasn't just a natural reflex (we are all human after all). We, as well rounded improvisers (or at least improvisers in the Del Close methodology), have to A)want to respect each other and B)practice respecting each other.

I then grew concerned: with improv growing as fast as it is, will the theater of the heart become crowded with people who are not caring, loving, and respecting? Will a small part of improv theory that is almost more of an afterthought be just disregarded because it's just too much work to be nice to each other? What kind of mutual respect can we expect if we violently lash out at fellow improvisers over minor mistakes? Of course, it will always be easier to cherish those that are already our friends, but are we really challenging ourselves by only liking those that we're already close to? And if the pool becomes dominated by violent and harsh improvisers, imagine what kind of "art" they'll start producing.

Fifteen years ago, only a handful of people knew what improv was. Ten years ago, few outside the inner circle knew who Del was. Five years ago, troops were still mostly relegated to large cities and universities. Today, high school troops are coming by the iO for workshops and short courses. As improv continues to expand and be performed by more and more people, the only question I have is: will we still love each other tomorrow?

Shit. I'm already missing the good old days.

Cause and Affect 2: Being a Badass

What do Batman and Penny from “Inspector Gadget” have in common, and why are they inherently different from Superman and Alvy Singer (“Annie Hall”)?

I was thinking for a while about what makes a particular character “badass”. Some characters (like Batman, for instance), are almost always referred to as being badasses (TV Tropes even uses a picture of Batman in their definition of “Badass Normal”), while some characters (like Superman), are not usually put into that category. Meanwhile, some characters are not considered to be badass, but can have moments in a narrative (think Toby Jones' character in “The Mist” or Shaun in “Shaun of the Dead”), that despite any of their previously expressed traits, that would definitely be “badass moments”. So what makes the difference?

By all accounts, Superman should be one of the most badass characters that exists – he can fly, has superspeed, super senses, heat vision, freeze breath, x-ray vision, is invulnerable, and can (apparently) turn back time (and it should be pointed out that one explanation for why no one puts the whole Clark/Supes thing together is that he also has subconcious kryptonian hypnosis – whatever that is). This should be one of the most badass characters ever created anywhere, but he's not. Superman is introspective, moody, and mopey, regardless of whether or not we're talking comics or “Smallville”. By that same token, Woody Allen's Alvy Singer is not badass (no Woody Allen character usually is, they're too nebbish for that), but it is clearly demonstrated that Alvy has the ability to break the metaphysical constraints of his story: he can talk to the audience, he can freeze events to comment on them, even bringing media theorist Marshall McLuhan onto screen to rebuke an insufferable man at a movie theater. Alvy has some control over his own world, as he can bend and even knock over the forth wall at will. (In this way, he his empowered similarly to Zach Morris from “Saved by the Bell”, another character not really considered badass, but who does have a lot of power.)

So having the capability to do amazing things does not make someone a badass (see also: Dr. Manhattan). That's clear from characters like Batman, who obviously has no superpowers, but is very capable, just in a more human way. Now, why Inspector Gadget's niece Penny? Gadget is the bumbling fool in the show – he is superpowered to the point of being able to do basically anything – fly, a Mr. Fantastic-style reach, magnets, additional hands, and a whole slew of other gadget-related abilities – but Gadget is a bumbling character, and Penny does all the real work. Penny, with Brain, her watch and laptop, can hack computers, do research, and just about anything else computer related. Penny is kind of a badass.

But it isn't an inverse rule of 'no powers = badass' (think Nightcrawler's White House attack in the beginning of X2). What I eventually came to realize is that badasses exert whatever capability they have – they are badass by virtue of their ability to affect change. They see what needs to be done, and they do it. Batman and Penny are badass because they use whatever abilities they have to get things done. By that same token, Superman, Alvy, and Zach have the capability to do some really incredible things, but don't – Superman and Alvy are both too introspective, and Zach would prefer to use his powers to make jokes. As a great example, look at the T.V. series “Heroes”, which had Hiro, who could stop time, travel through time, and teleport – his ability is almost too powerful, so the writers have to figure out ways to limit it, and make Hiro decidedly lame. (“Heroes” also suffered from some other people who had powers that were way too powerful and also had to be limited.) This is an interesting corollary to this: “affects change = badass”. If someone is too powerful, they cross over into a god-like territory where they can affect too much change at will. (This is mostly due to a stakes issue – there's no dramatic tension when someone can do anything.)

