Take Care of Yourself First.

If the first thought in your head when you approach an improv scene; "Support your partner" and that's what you hold to be most impor­tant, then I ask...

What are you supporting them with?

Are you supporting them with thoughts about supporting them? That's very nice but not very supportive. It's so easy to say, "Support your partner." I've heard it for years: "Make your partner look good." But what the hell does it mean? Do you say nice things to them, do you uber-agree, do you pat them on the head, offer them a chair, rub their shoulders? No, the most supportive thing you can do is get over your pasty self and selfishly make a strong choice in the scene. Then you are supporting your partner with your power, and not your fear.

If you want to support your partner in an improv scene, give them the gift of your choice. I only feel supported by my partners if they make a move, if they do something. If they just stand there and look at me thinking about supporting me, I am absolutely unsupported. The more powerful a choice they make, the more I am supported.

"Support your partner" is a two-penny phrase that quite often makes improvisers weak. It's in the realm of "Isn't improvisation a nice nice fantasy land where everyone is magical and nice and supportive?"

That's all nice. But it makes for improvisation where people con­stantly acquiesce their power and never make a move.

I'll say it again.

You want to support your partner? Do something now.

They'll feel supported, believe me. They will also be grateful. No one likes weak pandering, especially your audience.

Two people making strong choices is nothing but supportive.

After a great scene, improvisers don't feel wonderful because they were in the scene thinking the words "Support my partner." They were in the space they created, listening to their partner and fil­tering every word or action response through the character or point of view.

Another way you can support your partner is to keep your own choice intact once you've made it. Adhere to and heighten the char­acter or point of view that you have created. You do neither yourself nor your partner good if you create something and then switch up, bail, change your mind out of fear, or drop an initiation you've made in the scene. Stick to the powerful choice you have created and you will most definitely support your partner.

 

Take Care of Your Partner.

"What about my partner's function in the scene, how can I support that?"

God bless. What about your partner's creation?

First of all, nobody's function arrives by magic. It is the result of the choices made by all parties on stage. Your partner's function is all that they initiate and all that they respond to in response to your choices.

Both functions are mutually carved through a series of (hope­fully) powerful choices.

Points of view arrive as a result of these choices, and thus form what the scene is about, or the relationship, or the game of the scene, all of which are quite often the same things.

For example, as a result of your choices (or choices you have both made) in the scene, your partner's character is angry at your character (let's say your character is laughing at him). You can support your partner's point of view by making him angrier, thereby adding fuel to the fire of your partner's point of view and helping him to heighten his character. Most of the time though, you are doing this by simultaneously heightening your own point of view (your character laughs at everything your partner's char­acter does).

The more your character laughs at everything his character does, the angrier your partner's character becomes. That is the relationship of this scene. That is what this scene is about. That is the game of this scene. It was arrived at through individual choices recognized in self and partner, and heightened because both parties are aware of what each created. This is improv support.

 

Listening to Your Partner.

Listen.

(To me now.)

Another one of the many things I've been told that is paramount to goodimprovisation is listening. Now surely I'm not going to refutethat, am I?

"Listening to your partner on stage has got to be important in good improvisation—it just has to be."

Well it is, I guess, but in my opinion merely listening has little value. You have to know how to listen. Why do we listen? Is it to be polite?

When I was told to listen in an improv scene I just had to ask myself why. The answer seems obvious at first, but is it? Why is just listening important? I wasn't sure, but what I was sure about was merely being told to listen wasn't very helpful to me in improvisa­tion. It was very passive and got me in my head. I certainly learned to shut up and listen to my partner, and I guess it was noble, but it rendered me passive and motionless on stage. It was another oppor­tunity to think, to get in my head. Listening didn't help me at first.

After a while, after I learned for myself to create a character or point of view to arm myself in a scene, listening became a different thing.

I listened so that I could respond to operative information my partners supplied for me and filter it through my own character in the scene. 1 listened so it would help shape what I was going to do and say in the scene. Ah, it came back to me again. Listening gave me another tool, allowed me more ammunition to pour into what I had created.

Truly, merely listening is not enough. I listen to gain valuable opportunities to say or do something relevant through my character's voice, when I respond. That's why I listen.

Oh God, so selfish again. Isn't listening an altruistic act and can't it remain as such? Don't you listen because it's nice and it's give-and-take and give-and-take is good in improv and all of that?

Sure, but what does it leave me? Like it or not, improvisation is choices made by individuals, and individuals need to know what to do. Merely listening tells me nothing of what I have to do. Listening as a way to respond to given information through my character is a whole different thing.

 

What If I Am the Partner?

That is to say, what if I am the one not initiating, but responding in the scene?

