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.

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.

A Philosophy of Teaching

It was in "Truth in Comedy" that Close, et al, told everyone that an improviser was actually a number of different roles rolled into one: actor, director, writer, editor, sound man, special effects, props, and scenery (and realistically caterer and producer as well).  It's really no wonder this craft is so difficult to master, and that so many of us become permanently enthralled with it - to improvise is not just make a few laughs, it is to do a near overwhelming amount simultaneously.  But it is not only very difficult to master, it's sometimes very difficult for beginners to do successfully at even a minimal level.

Most improv is taught in a very top-down method.  Typically, throw people into things with a little explanation, and then tweak things as needed to get performers into a desired state.  In fact, I'd wager that every teacher I've had has taken this approach.  It's just easier, since there are so many things that have to be juggled at once, to let the human naturally fill in the gaps of the performance than to force a player to have to think about everything all at once.  I think of this as a holistic approach; even though a smart instructor will know to break down certain skills or simplify scenework to narrow a student's focus, it's still necessary for a pupil to be developing a number of skills concurrently.  I believe the result here is why I am constantly teaching (and learning) active listening as a basic skill.

This is quite different from other arts/crafts/skills; I remember learning to drive and first learning street signs, right-of-way, and blind spots before being allowed behind the wheel of a two-ton steel death machine.  Artists learn composition and point-of-view before painting the Sistine Chapel, woodworkers learn how to cut straight lines before building a house, and you learn to read by first learning sounds - you don't jump from "c-a-t" to "Anna Karenina".  When I was first learning to play an instrument, you start with a few notes, then you play "Mary had a Little Lamb", then scales, then time signatures, then space chords, and eventually you work your way up full orchestral pieces.  I think of this as a reductionist approach - where the focus is on building individual skills before putting them all together.

The reductionist approach is easier for learning complex skills, so why don't we approach teaching improv in that manner?  Quite simply actually: "Mary had a Little Lamb" is fucking boring.  And even more importantly, the basic principles of improv, like "no planning", translate into the uninitiated as "you don't need to practice this, you just get up and do it!"  The seemingly low entry requirements are a welcome encouragement for neophyte players, but also make it difficult to focus the naive to work only on skills for the first few lessons.  Or, is it maybe better to throw new players completely into it right away?  Screw basics, just give them the piano and the sheet music for "Flight of the Bumblebee", and let them figure it out on the fly.  Watching an experienced player rip through something difficult effortlessly might make you think you could, but new performers have to learn the scales first.

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.