So, characters are badass because they see what needs to be done, they become steadfast in their convictions, and they figure out a way to do it that makes the most of their abilities. This is worth noting, because it carries over into character/story dynamics; tragic characters have the ability to fix their problems, but are reluctant and ultimately fail to do so, and badasses do whatever is necessary, and when the Call comes, they answer it.

To carry this over to scenes, we as players have no control over whether or not our stimuli will effect change – we merely do, and our worlds respond how they do (not every explosion shatters a mountain). But as fellow players on stage, we can make others powerful by being affected (Batman is badass because villains are thwarted – not because he attempts to thwart them). Be affected – make someone a Badass.

Soft Skilled part II

A few months back, the New York Times reported on Dr. Verghese, a physician who is trying to revive the lost art of the physical examination of patients[1]. As may come as no surprise to anyone who has spent any time in a hospital – either as a patient, visitor, or medical professional – modern medicine has largely been reduced to tests. The MRI, CT Scan, X-Ray, Ultrasound, and a million other fancy instruments and other tests have begun to be repeatedly and exceedingly relied on for the diagnosis of ailments, and for good reason; these instruments can shed light on things that previously could not be seen (not without surgery anyway), but the good doctor's problem is that these instruments, no matter how useful they may be, have begun to be relied on more than good old fashioned observation (an over-reliance, even). (As Dr. Verghese says: “What's the most important part of the stethoscope? The part between the earpieces.”) The powers of close observation of the patient, from what you see medically, to what's around them, can be infinitely useful in understanding the patient, shattering the concept of the “therapeutic distance” and replacing it with something bordering on connecting and caring.

The point here is that we as improvisers cannot survive on stage using a “therapeutic distance” (perhaps an “empathetic distance” in improv parlance). I wrote about what I call soft skills a few months ago (you can read it in my archives, Oct. 2010), and I mentioned that in a blog written by Jason Chin, he bemoaned the idea of going to get a beer after class being the anathema to no group mind, but what I think Mr. Chin's issue is assuming that group mind will be the ultimate goal of such a trip. Now, I won't argue that you're not going to get group mind out of just pounding drinks with your classmates (sorry), but you will become more comfortable with them. Soft skills are not synonymous with group mind – quite the contrary. Group mind is that capacity to follow the invisible drum beat in your group, to accept and work with mistakes as though they were intentional, to understand where your fellow players are going; what an audience often sees as “mind-reading”, or more appropriately to act as if you were one entity, as opposed to a bunch of individuals. Soft skills and group mind do have some overlap, and one may help the other, but they're not the same thing. (At least, that's what I think Mr. Chin doesn't like about the concept; I may be dead wrong.)

Let me reference another New York Times article, one that analyzed research that found that people with sisters were more like to consider themselves “happy” than people who did not[2]. The knee jerk response is that it's because women are more likely to be open emotionally, whereas men are not. However, what really appears to be happening is not that women are more open (because research has shown that time spent talking, regardless of the topic, makes people happier), its that women are more likely to talk more often and for longer periods of time than men. This is what we're doing when we go to the bar with our fellow improvisers (or really anyone). It should be noted that it doesn't have to happen at the bar, just seems that's the way it works out. (What does that say about us as people?) It's not that its the drinking that spurs the soft skills, its the spending time with people, playing games, go-cart racing, or just talking that allows us to become better, more connected people, which in turn helps us be better improvisers.

So then what are these skills we want to acquire? Well basically the concept boils down to players being willing to be open and accessible to each other. I just finished reading Johnstone's “Impro for Storytellers”, and he lists at the end what he sees as qualities players have when they are working well together: “They're taking care of each other and being altered by each other. They're daring, mischievous, humble, and courageous. They're being themselves, rather than fleeing from self-revelation.” (For counter-point purposes, here's what he sees as “bad”: “Being negative (e.g. killing ideas). Fighting each other for control. 'Planning' instead of 'attending'. Wrecking stories for the sake of easy laughs.) What I was struck by was how much those don't just sound like “My list of things that make a good scene”, but more like “My list of qualities that make a good player or group of players”. Especially take note of that middle one: “daring, mischievous, humble, and courageous”, these are qualities that hard to foster in a group of strangers, but if your group takes the time to spend with itself, these qualities come naturally as you get comfortable with each other. (Picture any long-time friend of yours, and even if you haven't seen them in years, you know that if you got together it would be “just like old times”. Or, the proclivity of some people to get back into relationships with people they've previously broken up with (even if just “for benefits – seriously, some guys have all the luck).) Studies have shown that happy people tend to be more creative problem solvers, making decisions faster, with less back-and-forth, and are better at combining material in new ways and to see the relatedness between things (sounds pretty useful for this improv thing, just sayin')[3,4,5,6,&7]. Johnstone also refers to what he calls the kinetic dance, which I find to have a lot of similarity to what I'm calling soft skills (not the least of which because it's a better sounding name).