I've talked a lot about just doing something at the top of the scene and making a strong initiation right off the top without thinking and catching up with it later. But what if someone beats me to it? Half the time that will happen. How do I respond and keep my own thing together in the scene?

Well, it's damn near the same thing as initiating the scene in the first place, with a couple more tools to boot.

If your partner initiates the scene, presumably with words, before you do, do this:

First of all, protect yourself in the scene even though you say no words. Even though you don't initiate, snap into a character or point of view or at least an emotional disposition at the very top, right when or slightly before the lights come up. Then you have your armor for the scene, even if your partner literally initiates the content with words. Now, when you respond to your partner, you already have something to respond through. Once again, not respond to, but respond through. And what that something is, is whatever you want it to be. If you do this, you've already won half the battle in responding in an improv scene: You've taken care of yourself first, regardless of whether you were the first to say something in the scene.

The other fifty percent of the battle in responding in an improv scene is what most people worry one hundred percent about:

"What words do I use when I respond in an improv scene?"

Simple but hard.

 

Use words that acknowledge your partner's initiation and adhere to your point of view or character.

 

Here's what that means.

Let's say your partner cheerfully initiates the line, "This letter is for you!" Let's also say that at the top of the scene you have snapped into a bored disposition. A response that would forward the scene might be an indifferent shrug and the words, "Put it on the table, I'll open it later." This response adheres to the point of view you've already created silently while also acknowledging your partner's ini­tiation. It keeps you strong and allows you to now filter everything that happens in the scene through the space of "bored" or "indif­ferent." Another possible response, maintaining "bored," might be a tired, sarcastic, "Oh, let me open it, it's probably the sweepstakes," or "Great, more bills," or "Probably just another residual check."

I provide all of these examples to allow you to realize you have many options in acknowledgement of the reality of your partners sug­gestion, and that once again, it's not as important what you say as long as you filter it through your point of view. With your words, you can agree to open the letter or not, who cares? As long as you acknowledge the reality of the letter, and the words come from the bored space you created at the top of the scene, the rest doesn't really matter.

Some might say that to not open the letter is to reject your partner's suggestion or that it's blocking the scene. I say no. It depends on what the character would do. Some characters wouldn't open the letter. Others would. In some cases, heightening of char­acter and thereby heightening of relationship is achieved to a greater degree by a character's decision not to do something as opposed to doing it.

This may be difficult to grasp because of the concept of yes: "Say yes to everything." I say that's fine if you want to live in the magical fantasy land of "Improv is a love-fest and everything is as good as pie." But a good, a good, a good improviser will let the character do the talking, even if the talking happens to be about the refusal to act on something.

The most important thing, in my opinion, in responding in an improv scene is to respond out of your character's voice and acknowledge your partner's initiation as reality: agreeing with the circumstances your partner declares, but not feeling like you have to say yessy yes to everything they say.

What happens if you find yourself without a character at the top of the scene?

If you find that when the lights come up, you have not made a choice of what your particular deal is before your partner initiates, get something quick.

I mean quick.

Otherwise, you risk getting into a measured state and finding yourself in your head. Say something and snap into something. I'm not talking frenetic, I'm just saying you have a greater chance of finding power for yourself if you respond quickly, any way you can.

Improvisers who have made a strong character choice at the top of a scene can really take their time before responding. For example, the same bored character from above, getting the initiation "This letter's for you," could slowly turn, gaze, roll his eyes, look away, look back, sigh, and slowly say, "Great, another letter from my dear mother." His response is not fear-and-confusion-filled silence, it's offering the choice of silence before responding.

Unfortunately, most silence before a response is not choice in improvisation. It's someone that has no game and they are silent out of fear and not power. So if you find yourself in that space, I suggest responding quickly with something just to snap you out of your head a bit. You may do okay with no initial choice and four seconds of silence before you talk, but in my book you increase your chances of a good scene if you respond and acknowledge quickly.

I'm often asked in class, "What if both my partner and I have ini­tiated at the same time—who responds?" If you are in the rare scene where that occurs, follow through with what you have created, hold on to it, and then respond. It is even more rare that both of you would respond at the same moment. If you were unable to hear your partner's initiation because you were both speaking at the same time, restate what you initiated.

Here's another little trick in responding to an initiation in an improv scene. Take on the other person's character. Respond as the character or point of view that they have created.

What? Sounds like cheating.

No, not at all.

Let's say your partner initiates a scene slumped over and in a gravelly voice holds out his hand and says, "Got a quarter?" Obviously, a homeless person wanting money. Ninety percent of improvisers would take on the persona of a businessperson passing by and go with the obvious choice of being indignant and say, "Get a job" or whatever. Imagine another choice: In the same voice and same posture you immediately respond with "No, do you?" Now you have a scene between two homeless people. You are already in an aligned space.

