Four-, Five-, Six-, and Twenty-Person Scenes

So often laborious are these scenes that I almost couldn't find the energy to write about them.

A typical scenario: The lights come up halfway through a show, and you find yourself on stage with four other people. One of the people is upstage left, dancing around frenetically. Two people are downstage right, standing. Another person is in the center painting. The fifth person is upstage right with a cup in his hand, looking at everyone else on stage. Now what? Who does what and when?

It's tricky. To be honest, my first reaction if I'm in this scenario is to think, "Yippee" or "Alright" in the most sarcastic manner pos­sible. If getting it straight in a two- or three-person scene is not tough enough, imagine all of the interaction permutations in a five-person scene.

My best advice is, first of all, know what is the dominant energy of the scene. What is the most dominant thing going on in the scene right now? Once you've identified that, go with it. The first step, iden­tifying that dominant energy, requires much practice and is difficult for a beginning improviser, because what seems dominant is, quite often, quite not. In the example, it might seem like the person who is dancing frenetically is the dominant energy, because she is making the most noise and moving the most. But with experience you start to learn that people who continue a frenetic movement on stage, particularly in a group scene, are in their heads, especially if they make the move and never give it a rest. The audience picks this up and very quickly all they are hearing is white noise. (A hint: If you find yourself in that position, always remember that you can start frenetic as your declared initiation, then stop to let the scene happen, then resume as necessary to keep the frenetic ball in the air.)

So the loud dancer probably isn't the dominant energy. How about the person observing, with the cup in his hand? Probably not. I'd bet he obligatorily "went to his environment" first and is a bit in his head wondering what's going on. The painter? Very possibly, since she is center stage and engaged in an identifiable physical activity, anchored in what she is doing. How much how is in what she is doing would affect whether she truly is that dominant energy. Blindly, though, I'd put my nickel on the two standing downstage right. That's where the audience thinks they will get their answers.

An audience is always looking for context: "What is the road map for the thing that I've been invited to enjoy?" When the lights come up on stage in this group scene example, the audience thinks, "Oh the lights came up, look, chaos. Oh there's someone painting. Hey, maybe those two are getting ready to talk to each other and make sense of all of this. Hey, I think I'll watch them and wait." This thought process happens in about three seconds. At this point, those two improvisers are the dominant energy of the scene.

Now, the words. When those two utter words, their words become the dominant energy of the scene. And whatever those words are, the other three improvisers will increase their chances of a good group scene if they align themselves with those words. (I know this sounds rather rigid, but if you watch some good andawful group scenes, you'll start to get a feel for this concept.)

In the example, one of the two improvisers downstage right says (in a Georgia drawl):

 

Downstage A: This drought ain't gonna let up.

 

I suggest that everything align to that notion: Drought, no let up.

 

Painter: Yes, I need more blue paint for my "Ode to a Rain" piece.

Dancer: Soon, Raingoda will heed my dance and deliver the drops from the heavens.

Glass Holder: I'll drink to that.

 

Go with that dominant energy—it's the best chance you've got in a group scene.

Unfortunately, this isn't what usually happens. Improvisers will all go a different direction or merely try to justify their own thing, or sometimes no one says anything for way too long. It may also be, in the above example, that even though the two downstage right cap­ture the audience's attention before words come about, one of the other improvisers actually initiates with words. In that case, the first verbal initiation becomes the dominant energy and I'd advise everyone else to go with that.

So:

 

Lights up. (Pause) (Pause)

Painter: Soon my masterpiece will be done.

Downstage A: We'll sell Renaldo's painting for a million yen.

Downstage B: Yes, the buyer will meet us in Milan.

Dancer: Renaldo, you capture my dancing beautifully!

Glass Holder: I'll drink to that.

 

Ahhh, perfect world. Unfortunately, all that I'm talking about doesn't usually happen. In reality, the person who chose loud dancing will probably be, as mentioned earlier, frenetic. Then she will have a carnival of self-judgment that puts her in a place where she is not looking for "dominant energies." The dancer is dancing and regretting the dancing and not knowing what to do and keeps dancing and blah. The guy holding the glass is probably in his head, too. He's looking at the others, trying to figure out what's going on and who's going to do what next and why. The two downstage right are going to start a scene without keeping the whole scene in mind, and continue on a disparate course of dialogue in their own world. Finally, the painter is wondering why she is painting and is aware of frenetic dancing and is annoyed but in her head. Then chaos con­tinues.