The kinetic dance is the existence of the “threads” that connect all the players – it's the little, almost intangible and for the most part unquantifiable little physical things we all do: how we hold our hands, our bodies, our heads, how far apart we stand from each other that allow us to maintain our various statuses and dynamics with all the people around us. (Imagine two people talking in an office. A third person enters – how do the previous two people react to accommodate the new addition?) This dance exists outside the stage, but often can be lost when we get on stage – but this kinetic dance is the same soft skills that allow us to react spontaneously to each other. Spending time with your fellow players helps strengthen these threads so that they don't disappear under the watchful eye of the audience – it makes for more playful, more attuned teams.

Footnotes

[1] Grady, Denise. Oct. 11, 2010. “Physician Revives a Dying Art: The Physical.” New York Times.

[2] Tannen, Deborah. Oct. 25, 2010. “Why Sisterly Chats Make People Happier.” New York Times.

[3] Greene, Terry, and Helga Noice. 1988. “Influence of Positive Affect upon Creative Thinking and Problem Solving in Children.” Psychological Reports, 63, pp 895-98.

[4] Isen, Alice M. 2001. “An Influence of Positive Affect on Decision Making in Complex Situations: Theoretical Issues with Practical Implications.” Journal of Consumer Psychology, 11 (2), pp75-85.

[5] Isen, Alice M, K. Daubman, and G. Norwicki. 1987. “Positive Affect Facilitates Creative Problem Solving.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 62 (6), pp. 1122-31.

[6] Isen, Alice M., Thomas E. Nygren, and F. Gregory Ashby. 1988. Influence of Positive Affect on Subjective Utility of Gains and Losses: It Is Just Not Worth the Risk.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 55 (5), pp. 710-17.

[7] Isen, Alice M., and Robert Patrick. 1983. The Effect of Positive Feeling on Risk Taking: When the Chips Are Down.” Organizational Behavior and Human Performance, 31, pp. 194-202.

Group Suck

There was an improv article that I found circulating the internet a while back, written by Adam Felber, titled “Why Improv Sucks” (the article can be found here, for those who want it in its original context: http://www.improvresourcecenter.com/mb/showthread.php?t=1075). The article is a fairly succinct missive about the many shortcomings that improv has that continue to prevent its professional evolution, and one point in particular stuck with me, if only because I've written on a related topic about a year ago (you can read it in my archives in August 2010, “Expert or Fun?”). I'll only paraphrase Adam's point here, which is that improv groups have a unique organizational structure, by which he means (and I agree with) that unlike in other endeavors, under-performing, weaker members are often allowed to remain on a group's rosters forever effectively hindering what the group can ultimately do.

Now obviously, being an improviser himself, I'm sure Adam is aware where this attitude comes from; it's the “Theater of the Heart” concept put forth by Close. In order for improv to be successful, we had to train people to cherish and celebrate each other's ideas on stage, or scenes would never form (or just one or two railroading individuals would control everything and everyone else would just follow along). This “treat others like geniuses, artists and poets” (as well as “yes, and...”) conceit extended from the stage into the organization, which was great, because that helps encourage along the “group mind” books are always going on and on about. Groups have to be more than people holding each other at a detached, professional distance to achieve the level of powerful artistic intuitiveness that leads to great improv – they need to be open & available. (This quest for group mind, I believe, is largely the reason for the current immobility of membership – I disagree with Adam's notion that “there's too few good improvisors [sic] around”; that may have been true back in 2001 when Adam wrote the article, but I see too many talented people for that to really be a valid argument anymore. Alternatively, it may be because, as Carrane and Allen put it – we're “too nice”. Or even more, that improvisers see themselves as so different from “real acting” as to be more accepting of mistakes – the “populist”, “accept all mistakes as offers”, or “acting-is-bad-because-actors-are-snooty” theories. I personally think that there is an unfortunate spiral of having a flippant attitude towards improv – there are too few that take it seriously, and too many who just see it as a whatever hobby – the latter, majority viewpoint has more people adhering it, and tends to make even people in the former camp switch sides.)