Another example: In a British accent your partner initiates, "Nice don't you think?" Without a blink, you respond, also in a high-status British dialect, "So lovely. Tea?" Now you have a scene with two British people. The audience is not thinking, "That guy stole the other guy's character." No, they are thinking, "Oh, a scene between two British people." It's a great way to immediately acknowledge your partner's suggestion and forward the scene. Your partner doesn't mind, either. It's affirming to have someone take on your energy and it feels good to immediately snap into the same agreed-upon space of being. You don't want to do that every time you do a scene, but it's a great thing when the right context (which you'll know when you see it) comes up. Taking on your partner's character could also include his wants and needs, movement, and rhythms.

 

My idea of supporting your partner in improvisation is not waiting, but choosing and doing. Maintain and heighten your choice and you will support your partner in the beginning, in the middle, and throughout the scene.

Context and Scenes

So let's assume you succeeded in creating a strong space for yourself at the top of the scene and so has your partner.

The beginning of the scene was met with play and now you have two points of view or characters on stage even if they're the same or not. You have the makings of a good scene.

Now what?

I believe I've already mentioned that you'll want to hold on to whatever it is that you've created, for sure. Now you just have to play it for all it's worth. You have all the tools before you, to up your chances.

What does playing it mean? It means making more of that which you have already created. It means realizing the context that has been created, playing within that context, and all the while making sur­ prising choices.

Context is everything. Not just in improvisation, but in every­thing. Let's take a big look at context.

 

Context

Context is everything in everything. What the—?

It is the frame for all great works and the unspoken credo of everyday living. Let me explain. Human beings cannot function unless they are provided context for living. Human beings cannot observe unless provided context. Human beings cannot enjoy unless provided context. All of life has many contexts. All good movies, books, plays, or songs have context. All good improvisation has con­text. An agreed-upon road map for living. Context affects all things.

Am I big on context?

You bet.

Context allows a human being to know what to expect. It is nec­essary in life and in a scene. In life, surprises within a context become theatrical; in improvisation, surprises within a context usu­ally result in laughter. Let's talk about contexts in life, first.

A school is an institution for learning. Children go there daily. There are teachers and books and chalkboards and chairs and we all know that. We all know what to expect from the context of school. Add a clown. A clown comes to school. It is still school, but it is a special day where a clown is coming to a classroom to entertain the kids. It is still within the context of school: a bit surprising and the­atrical but still, a mostly unsurprising school event. Add a gun, instead. A kid bringing a gun to school and shooting classmates is tragic and surprising within the context of school, and is nationwide news, thus theatrical. Add a lot of guns. After years of school shoot­ings the overall context of what could happen at school broadens to include the possibility of kids getting shot; the event of a school shooting diminishes. The tenth school shooting gets less coverage than the first. You might even hear someone say, after learning of the second school shooting in a week, "That's horrible, but I'm not sur­prised." What they are saying is, "My context for what it means to go to school has come to include the everyday possibility of a shooting. Therefore, while still tragic, it is not as much of an event, so it does not really surprise me."

Here is an example of how context can change:

1. A businessman is walking down a city street in a tan overcoat and carrying a briefcase. Normal within a city street context, not very eventful. Nobody pays attention to him and there are a thousand others just like him.

 

2. A businessman in the same attire is, instead, jogging down the city street. Not as common, but not an event either. Not an event because we assume his context for him. He's probably late or running for a cab or bus. Normal, given that context. The businessman himself adheres to the context with a kind of jog, as opposed to a full-out sprint, because he knows the sprint will take him into the embarrassing realm of inappropriate business behavior in a city. He will adhere to that appropriate context no matter how late he is.

 

3. A businessman is sprinting pretty fast, each time hiking his knees well above his waistline, and trotting in a straight line. He becomes theater. He looks silly, given the context of appropriate behavior for a businessman on a city street. People look at him and snicker. He is behaving out of context.

 

4. The same businessman, in the same exact action, is in the musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Theatrical because it is a musical, but certainly not an inappropriate social context because he is acting within the confines of being in a musical theatre production.

 

5. Take any of the above scenarios (except the musical) and add that it is 100° outside. The businessman would seem inappropriate in this context because he is wearing a coat. He might get a couple of glances.

 

Here's another example: A man in sweatpants and sweatshirt is standing by the corner of a building and screaming at the top of his lungs. You are about to come upon him and walk off the sidewalk into the street to avoid him. You are slightly scared because you assess him as a crazy street person. As you walk into the street you see a woman in sweat pants and sweatshirt just around the corner. She was previously hidden by part of the building but now she is exposed as you enter the street. The woman is crying and angry. Ah-ha, not a crazy guy. It's a guy yelling at his wife or girlfriend and they are wearing sweat pants because they were both out on a jog. The context shifts, and so do you. Take the same guy screaming, take away the woman, and put the guy on stage. Now you have a ranting monologue. Context truly is everything. Context truly changes everything.

