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 Worst Show

(Author's note: I originally wrote this article in August 2008.)

I recently had a very bad show. Bad and then some. And excuse the hyperbole, but it was quite possibly the worst show I have ever been a part of, which is saying something. What went wrong in this show, you ask? Well, what can go wrong in any show? People not listening to each other, ambiguous people, relationships, and locations, focus issues, low energy, direct and indirect denials, and an all around lack of playfulness. That this show was an iO graduation show, and that it is supposed to showcase everything we have learned in the last year (improv-wise) is itself perhaps telling.

Of course, the only thing worse than a truly horrendous show, is the backlash immediately after it. Because while a horrid (I will, in fact, use every synonym for bad I can think of) show lasts only twenty five minutes (despite the fact that it feels longer), the ripples of it can last much, much longer. This was one of those shows that everyone just sort of hangs their heads afterwards, and one that everyone knows was just bad. Even that one guy in every group who can find something positive about nearly every show (it's usually me). A show so atrocious that everyone immediately starts trying to come up with ways to fix it.
Let's run through the usual list: switch coaches, find a new practice time, required "hang-out/non-improv" time to achieve group trust/synergy, radical form changes, and a list of basics/guidelines/fundamentals/rules/commandments for what will make good shows.

It's interesting to point out that improv groups are much like bureaucracies: they are always fighting the battle they just lost.

This brings me to my point, and one that is especially resonant given that just seven days earlier, we had what was probably one of the best shows I had ever been in. Improvisation is a risky business. Perhaps the riskiest. Nothing is guaranteed, and every time you step on stage, you could easily be stepping on to your worst show, ever. Improvisers constantly tout that their artform is the purest, and the most interesting, because anything can happen. This is true, but to paraphrase a great scientist, the door swings both ways. This is the lure of the unknown, and the reason why improv is so interesting. Shows can be transcendental, entertaining, and intriguing.

They can also be boring, mind numbing, and unwatchable.

To paraphrase someone else, we deal in the unknown, friend. This is our business, and it is challenging, unique, and unpredictable by its very nature. We love it for the same reason we hate it.

So how do we deal with shows then? Can we do all the things mentioned above, and achieve success? Sure.

Can we not do any of the things mentioned above, and achieve success? Why not?

Sometimes we just have bad nights, things don't click, a smidgen of anxiety or apprehension slow a show down, and things just go awry. Not anyone's fault; just the name of the game.  When these shows come along (and they will) the only thing you can do is just keep on truckin'. Learn from your mistakes, keep working hard, and don't get too down.

Relax; after all, it can't get worse than rock bottom, right?

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.