Often, intermediate improvisers will realize the need to have a dominant energy in a group scene so they force it a little. I'm talking about the "Welcome to" and the "Okay everyone."

The lights come up and there are eight people on stage. A con­scientious player sees this and immediate exclaims:

 

Conscientious Player: Okay everyone, we have to decorate this Christmas tree for the party!

 

or

 

Conscientious Player: Okay everyone, get in your seats because class is getting ready to start.

 

or

 

Conscientious Player: Okay everyone, who has an idea for the campaign?

 

The subtext for this is, "Okay everyone, we're in a confusing group scene so let's get on the same page right now."

The "Welcome to" usually happens more as a game move in a long form. After a few two- or three-person scenes, someone will see the need for a group scene. They will then travel down stage, look at the audience, and say, "Welcome to the dog show," or "Welcome to Who's Telling The Truth?'" or "Welcome to (anything that declares group context and forces a dominant energy in the scene)."

Over time, improvisers become more deft in these proclama­tions. They learn to find a smoother way in. Instead of the literal fed of "Welcome to Science Hour," they might utter, "Last week on  Science Hour..." and then graduate to "... the lifespan of a snail. Now Science Hour examines..." Among new groups this, then, becomes dangerous because if that initiator doesn't get that context out quickly, the new and eager improvisers will babble and stumble and change the scene to a chaotic nothingness of tedium.

My advice to groups is to practice finding those dominant group energies together. If a group has a shared protocol, it makes for a less stupid and more coherent experience for the audience. The exposi­tion becomes slyer, the scenes build more organically, and players more quickly realize their function in the scene. With enough prac­tice, it's amazing to see just how quickly five or six or even eight people can get on the same page.

So,

 

■ Practice identifying the dominant energy.

■ Practice responding to and acknowledging that energy while staying true to your own initiation at the beginning of the scene.

■

How an improv group manages their group scene work is a sure sign of how successfully they will show up.

Advanced Improvisation

Tools to help you improvise richer, funnier, more substantive scenes is what this here chapter is about. Sometimes I use this motto to describe improvisation: "Improvisation, always different, always the same."

Although improvisation is making it up as you go along, and there are no two scenes alike, there's a particular set of moves that people usually resort to. If I gave 100 pairs of improvisers the loca­tion suggestion of "cave," ninety pairs are going to do a scene about how to get out of the cave. Nine out of ten scenes that take place in a submarine will have at least one person raise their hands to the periscope. Hot air balloon scenes: How to get to the ground. Bowling scenes never take place in the bowling alley office, always at the alley The hand goes up to indicate the ball in someone's hand, the person bowls, then both people in the scene look at each other to determine whether it was a strike or not. Then the other person bowls, and if people are clever they will hold one hand to the side, palm down. Air blower. If I only watched improvised scenes to get my informa­tion in life, I would think that:

 

The only thing you do in a graveyard is dig graves. There is a guru on every mountain.

People at bus stops talk about buses, then try to seduce one another.

People at train stations talk about trains, then try to seduce each other.

The only thing people do in boats is fish.

Bakers only roll dough in a bakery.

Pizzas are thrown in the air at all pizzerias, all the time.

People are on their knees praying at all times in every church.

All people who work in laboratories are insane.

All doctors do is tell people that they have a short time to live.

People say "shhhh" most of the time in libraries.

Always different, always the same.

The reason that improvisation is often within the same general realm of choices is because people have very similar associations when they hear a suggestion. Graveyard brings up shovel and dig. A submarine makes you think of a periscope. Common associations. The following are ways to break that up and create uncommon, more exciting choices.

 

Opposite Choices

Make an opposite choice in your scene. Make a choice that seems opposite of what you think you should make. Too many improvisers go for the "appropriate" choice, or the choice that they think will be appropriately funny. If you're given used car lot as a suggestion, it is expected that you might immediately try selling a car to your partner on stage. Most improvisers go there. It's expected and appropriate and seems like it has potential for some laughs. Problem is, it's typical. Imagine how refreshing it might be to have these two characters as coworkers at a used car lot bitching about their girlfriends. No buying or selling, we would expect that. By making this unexpected choice we automatically create something as more exciting. We already and immediately bring it to the less mundane, and more theatrical, choice.