"What are people wearing to the party?¹' is an attempt to adhere to an appropriate social context. You don't want to look "out of place." "Should we bring a bottle of wine to the dinner?" is not so much asking out of your intense desire to bring a bottle of wine, as it is to be socially appropriate in the dinner invitation context.

In the office context, you wear office attire, except perhaps on Friday. In the Friday context, you dress a bit more casually. Not too wild, but more casual. At the office Halloween party, you'd better dress in a costume. In that context, formal or casual business attire would be inappropriate; a costume is necessary. Not dressing that way would be socially incorrect, given the context of the event.

Humans assess contexts all day long without even thinking about it and act accordingly. Context is their road map for living.

People themselves have contexts also, day to day, and in life in general. "He's a whiner" or "She's always got something nice to say" are contexts humans assign themselves or others.

If the nicest guy at work is suddenly a jerk, we say, "He's not himself today." He's acting out of sorts; he's behaving outside of his general life context. Even day to day, if you are asked, "How are you?" and you respond with, "I'm tired and I feel a little sick," you declare the context for yourself that day. You will fulfill that context all day long, having everything you say and do adhere to it. You will make sure that your road map for the day is adhered to in every way. Even if you feel not sick and wide awake one hour after your decla­ration, quite often you will fake it just to remain within your prede­fined "I don't feel well today" context. You will act sick and tired all day just to be true to how you said you felt.

Now let's bring context to the realm of entertainment. Using my standby Wizard of Oz example, what are some of its contexts? One is its color. In Kansas, we see black and white film, in Oz, color. That's a context declaration for the movie that must never be violated, and it isn't. Another context is the yellow brick road. It's a literal contex­tual road map for the characters and the audience. We expect them to stay on it, and when they don't there's trouble. A third is desire. Dorothy desires to go home. She meets the Scarecrow, who desires a brain, and the Tin Man, who desires a heart. After that contextual declaration, it would indeed be tragic if when Dorothy meets the Lion, the Lion is complacent and desires nothing. But we are not dis­appointed, for indeed, just as the film declared, the Lion desires courage. A final great overall context for The Wizard of Oz is that it was all a dream. A retroactive announcement at the end of the movie informs the audience that all they have seen is Dorothy's dream. Nothing violated the dream aspect in Oz, and the color context even enhanced the dreamlike quality.

 

Scenes

 

Okay, great.

And please God what does this have to do with improvising scenes?

Well, let's go to scenes in improv games, first. A game many know is Freeze Tag, or Switch, as some call it. If you don't know it, it's a staple improv game where two people step forward from the group and start a scene. A player from the group yells, "Freeze!" The two people in the scene freeze in position, and the player who yelled "Freezer tags one of the frozen players out, takes their exact physical position, and initiates a whole new scene with a different location and characters, justifying the frozen physical positions. The first scene of Freeze Tag usually begins with the suggestion of a line of dialogue provided by the audience.

So what is the context of Freeze Tag? It's "how the game is played," as explained in the previous paragraph. The audience is informed how the game works in an introduction. Now they know the context, the road map, what they are supposed to enjoy.

We first say something like, "We're going to improvise a game for you now." Why announce that first? You want to let the audience know that you are in the realm, the context of, making it up versus performing something that you wrote and rehearsed. That context lets the audience know you may be improvisationally unfinished and reckless. Then you explain the game. After the audience knows the context of the game—how to play it—you get a line from them to start the scene. Using their suggestion ensures the context of improvisation. While playing Freeze Tag, a player doesn't yell "Freeze!" and then continue the previous scene or yell "Freeze!" and pop in, ignore the previous scene's physical position, and begin another scene. That would be in violation of the declared context. (When players do make these moves in Freeze Tag, the audience may react negatively or seem confused because of the violation, as may the other players on stage).

Think of any game you can and you will find that it has a con­text, and that its context is usually announced before the game begins.

Improvisation itself has contexts. In long-form improvisation you take a single suggestion and improvise for about half an hour. We don't violate that by taking a suggestion and improvising for two minutes and then taking another suggestion. Within long-form improvisation there are other structured contexts. We call them new forms. Time is a context to describe the art form of improvisation. There is short form and long form. (Bizarrely, it's the only art form which categorizes itself in length of time.)

Let's journey on into the purely improvised scene.

Do purely improvised scenes have contexts? Yes, yes. Every single one of them.

Here's a sample improv scene I just made up. It is a man and a woman with the following dialogue:

 

Man: I can't wait to go to the birthday party.

Woman: Yeah, Jimmy is really gonna be surprised.

Man: Everyone's gonna be there.

