Patience and Spontaneity

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Almost without argument, one could say that the heart of improvisation is in spontaneity; by it's very definition, improv is merely theater that is performed without a script, therefore, to paraphrase Huey Lewis (and the News), the “Heart of improv is still unplanned.” That's just the name of the game, as soon as you start planning stuff, and honestly trying to achieve what you've planned, it's no longer improvised theater, it's just plain theater. Improv teachers go to great lengths to achieve spontaneity and true artistic inspiration (because this is what improv really boils down to – you can do anything you want, so you need to be free to do anything you want.) Most of what is done, especially to beginning improvisers, is in the name of speed: Story, Story (Die), Dirty Hand Randy, New Choice, etc. are probably some of the most truly improvised games (at least in the short form sphere) because they are intended to move so quickly that the player doesn't have time to plan. You either just let your brain run wild and with abandon, or you get left behind.

The problem with this is it is essentially a crutch we hand to people: just move quickly and it will be improvised. The problem here is that experienced players don't need that crutch anymore – they are capable of stepping on stage and acting without thinking or pre-planning, only they have been trained such that they will step on stage and run so quickly through even the most complicated transactions that they don't really improvise any more. Generally speaking, this kind of speed is okay in the slam, bam, thank you ma'am world that is shortform, where the emphasis is not on artistic exploration but on entertainment, and where that kind of energetic, fast-paced scene work thrives especially well in “games”. But as you move into long form (where you do a scene that may last three minutes still, but you may have to come back to, or make run an entire thirty minutes (I've seen it done, nonbelievers)) that no longer has the gimmicks (or referee or MC to bail you out) that kind of speed works to your detriment.

Longform requires more patient, discovery-based improv, and as my mother and I can attest, you just can't enjoy the sights when Dad is driving past them at 70 miles per hour (a condition which I now believe may be genetic – sorry passengers). Give a group of new-to-longform improvisers a scenario (any scenario really), and they will be done with it in a blink. Give the same scenario to experienced improvisers, and they will take their time exploring every single, tiny moment, and not just tediously waiting for the next big thing to happen, but really enjoying themselves in the pace of normal life. This is where really improvisation lies: moving slow enough that you can actually enjoy and discover things about your partner, scene objects, or environment. A shortform improviser flows from his head, while a longform improviser flows from everything.

I saw some improv last weekend that definitely fits this bill: no one would argue that these were energetic improvisers, capable of editing with abandon, and fast, too. In thirty minutes they probably did 20 independent scenes, but it wasn't entertaining. Sure, the dialog was improvised (at least I hope it was, scenework that bad had better not been written out ahead of time and approved) but it was just manic (well that and nobody was working together, but that's a subject for a different essay all together). My point is this: scenes don't have to fly by and ninety eleven miles an hour to be interesting or even improvised. The easiest way to get yourself out of a “pre-thinking” mode is to truly focus on only the last thing that was said. All improv really should be is a series of reactions to different stimulus, just true, honest reactions. And that's the whole point of using speed as a training tool in the first place. Quick thinking, and just react. And don't rush, or you'll miss all that pretty scenery.

The Hot Spot

We as performers are constantly charged with an exceedingly daunting task: getting along, working, and performing with nearly complete strangers with the ultimate goal of producing laughter. Improv already has very little set up, and we want to make it as portable and flexible as possible, so as a result improvisers (starting with Charna Halpern and Del Close) formulated those treasured iO ideals of cherishing each other on stage and loving each other's contributions. But it’s one thing to say something (“the earth is round”, for instance) and quite another to make it happen.

Primarily for this reason (and maybe others, hell I wasn’t there when they invented the game) Hot Spot was created. The basic rundown of Hot Spot: everyone gets in a circle, one person steps into the middle and starts singing a song. When it starts to become obvious that they no longer know the words, or are uncomfortable, someone steps out of the circle and takes their place in the middle. My level one teacher said we should use the game to train our own internal instinct to edit. “Feel it in your stomach” he would say. “You already know when things need to stop to make room for something else, and you already know when your partners need your help. Just feel it.” (I am actually paraphrasing; it’s not like I recorded my improv classes.) This game actually sounds great in theory, but I’ve never seen it work the way I think it should.

Here’s what I think the problem is: the game says that someone goes out there and sings for 15 seconds or so and then is replaced. I don’t think the average improviser’s brain allows for this kind of fast editing. It requires a little longer than that to settle into to new input. The other problem, and I encourage everyone to look at this the next time you play, is that everyone is thinking way too hard. It’s just natural. We are all trying desperately to be inspired by something right now so we can get in there with a new song. The result is not a nice organic in and out flow of players, but a forced projection.

I make this humble theory on a few distinct observations. First, the larger the group, the slower the interchanges, which runs opposite to what’s expected. You would expect that with an increasingly large circle size, there should hardly be anytime for anyone to sing. Everyone should be charging the center. (For example, let's say that at any one time, 25% of a group is ready with a new idea. That means in a group of four, one person has an idea, but in a group of 10 two or three people should have ideas.) Additionally, I have only ever seen maybe two times where two people entered the center at the same time, and I have never seen three enter. The principle of the game should result in this constant cascade of nearly everyone entering the circle at the same time, because everyone should be simultaneously recognizing the need for an edit. (Then again, maybe they are, they’re just too busy thinking of a song to get in there.

Does this mean Hot Spot is a bad exercise? Probably not, as its heart is in the right place, but it’s just a weak game. It has a very lofty goal, but just doesn’t achieve it. Or maybe the problem is I’ve only ever seen it done with brand new groups where everyone’s still unsure and nervous as a result of all these new people. Or maybe the larger groups make everyone feel like the responsibility is spread out thinner than in small groups so people don’t feel as big a need to help out. Good group work is everyone's responsibility; one group, one voice.