However, we've allowed that to extend into a family-oriented dynamic that overrides our professional sensibilities about making good art. I had a conversation with a fellow improviser who is a member of a group that has that kind of people-don't-leave-except-by-their-own-accord dynamic, and he told me how much he loved being a member of such a group because it meant not having to worry about getting kicked out of a group – essentially, he liked the fact that he could coast once he got in (alternatively, he could continue to work hard, and he does because he's a good improviser, but not everyone will have the same work ethic). That group as a result has a some really talented people, and some real clunkers, but no system to foster creative or talent growth, other than a wish and a prayer. The plus side of this approach, it should be noted, is that no one needs to feel afraid of failure, because nothing bad can happen to you in such an event (side question: is that such a good thing – improvisers are lazy enough as is).

But this is the other side of Adam's rub – if members are never removed, even if they under-perform (like my friend likes), then the group suffers by having a few weak links, but because new people can't be brought in, then improv suffers (because you're not putting the most talented people together – you're splintering your talent pool). My friend compared this to groups he was familiar with in NYC (though the comparison holds true to other large cities as well) where getting in the theater is a struggle, as is staying in it – though this fosters growth and does not allow “coasting”.

Now, I am by no means am going to tell you what to do (but you're likely interested if you've read this far), but you're two option are thus: 1) value friendship, fellowship, and fraternity or 2) value talent, productivity, and skill. Notice at no point did I say that the first option is wrong in any way. I have a friend who has been practicing once a week for the last seven+ years with a group and they've never done a show. There's nothing wrong with that; it's just a bunch of people who like the artistic outlet and the social aspect, but don't need to do the whole show thing. If you take option one though, you can't be upset about your group not exceeding expectations and breaking new ground artistically – you have to be happy with the people you have, whether they're an “A+” improviser or a “D-” who's just doing it because he has time and it's fun. (It should be pointed out that even your iO or UCB or Second City rosters aren't immune – but the difference is that new additions are heavily vetted, and those that are at the point that they don't have to worry about being removed have been doing it for a great number of years, and are usually, let's face it, really good.) By the same token, option two isn't automatically right – it certainly won't make you any friends among those you don't deem up to snuff – but getting the best people together is how you make the new cutting edge, and hopefully you won't forget to still love and cherish each other once you get there. Though do read my previously mentioned article – even in a superstar team, you'll still need to grind the whole thing out and stick with it.

It would do well to remember that even under option 2, we still have a duty to our fellow improvisers that we share the stage with to be supportive, and to still look to play with people we enjoy the company of (see my previously indicated article). We can still strive for constant improvement, push harder and farther in our craft without being snooty, self-absorbed blowhards. Got a player in your group who's not working like everyone else is? Push them harder – make it clear that the group wants to keep moving, and they'll either step up the game (which is awesome if you like playing with them) or both parties will realize that it's time to part ways (which sucks if you like playing with them). Improv is still a team sport if you're taking it seriously, and the whole team will have to go along pushing it up to the next level for it to work.

The Lowest of the Lows

I haven't felt like a really crappy improviser in a long time; which as much as I promote remembering that improv is a journey and you should be thankful for the distance you've already traveled (and blah, blah, blah all the other stuff), is something that in a way, I've missed. Feeling really crappy is something that I and most of my iO classmates used to feel on a regular basis (generally on the order of every other level), and by feeling crappy, I don't just mean the feeling of “oh, man, that could have gone better”. What I mean is the soul crushing feeling of “oh, man. I absolutely destroy every scene I'm in and can't seem to get anything to work right”. You'd go to class just like any other time, but you'd leave feeling really shitty – like you can't believe you ever thought you could do this thing seriously, and that you should just give up. On top of the every-other-class feeling of being really shitty, I'd also feel little lows here and there. You'd have an O.K. class, but someone else would just rock it, and you'd feel like crap by comparison (thanks, other guy). The tradition of having these dramatic highs and lows is probably the second most practiced of all the unwritten improv traditions in Chicago, just behind the who's-going-to-get-on-a-Harold-team-who-won't-and-who-might game.