Woman: I got him a gift certificate from the Gap.

Man: That's great. He really deserves a party after all his hard work. Woman: I couldn't agree more.

 

What is the context of this stupid little scene?

At this point, one might say that the context is talking about going to a party.

If I were in this improv scene, I would stay in the realm of talking about things that were about the party. If I violate that, I violate the scene.

Hmmm. So is the context of a scene merely what people are talking about?

Some people think so. Some people think that what improvisers are talking about is what the scene is about and what the entire con­text is. But wait, I forgot about the how of the scene. I forgot to mention that both of them are saying their lines extremely sarcastically and laugh every once in awhile.

 

Man: (raising an eyebrow) I can't wait to go to the birthday party.

Woman: (snickering) Yeah, Jimmy is really gonna be surprised.

Man: (indicating around him) Everyone's gonna be there.

Woman: (laughing) I got him a gift certificate from the Gap.

Man: (sarcastic) That's great. He really deserves a party after all his haaaard wooork.

Woman: (sighing/raising eyebrow) I couldn't agree more.

 

With this information, the context of the scene shifts entirely. How you do something in an improv scene is vital to establishing its context. The context is no longer the literal meaning of the words being said, nor is that what the scene is about. It is about sarcasm. Given this context, the scene opens up. It allows for other things to be talked about, as long as they remain in the land of sarcasm. The next line could be:

 

Man: (sneering) Speaking of parties, working with you is a party every day.

Woman: (smirking) Yeah. Oh, that must be why you always show up so fashionably late.

 

The sarcasm is the context, plain and simple. The words can open up, as long as they carry the declared cadence of sarcasm. In this scene, you declare to the audience that the road map for the scene is that all things will be sarcastic.

Oh, I forgot to mention that during this scene, both the man and the woman are in the middle of performing surgery in an operating room. And they are doing it without really looking at the patient while randomly throwing his organs on the floor. Now with the words themselves, how they are said, and the scene's physical activity, the context becomes: being snitty and gossipy is more impor­ tant than high-stakes operation. This new context opens the scene up even more.

So if I'm the guy in the scene above, what do I do next? What do I play?

Once I know the context of the scene, I'm golden. Things that are about being gossipy while performing my job with indifference. Infinite possibilities: new people to talk about, another patient, not scrub­bing before the next surgery, hosing down the operating table for the next patient while talking about so-and-so's kids, etc. As long as I stay in that context, I'm fine. The audience knows the road map of the scene—its context—and is only thinking, "Do more of that bad surgery sarcastic thing."

As I said at the beginning of this chapter, though, it's not good enough for an improviser to merely remain within and maintain a context. No, you must declare the context for the audience, and then surprise from within that context. Let's go back to The Wizard of Oz (I'm so sorry).

It is not sufficient to land Dorothy in Oz and then spend two hours merely showing different shots of her traversing a brick road alone with Toto. Even if you were to add shots of Oz becoming closer and closer, it would be boring and uneventful. The context remains the same (Dorothy's desire to go home and travelling the yellow road to get there), but to maintain it is just plain dull. It's merely maintaining its context. So what does The Wizard of Oz do? Surprises from within the context: witches, flying monkeys, and poppy fields. Dorothy's great, but she doesn't hold up by herself for long. She has to meet a Scarecrow, a Tin Man, and a frightened Lion. And these three don't all want a brain, no, only one of them. They must all want something, but it would be less interesting in this par­ticular context for them to all want the same thing. Surprise from within: The trees talk and they are throwing apples at us. Never vio­late the context but do surprise us.

In improvisation, those surprises usually result in your audi­ence's laughter. Once the audience understands your road map for the scene, make choices that surprise them.

In the sample improv scene, if the man and woman merely sar­castically repeated over and over again that they were going to the party while performing surgery, the scene may or may not hold up. There's a better chance, though, that it will run out of steam. So how do you surprise? You talk about other things and perform other physical activities inappropriate to an operating room. You build sarcastic to condescending and to just plain hateful. You open up the scene this way; you broaden the elements of the mutually declared context. Create your own flying monkeys. Surprise the audience with your choices.

Abbott and Costello can't use the same mistaken pronoun for every baseball player in "Who's on First"—they must open it up to other names and other mistaken identities.

Even in an improv game, where the context is predefined and announced, we rely on the intelligence of the players to surprise the audience and each other with their choices.

In improvisation, maintaining is not good enough for an effec­tive scene; improvisers must constantly bring new elements to the context they have created.

Another scene example: Let's say the lights come up on Tom and Bill.

 

Tom: (clearly paranoid) I-I-I think we sh-sh-should get outta h-here.

 

Get out of where? Who cares —it's the first line. It's more important that he says something and how he said it: paranoid and stuttery. That demeanor becomes his context for that moment. He must own it.