Now what does that do to your head? It puts you in a wonderful world of discovery, as opposed to playing out the all too familiar usedcar negotiation scene. Even though the audience gave you the suggestion of used car lot, hoping that you would go in to the buying/selling premise because that's how they associate the comedy as well, it's not true that that is where the greater comedy lies. By making that opposite choice for them, you immediately surprise them.

If you've seen a few husband-and-wife scenes, think about how many of the characters argue in those scenes. That's pretty ordinary. Now imagine how delightful and surprising it might be to see a hus­band and wife do a scene about how much they love each other, or how silly they are. When you make this quality of choice, you're put­ting yourself in unfamiliar territory. As that may be a little scary, it's also more exciting: for you, for your scene partner, and for your audience. It also shows up smarter. You're a step ahead of the audi­ence if they subconsciously or even consciously predict a choice on your part, and you completely surprise them with something other. It gives you a little instant credibility and probably a better founda­tion for a funnier, richer, more surprising scene.

The same thing also applies to character choices. All too often improvisers bring out the same old typical expected character choices. Pirates that say "Arggh," priests in confessionals, and gay men who are effeminate are common character choices. If you are given the suggestion of accountant, try not to immediately go to a tax session. It would be surprising and delightful to see this accountant at an ice cream truck, then filter accountant things through the pur­chase of an ice cream cone.

 

Specificity

Specificity is one of the most effective tools in improvisation and eas­iest to do. Specificity is bringing detail to your scenes. If you watch enough improvisation, you begin to notice that many of the reac­tions from your audience are a consequence of an improviser being specific about something.

Not being specific is another result of fear. When we're in a state of self-judgment, we tend to be vague. I've seen many a scene start with something like, "Thanks, now just put that over there," or "They will be there soon." It's a lot safer, subconsciously, to not take the chance in naming something in detail. A scared improviser will keep it vague so as not to impose too much, or risk that a specific refer­ence will not get a laugh. That improviser will be nondescript and feel as if they can catch up later with detail.

A mark of experienced improvisers is the amount of specifics that they weave into the scene. "Thanks, now just put that red vase over there next to the porcupine statue," or "The legislators will be at Sonny's Deli soon." Specifics color the scene for the audience, pro­vide more valuable information to your scene partner, expedite the scene greatly so you don't have to go fishing for the substance, and garner quicker and more substantial laughter or other positive reac­tion from your audience.

A lot of people confuse these thoughts about being specific with my earlier rants against thinking about exposition and justification. They feel that on one hand, I'm telling improvisers not to use a lot of words at the top of the scene or you will cripple the scene with too much exposition, but on the other hand I'm saying add as much detail to the dialogue as possible. This is confusing; let's take a stab at clearing it up.

The exposition I speak of is usually there because either an improviser has been told to find the who, what, where at the top of the scene, or as a result of not knowing what is happening in the begin­ning/middle of the scene. Out of fear an improviser may blurt out a string of words to explain what and why something is happening. My advice regarding specificity assumes that the improvisers are at the point where they will make a strong dialogue choice at the top out of emotion or character, and then, starting in the middle, fill that dialogue with character-embodied detail.

The top of the scene exposition dialogue sounds like, "Tom, being my brother it's important that you and I clean this garage before Dad gets home or we won't be able to go to the party." It's often without strong character or emotional investment and played nearer to the cadence of the improviser. The exposition within the scene as a result of fear is something like, "Every time we go any­where together you start acting crazy like this. Why don't you stop acting crazy and let's get this raking done."

Specificity in improvisation is different. It's like this:

The lights come up and an improviser, slightly hunched, walking downstage with a limp, says in a raspy voice, "Yeah, that was 1957, the last time I saw Ellen in that old red barn." This isn't an improviser confining and describing the circumstance of the scene, nor is it someone who is assessing another improviser's behavior or his own. No, this is an improviser who has made a strong character choice, is starting in the middle of the scene, and then applying specificity to his character's voice and words. The physical also becomes part of the detail, in the hunch and the limp.

Going to the environment and discovering objects that the char­acter would use is also a means of bringing in more color and detail. How does the character put on glasses? How heavy is a cane? How big is a book and how quickly or slowly does a character open it? Specificity will bring more layers to your scene with more fully dimensional characters, and if it's important to you, more laughs.