So what is my problem? Well, I was at an audition the other week (not auditioning – just observing) when I realized that I have been plateauing for a very long time. Plateaus are natural parts of any learning process: spots where we're just honing one or two techniques before we make the next breakthrough (most of which are probably the cause of the class blues; you're in a plateau, your classmate is in a climb), but I have been languishing for a long time. (Part of the problem is I'm worried my improv knowledge has become more academic than practical.) Basically, it boils down to me having been in this group that was holding auditions for a year and change, and I don't feel like I have moved ahead at all in that group. (That I was sent to this group for the express purpose of getting better doesn't help much.) I usually don't feel like crap after practices or shows for that group, though, so it's not the class blues. In fact, it's quite the opposite, I really enjoy the director and my fellow team mates, I feel like we have a great time, but I don't feel like I'm learning anything.

Class way back when had the (now what I see is) benefit of sometimes making you feel like you suck. Sure, you'd walk to the bar with your class and/or team mates for lunch and a beer and howl misery into the top of your pint glass, but at least you knew where you were. And there were those classes and levels where you would honestly go: 'do I want to spend another three hundred bucks and eight Saturdays feeling like crap?', but there were also those levels and classes, where you had the bug, big time. You were charged, and maybe it's just the manic depressive in me, but the highs and the lows left you at least feeling like your progress had some dynamism. The highs warranted more work and attention to keep you pointed in the right direction, and to encourage you to keep at that high, and the lows said “hey, don't do that, and work harder”.

So there I am, watching auditions, watching a lot of very talented people really putting it out there to try and make the team, and I can't help but think - “why am I still here?”. Or rather, being thankful that for the first time in a year, I feel a sharp, distinct low, one that screams out to me that improv personified thinks “You suck” (of course, it's improv personified, so he's only doing it to be supportive) to which I reply “Yes, and...” (obviously). Now that I'm in this low, there's nowhere to go but up.

Expert or Fun?

I recently lost two players in my improv team for identical reasons: both people told me that they felt that were now so good that playing with the rest of the team was a waste of time for them. They indicated that they were now too talented to be working with their team-mates. This of course is disappointing: no one ever wants to hear that their fellow improvisers no longer want to spend time playing with them, especially when someone tells you you're not good enough – what a blow to the ego. This of course is one of the ultimate dichotomies of improv – talent versus playability. Or rather: is it better to find team-mates that are in equal or greater talent than ourselves, or work with who we're with?

I would never begrudge someone the desire to push their talents and improv limits in pursuit of better, more challenging work – I haven't had many, but I've had enough of those moments, the ones where everything goes right and all the disparate elements seem to run together into a critical mass, and step off stage charged by that feeling of, for lack of a better word, magic. Those moments remind us why we do this in the first place, and that rush is improviser's equivalent to heroin – it's what keeps pushing us to achieve more challenging and interesting pieces, and its my hope that every improviser will feel at least one of those just once. But the question is, should we be so hard up to play with other talented folks that we treat ones we consider under-talented with such callousness? One thing I've noticed is that everybody wants to be on a Trophy Wife, or a Beer Shark Mice, or a Cook County, or a Deep Schwa, but no one wants to actually exert the effort required to reach those points. Those teams I just named have been playing for five plus years together, with few, if any, cast changes. Just those guys and gals, every week, stepping on stage together, everyone yearning for the same thing. You, unfortunately, can't just walk on to teams like those. I'm reminded of a statistic I've seen quoted at least four times in as many weeks that it requires 10,000 hours of dedicated practice to master a craft. We often tend to forget that, and blame other people for “holding us back”. The problem is, if everyone only played with people that were already “good”, then there would be no new improvisers, because we all suck in the beginning.

Let us not forget that improv is not just about being the talented, funny independent proprietor of the craft, and that easily half of the entire craft of improv is about learning how to work with others. Improv is, and always will be, a team sport – one where a group of people work together to create a product greater than the sum of the parts. Sure, there are one-man shows of improv that exist, but nothing will ever match up to watching a group of people playing together to create a mutual art piece. It's this half of the craft that is often under-taught, because you can't really teach how to be a good troupe member. But make no mistake about it's unending importance in everything you do in improv, we love to watch these teams perform not just because they are funny people as individuals (as they often are) but also to see how funny they are together.