 

Bill: (in a strong, gruff voice) Nonsense, just reach your hand out.

 

Where are they? Who cares —it's the second line. More important thatthe second guy has taken care of himself with the point of view of strong and confident. Reach his hand out where? Who cares? It's lowhe plays it that will get him through the scene. What's their relationship? Oh, it's a paranoid guy and a confident guy together. The labelof their relationship is unimportant now; it will probably show up in a much more deft fashion later than if forced by one of them at op of the scene. Relax.

 

Tom:(still paranoid, but reaching out) I-I'm af-f-fraid.

 

Golden. What? Golden because he retained his point of view and uttered. He told the audience, his partner, and himself that when be said the first line, in the way he said it, he literally knew what he was doing. He proved it when he did it the second time. When you do something twice in improvisation, you establish a pattern.

 

Bill: Books don't bite, kid. It's not a gator!

 

This guy established a pattern, too. A pattern of mentoring and confidence. These two are right on track.

 

Tom: B-But there's people ar-r-round.

Bill: Of course there's people in a library, now grab the damn book!

 

(Tom is doing fine; his words are filtered through the paranoia and stuttering. Bill decides to clarify the location. Fine, but what's more important is that he continues to play his gruff confidence. We really know he's okay in the scene when he demands, "Now grab the damn book!" because he restores his earlier demand in the scene.

 

Tom: B-But D-Dad, I...

Bill: No son of mine is going to be scared of a little learning, now pick it up!

 

Tom establishes himself as the son, broadening the context to include the label of the relationship. Now he can filter being in a father/son relationship through the more important overall context, his paranoia and fear. Bill played a great response. He used Tom's label of Father/Son to interrupt Tom (which is what Bill's character would do) and further demand something of him with stern confi­dence. The context of this scene is intact and it has broadened. It's not about the literal words anymore. These characters can say nearly anything as long as they retain their respective dispositions.

 

Tom: (hesitantly picks a book and looks at the title)"H-How to C-C-C-Command Author-r-r-ity."

Bill: (screaming quickly) Read it now!

 

Still on track, these two. Tom knows that in improv, even if you have a negative disposition about something, it's probably better to do the thing asked of you and keep your negative opinion about doing it. It just propels the scene. (An exception to this would be a character whose declared context at the top of the scene is that he will not do things.) Tom's choice for title of the book was not a random reference. It was entirely in line with his paranoid context. A good choice, the title suggests the exact opposite of his capabilities. The title was surprising from within the context of the scene. Bill surprised us with his extreme volume and abruptness. We knew him to be confident and gruff, but he startled us with just how much he was so.

So at this point in this scene, what are these two improvisers thinking? I would imagine that they are, in a sort of nonconscious way, thinking:

 

Tom: I must demonstrate more ways to be paranoid and stutter.

Bill: I must be more demanding, confident, and gruff.

 

Things that are about the point of view. Surprising things. Yes.

Since the context of the scene is set, they are probably thinking these thoughts in a sort of super-alert conscious/not-conscious/sub­conscious way.

Tom and Bill are in the middle of a decent scene, with a lot of room for growth. If two improvisers are in that kind of scene, here's what they are probably not thinking:

 

· "I'd better not ask a question."

· "What's my who, what, where.¹¹

· "I'd better not talk about the past."

· "I'd better not say no."

· "I'd better not create conflict."

· “I'd better create conflict.

 

You get my hateful point. Good improvisation isn't thinking aboutthose things. It's finding your individual deal with another's individual deal and realizing a common context and surprising from within it. Plain and simple.

Common Problems

Over the years, I've noticed common things improvisers do when they give up power in an improv scene. Improvisers are (more or less) human beings and human beings have behavioral patterns. Sometimes these patterns help in improvisation; sometimes they do not. 1 would like to discuss a few and you may decide whether they apply to you. These are not rules.

These are individual problems that sometimes show up in indi­vidual improvisers. Some of them may apply to you and some of them may not. If they apply to you, great. If they don't, think no more about them and have a good time improvising.

 

Too Much Exposition

 

At the top of the scene, an improviser spills the beans with a big line of exposition: "I'm glad you, my brother, are here because we mustwash the car before mother and father arrive at the apartment here noon to discuss my getting fired from my factory job."

Some improvisers love to provide bulky exposition at the topof a scene. They think they need the safety of that construct to improvise the scene. A lot of this comes from being told at some point to "establish the who, what, and where in the first three lines of the scene." Nowadays, that fashion of exposition reads really stale to an audience and puts an unneeded burden on the scene. The audience knows that people don't talk like that, and it is dis­concerting to them.