 

Pull Out/Pull Back In

This is a little tip to use once you have an idea of what you and your scene are about. Pull out/pull back in means pull out, or go opposite the point of view you've been declaring in the scene, then pull back in to restore your original point of view in the next beat or line of dialogue. A simple example of this:

 

Improviser A: Hurry up and get dressed so we can get to the party!

Improviser B: I don't know, I'm not sure I'll fit in. Improviser A: Of course you will, you're gonna meet someone you like.

Improviser B: This shirt is stupid, I'm gonna look lame. Improviser A: So there will be lame people there you can meet, let's move.

Improviser B: Okay, okay, I'll give it a shot. Improviser A: Cool, let's go. Improviser B: No, I'm gonna look like a rod. I'll stay here and eat cashews.

 

B's point of view is fear of being an outcast at the party. He plays that point of view twice in the scene. Then, at the third beat he gives in to going (pulls out of his point of view), and the next line reaffirms his fear of going (pulling back in), thereby restoring his initial point of view.

It's a bit trick-y (I don't mean tricky, but kind of like a trick), but it does give the initial declaration more power after you restore it and pro­vides the audience with the feeling that the scene is pushing and pulling against itself in a good way This also helps alleviate the feeling we get sometimes that our scenes are too linear, or one-note. Other nar­ratives do this all the time. (Oh no, here comes The Wizard of Oz again).

Dorothy can't get home to Kansas. Several times in the movie, though, she alters her point of view to "Now I can get home to Kansas," only to discover that there is yet another obstacle pre­venting her from going home, which restores her point of view to the desire to go home.

"I'm in a land called Oz and I want to go home. Look, a Good Witch who tells me about the yellow road, which means I am going home. Oops, no I'm not because of the Wicked Witch of the East, but I finally made it to the Wizard's castle, so I am going home. No wait, I have to kill the witch so, once again, I want to go home. Look, I've killed the witch so I am going home with the help of the Wizard. Uh-oh, the Wizard is just a man, I'll never get home. But he's going to fly back in the balloon, so I am going home. Damn, the balloon took off without me, so I'll never, ever get home, but here comes the Good Witch with the ruby slippers, I am going home, look, I am home. Finis."

It's a little fake-out for the audience. It gives your scene a bit more complexity. Often the restore of the point of view gets a laugh, a kind of relief laugh that you're not really abandoning your point of view, just pulling away from it for a second. Remember, though, you have to create and establish the initial point of view before you have permission to toy with it and pull away and back in.

 

Curve Balls

Another thing you can do once you have your scene established is throw a curve ball. By this I mean say or do something that is totally outside of the deal you have created. I know, I know, this seems con­tradictory to what I have said before in regard to holding on and adding to the point of view for dear life. So I'm not saying to abandon or dismiss what you have created, just throw something in the scene that's not directly related to what the scene is about and see if you can catch up to it later.

Let me try an example. Here's another scene:

 

A: Billy's coming over later.

B: I know, around three this afternoon.

A: He's got some bad news.

B: Some bad news for you.

A: Yeah, Billys gonna tell me that mom found out about the car.

B: Tim, you're screwed.

A: Dad's gonna kill me when he sees the scratch. I'll never play another video game ever. B: Scratch? I'd call it a fairly large scrape. A: Do you like butterflies?

 

Do you like butterflies? What the hell? Obviously this scene is not about liking or not liking butterflies. It's about this person dreading his parents' wrath over a scratch in a car. Butterflies?

Isn't he bailing or changing his position in the scene? The scene continues:

 

B: Sometimes. Sometimes I adore butterflies.

A: Just trying to get my bike out of the garage. Should have retaped my handles. Big scratch.

B: Big scrape.

A: When I was younger, last year, I used to take a net that mom bought me and romp in the meadow and carelessly chase butterflies. Of course, that was before the scratch.

B: Yes, chase butterflies before the big scrape.

A: It's almost three o'clock.

B: You're screwed.

 

Ah, now it's okay. Butterflies are about Timmy's dread of his parent's wrath. He will be denied his butterfly-catching pleasure as a result of his careless action. That is indeed what the scene is about.

The improviser may or may not have known of his eventual con­struction of the butterfly beat as it was introduced into the scene. Hopefully he didn't. I'm asking you not to know.