Now that having been said, you should never stay in a group you don't enjoy being a part of. As I and others have said, look for people to play with who you wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with. If your team passes that litmus test, then stay with them; the most talented person in the world who is an insufferable prick will always be remembered as a talented prick, but there is no replacement for a good attitude and someone you enjoy being with. It's only when we value talent over personality that we run into trouble. You certainly don't want to be known as the “guy who only plays with people who he finds talented”, sure people may be flattered at first with your seeming honor, but deep down everyone knows that your loyalty is skin deep and you will be the first to run when the going gets rough. And if your team members can't trust you and be open with you, you'll only ever do the kind of shallow, vapid improv you were hoping to avoid in the first place.

Remember that talent is only half the game, and the other half is learning to love the people you're on stage with. They were willing to risk their selves with you, the least we can do is offer the same in return.

Lessons Learned

Next week, I will have been teaching and coaching my first group for exactly one year – exciting times. I thought it might be a good idea to go back and share what I feel I have learned from teaching these new improvisers. These are my lessons learned, and maybe if I had read this article this time last year, things would have been easier, but there's no reason others can't learn from this – experience comes cheaper second hand. Coaching, directing, and teaching are all peculiar skills for the improviser, in that there isn't a class to learn it from, and even most improv books only dedicate a single chapter or part of a chapter to the subject. Even Spolin's fantastic book is more concerned with learning the craft with the end game being putting on a scripted play of some sort. (And teaching children. Are improvisers like children? Discuss.) Instead, I feel like this sub-artform is a melange of what we have seen other people do and sheer terror, or to paraphrase Astronaut Jon McBride: a director who doesn't have any fear probably isn't operating his troupe to its maximum.

Be prepared for disappointment – unless you are fortunate enough to operate a group that is sponsored by a theater, you won't have a regular practice or performance space. Despite all attempts to secure said space, it will always fall through. Practices will be inconsistent in the beginning, schedules will get in the way, practice spaces will be lost and replaced with who knows what, so just be prepared to face the inevitable that things will never go as planned, or even an approximation of that.

Set goals and objectives – this is for two reasons: one, without anything to measure against, you can't know how you're doing. Attempting to compare your group to any other group is tragically misguided, because no two groups are alike, and those variables can never be accounted for. Second, as the director, you need to have good solid answers to questions. “I don't know” is acceptable (provided you can come up with an answer after a little research), but the director is the steady hand that guides the group in a single direction. Instead, decide what you want to see, and keep nudging the group to that destination. Give options, and you might as well not even be there. Also, if you don't set goals, how will you be disappointed when you don't make them? (see #1)

Try and find a few people you like – improv is a team sport, and a social activity, and you're going to have to hang around these people at least once a week for a few hours. This is the great thing about starting your own group outside of any sponsorship – you don't have to keep people you don't like, and you shouldn't.

Let the reins out a little bit – so much of improv is figuring these things out for yourself; there are a whole bunch of things that you just can't teach, and you just have to work the puzzle out on your own so that you can see how it fits together. The director should never be “mom”, and hopefully one day they'll be able to run off on their own.

You are responsible – I don't mean this in the sense of “show up on time, prepared”; (you should be doing that anyway). What I more mean is that you are Dr. Frankenstein, and this is your monster – be prepared to deal with your creation. After you've set your goals, given your objectives, and let out the reins, don't be surprised to find that you've created exactly what you wanted, and maybe you wanted things a little different than what you ended up with. Ah, the hubris. Sadly, the director is responsible, and you get what you ask for.

Some people can't be saved – Hi, Hubris again. Remember me? We like to come in thinking that we'll be cowboys and astronauts, taming the wild frontiers, breaking new ground, and making every person in the group an integral and talented member of a well oiled and imminently watchable team. Sadly, you can only help the people who want to be helped. Focus on the people asking you for help, and hope the other ones will come around.

And would I do it again? Oh, hell yeah.

What's in a group?