If it is absolutely important to you to have exposition at the top of an improv scene, dole it out gracefully, a little at a time. If, how­ever, you make attacking the scene with a powerful declaration more important, you will find that the exposition you do provide will be backed up with a more substantial point of view and will be more deftly placed in the scene. It will be coming from a more powerful and organic place.

 

Talking Too Much

This is a problem I have, so I'm very aware of it. It's the "I will keep talking until 1 find something that works" thing. It's easy to fix once you're aware of it.

Quite often improvisers with this problem subconsciously use the words "I mean" to allow themselves to keep talking.

 

Improviser: I just don't think you should visit your brother, I mean, every time you visit him something bad happens, I mean, you remember the last time you visited him, I mean, when he started calling you names, I mean, I think you should just stay home.

 

When the words "I mean" show up often, it usually means that improvisers are searching for what they mean. They keep talking untilthey find it.

Here's how to find out if you talk too much when you improvise. Make a conscious choice, in a class or on stage, to say one short sentence at a time. Choose that context for yourself ahead of time. If, when you are improvising in that context, you have a need to talk more. or if you feel stifled by just saying a short sentence, there's a good chance that you've unconsciously conditioned yourself to talk morethan you need to.

If you discover that you are one of these improvisers, practice improvising one sentence and not speaking until your partner responds. Put a period after your sentences and then shut the hell up. You will solve your problem quickly if you do this a few times. Then you will notice that when you do talk more, it is because of a choice and not a consequence of having conditioned yourself to keep talking.

It is interesting that people don't really know they are talking too much. They're too busy talking to realize how much they are talking. Ah, that I could give the gift of potential energy to improvisers who have multitudes of kinetic energy.

Imagine the above example this way:

 

I just don't think you should visit your brother.

Hold.

Hold.

Hold.

Feel the power.

Hold.

Wait.

Strong.

Hold.

 

Potential energy. Don't let the air out of creation by talking so much.

 

Justifying

Justifying goes hand in hand with the above two examples. Beginning improvisers do it all the time. What is it? It is when you make an initiation and then justify why you said or did that initia­tion. You do or say something and then soon after explain why you did that. It's tricky and subjective.

A blatant example of justifying:

 

Cop A: That street lamp is out.

Cop B: Yeah, whatever.

Cop A: Well, it's really dark.

Cop B: So what?

Cop A: It's just weird, I mean, every time we walk the beat together you act indifferent to me. I...

 

The last line is the justification, and like everything, whether or not it's a problem depends on how it's said and when it is said. I would imagine in this example, the justification is a consequence of fear on the part of the improviser playing Cop A. In this case, he wigged out at the indifference of the second improviser's character and resorted to making an assessment of the scene. First with, "It's just weird," meaning, "I as the improviser am confused so I will assess that the situation is weird because it's the only way I can pro­tect myself."

Then comes the "I mean," which we've already discussed. Then comes the justification, "Every time we walk the beat together you act indifferent to me." This is an attempt to explain why Cop B is behaving the way she is. It is too scary for some improvisers to just allow the other improviser to be in the scene, so they have to justify a situation or assess someone's behavior.

The "I..." is there because quite often, after a justification such as this, the improviser will continue talking.

I placed the justification in this scene where it is on purpose. That is, quite often, justifications come after the second or third exchange in the scene. That's where a weaker improviser will become uncomfortable with the scene and want to dilute the mys­tery by answering the question, "Why are we behaving like this?" It very much out of fear; an adult, left-brain need to apply logic and answers to the mystery of the behavior of the scene.

Almost always the improviser feels a little icky after such moments and the audience feels the power loss, but neither the performer nor the audience knows why. The reason that it causes a drop in the scene is because the play of the scene is explained and not allowed to just be. It would be like either Abbott or Costello turning to the audience and saying, "In case you didn't realize it, we are using pronouns in the place of baseball players' names." That would be a drag because it explains why the behavior is happening, as opposed to letting us enjoy that it is happening. We want to enjoy the confusion in "Who's on First," not have it explained to us.

In my example, it would be different if the first sentence of the scene were, "Every time we walk the beat you seem indifferent to me." It would be different because out of the gate, the declared behavior would be accusatory, which could be played like any­thing else. It becomes a justification if it is presented later in the scene to explain why previous behavior in the scene has been exhibited.

Another very common example of justification in improvisation is the calling-someone-crazy thing. It happens in a scene where someone is exhibiting behavior that the other person can't figure out. The scene goes on for a bit (probably unfunnily), and the confused improviser blurts out something like, "Well, you're just crazy."

Ultimate justification.

I don't understand your improvisation behavior (and I probably haven't created any powerful choice for myself either), therefore I am going to accuse you of being crazy. I'm going to justify your behavior, explain why you are behaving that way. You must be crazy. It hap­pens a lot.