It's sometimes surprisingly fun to introduce something that is seemingly outside the scene. The audience is taken aback for a moment and then delighted to see its relevance soon thereafter. Throwing a curve ball shakes the scene up and is perceived as a bold move. Oftentimes, it also gets a yuk. I've talked about surprising from within the scene; well, this is surprising from outside the scene and then discovering that it is within the scene.

For this to work though, two things have to happen:

 

1. You need to establish the point of view, and make sure your audience and your partner are aware of it, as well.

2. Your partner can't freak out as a result of your strange offering.

 

In the example, it is quite clear that Timmy is in trouble. It is also quite clear that the partner didn't wig out; he says, "Sometimes. Sometimes I adore butterflies." The partner merely accepted the dis­parate offering, stayed on track, and trusted that butterflies would weave into what the scene was about later. Imagine how the scene would have gone south if the partner had reacted like this:

 

A: Do you like butterflies?

B: Yeah, let's forget about the car and the scratch and go to the park and look at butterflies. Let's go!

 

Yes, the partner has to keep a cool head and hang in there. So do you if a curve ball like this is thrown at you. This is another level of trust among experienced improvisers. Knowing that everything's fine if you just hang in there and don't freak. Stay with your thing and you'll catch up with it in a moment or two.

It's also possible to hold the scene even if the curve ball info is never enveloped by what the scene is directly about. In this case, it's li ke juggling two balls and gives the scene layers and texture. I use the same scene as an example:

 

A: Billy's coming over later.

B: I know, around three this afternoon.

A: He's got some bad news.

B: Some bad news for you.

A: Yeah, Billy's gonna tell me that mom found out about the car.

B: Tim, you're screwed.

A: Dad's gonna kill me when he sees the scratch. I'll never play another video game, ever. B: Scratch? I'd call it a fairly large scrape. A: Wanna Coke?

B: Thanks, it's 2:30. You have a half-hour left in the free world. A: Coke's lost its fizz. Maybe I should flee to another continent right now.

B: I've got twenty bucks. I don't think that will get us there. A: I spent my last cash on flat pop. B: You're a dead man.

 

As you can see, soda pop runs more or less parallel in the scene to the dread of doom. It doesn't take anything away from the primary energy of the scene, but adds another layer and more texture and detail to the scene. Once again, this only works if everyone is level­headed and trusts these types of offerings. You're dead if anyone freaks out and bails.

 

Reaching for an Object

You are in the middle of a scene. It is going well. You have a char­acter, your partner has a character, and you both are playing a scene that is about something. For an added extra challenge, reach your hand out into the air, or the environment of the scene, and pull it back with an object in your hand. Keep playing the scene. Keep holding the object. If you are brave enough to do this without pre­conceiving what the object is before you reach, you will soon discover what it is, and it is likely that it will be in the ballpark of what your character or the scene is about. This is similar to throwing a curve ball in the scene and catching up with it later. That was a verbal mechanism; this is a physical one that involves the environ­ment. This scary move will escalate the play and discovery of the scene. At best, it heightens what the scene is about; at worst you'll create it as an incidental object in the scene and provide color to it.

Let's say you are in a scene and you are playing a drunken clown. The scene goes on for a while and you are wreaking havoc on some kid's birthday party. You boldly reach your hand out to grab some­thing from the air and have no idea what it is. You bring your hand back toward you but you still don't know what you are holding. You scare another kid with a threat and an insult and then take a swig off a liquor bottle. Ah, that's what that is in your hand. A fearless move on your part has allowed you to heighten the character and the scene. It might be that you already thought of creating a bottle, then you reach out for it. That's fine, and good improvisation, but I'm also inviting you to reach out without knowing what you are grabbing to put you in this wonderful but frightening state of discovery.

For added, extra-scary fun, try this at the top of a scene. When the lights come up on stage or someone says "go" in a workshop, reach your hand out into the environment as suggested before, and simultaneously say something. As always, this could be preconceived before the scene begins, but I am challenging you to do it without knowing, or instantaneously cancel your preconceived thought. This move will most assuredly snap you into a character energy that prob­ably never occurred to you. Don't worry about figuring out the object right away; just make that verbal initiation first and foremost. With practice, you will be able to initiate verbally and determine the object at the same time. It will feel like magic; thank goodness it's not.

This is especially useful if you have gotten into the rut of going to your environment at the top of a scene and then standing there silently, wondering what to say, or doing the opposite—having no environment at all in your improvisation and just standing there talking. Either of these unfortunate patterns can be broken with reaching for an object.