If we take the presumption that I have made and assume that small groups are capable of self organization, but also that each person will divine their own place, then what do these groups look like? Nobody tells these groups how to organize or what jobs they each will hold, but invariably each person will eventually find their own niche. Successful group dynamics do not arrive where everyone is doing the same job and eschewing other jobs. Somebody has to dig the ditch just as someone has to wear the suit. Even ant hills have workers, guards, caretakers, builders, etc. I did some research and have found what I believe are the classic group dynamics. Its important to remember that there is no dynamic hierarchy or status in these groups – they transcend status (or rather they have to, otherwise its not a lateral communication). So even though someone may play “leader” they're not actually a “boss”.

Two people.

Undoubtedly the simplest group structure. This is the bare minimum required to achieve a group mind, but each person has a lot to do in order for the group to function. At this level groups self organize into opposites: straight and absurd, extrovert and introvert, etc.. This basic “versus” interplay of two different points of view is central to the entire group organization from this point on, but it this level it is its most bare. Classically you've got Laurel & Hardy, Abbot & Costello, but more recently I point to Sheldon and Leonard from the “Big Bang Theory” or Michael & Michael from the web series “Black 20”. The straight man never points out the absurdity; they understand they can't change their friend, they just try to put the fires out.

Three people.

This level has the greatest difficulty in self organization, because the tendency is for it to devolve into a two on one situation – that is to say a pair and an other. The pair teams up and attacks the other, who has no chance, because he's outnumbered. This is an unestablished swarm. A group at this size now actually has options, but at minimum will organize into emotive, reason, and mediator figures. The driving figure is typically represented by the mediator; their role is to act as an inbetween for the two opposing view points in the rest of the trio (this is usually portrayed in fiction as an actual leader role, but it doesn't have to be). Think Alvin from the Chipmunks, Athos from the Three Musketeers, Moe from the Three Stooges. Reason is still playing the straight man, roughly, and is responsible for being the voice of reason, they look at the world in hard, clinical terms – objective and absolute. Reason is typically represented by an individual with high intelligence or unique skills, think Simon, Aramis, and Larry. Emotive is lead by his heart, easily swayed, gullible, and outgoing; think Theodore, Curly, and Porthos, respectively. The emotive is the humanist one – subjective, thinking about the moment at hand. Together, you have emotion, reason, and practical or in Freudian terms: id, superego, and ego, respectively.

Four people.

Logic would dictate that at this point any disagreements would result in stalemate, but in a 2006 study done by the University of Michigan, both three and four person groups reached unanimous decisions roughly the same amount of the time (about 75%). This means that four person hierarchy must develop so that all input is arranged in a way that the correct choice is the only logical one. Self organization yields the following roles: head, hands, heart, and feet. Hands is now the driving force: the leader, ambitious, passionate. Feet is now the voice of reason, he keeps the group grounded, and is calm, rational, and reliable. Heart is the group's cheerleader, responsible for being optimistic, extroverted, and enthusiastic. Head is kind, thoughtful, and creative – the think it through first and look at the angles kind of person. The Ghostbusters are undoubtedly the group to beat; Peter is the hand, Ray the heart (Peter even says “Ray Stanz, the heart of the Ghostbusters”), Egon the head, and Winston the feet. In American Pie, Kevin, Finch, Oz, and Jim are the hand, feet, heart, and head, respectively.

Five People and Up.

Five person dynamics are difficult, and from this point a definite focal point of leadership is almost required if only to act as a funnel for the group's energy to run through. Typically it's a leader, his right hand (who usually serves as an opposite to the leader, but is his friend, so notice again that we have the basic two man dynamic again), the strong, silent one, the smart one, and the heart. Best example is “The Goonies” - Mikey the leader, Mouth as his guy Friday, Brand as the strong big guy, Data as the smart one, and two people pulling the roll of the heart – Andy and Stef. Even better, “Star Wars”: Luke is the leader, Han his right hand (Luke is honorable to the cause, Han to the money – opposites), Chewie as the big guy, two robots as the smart ones, and Leia as the heart. Often the female – especially if there's only one – will be the heart of the group.

From this point on, jobs get more complex – generally the larger the group, the more complicated the dynamic, and the more doubling up of roles.

Special thanks to TVTropes.org for invaluable research and also for providing yet another avenue to burn hours upon hours of time that should have been spent actually writing this thing.