It's ironic because in improvisation we hope for crazy. We want elevated theatrical absurd behavior; we just don't want it called out.

It's sometimes difficult to determine whether you justify when you improvise, but here is a clue to help you out.

If you are improvising, and around the third beat you notice that you say a long sentence and then feel a little weird, there's a good chance that was the justification. If it then feels kinda fake to get back into the scene, there's a greater chance it was one. (Imagine trying to resume "Who's on First?" after having called out that someone is mistaking baseball players' names for pronouns.)

If you've noticed that you do that, you've achieved the first step in rectifying justifying. Now, the next time you improvise you will know it's likely that a justification might come up in the second or third exchange. When you feel it coming (don't worry, you will feel it) do anything but blurt that line out. I rarely tell someone not to do something, but it's about the only way to get through this improvisa-tional block. Instead of saying that line, hold it back in silence, even if it takes four seconds of near stuttering. Then think of your last line the last line you said, and restate. Say it again in a slightly different way. This trick will train you not only to not justify, but also to hold on to the power of your first declaration, your point of view. So, in the cop example:

 

Cop A: That street lamp is out.

Cop B: Yeah, whatever.

Cop A: Well, it's really dark.

Cop B: So what?

(Pause. Hang on.)

Cop A: It's so dark, I can't even see.

 

The first time you do this you will feel the value, and justifica­tion will leave your improvisation soon after.

There are a slew of words and phrases in justification land that I have noticed throughout the years. In many of the following cases, if the lines were said with any strong deal behind them, they would be perfectly fine. I have noticed, however, that ninety-nine percent of the time, they are said with nothing behind them and in a kind of pleading, weak cadence.

Here are some of the more common examples.

 

First Day

This is my first day of being a mechanic, what do you do?

 

First day at the bank, first day at the racetrack, first day of col­lege, all explain why the behavior that follows will be incompetent and uninformed. It's an apology even before the scene starts.

 

First Time

This is my first time in a hot air balloon

 

Same as first day, first time describes why I will be confused or incompetent.

 

Every Time WelYou

Every time we come to the park, you fight with me.

 

Usually offered as the second or third exchange in a scene.

 

I Love/I Hate

I love working in a factory.

or

I hate ice cream.

 

This line is usually spoken right out of the gate, after a moment of confused silence, and is a desperate attempt to justify a suggestion by an audience. It also often sounds sophomoric, almost child or caveman-like.

 

This Is The Best _____ Ever

This is the best Groundhog Day ever.

 

Usually spoken in the middle of a troubled scene and used in order to justify half-hearted good-feeling prior behavior.

 

Is Fun

Flying kites is tun.

 

Things that are confusing to improvisers often become "fun" for them.

It is almost a plea for the audience to have fun while they are watching the improviser not have fun saying something is fun.

Listen.

"Raking leaves is fun!" (Said with no character and little emotion other than the improviser's desperate attempt to act like he/she is having fun.)

"Working in a factory is fun!" (Said after a long silence that fol­lows the suggestion of "Factory!" as a location.)

"Flying kites is fun!"

No. It really isn't.

What I'm hoping you don't read into my spewing about justifica­tion is that you'd better not say the words and phrases I've listed above. What I do hope you get is that these words and phrases are my observations of the patterns created through justifying in improvisation. By being on the lookout for them when you impro­vise or observe improvisation, you will learn to avoid them.

 

Pausing

 

Two improvisers who haven't taken care of themselves at the top of the scene will often get into a measured, "pause before you say a line" kind of scene with the following pace:

 

Improviser A: What's up? (pause, pause, pause, pause, two, three, four)

Improviser B: Not much. (Pause, pause, pause, pause, two, three, four)

Improviser A: So... (Pause, pause, pause, pause, two, three, four)

 

This goes on forever. The funny (but unfortunately not) thing about it is that most of the time the improvisers are not even aware of the tremendous silence between their lines. That's because they are thinking so hard.

So hard.

Thinking about what to do and say and what not to say and do and—you know.

If you find yourself in this mode, or are fortunate enough to have someone tell you, or if you just notice that your scenes are unfunny and drag on a lot, then do this:

Make a game out of not letting yourself have any pauses when you improvise.

Know, going into class or rehearsal or a show, that in your scene you will make a game out of responding immediately after your partner has said a line. This game will throw you out of your head in a good way and remind you that it is more important that you say something now than what you say.

Remember that the good scenes you have done, the scenes that were magical, probably didn't have a pause quality going on; rather, they had a feeling of rapid fire, even if they were slow scenes.

"Is this to say that I should never have pauses between any of my lines, then?"

No, again. If a powerful improviser makes a choice of pausing before lines at the top or very near the top of a scene, then that becomes that improviser's deal and it's fine. It's pauses as a consequence of fear, when an improviser is thinking, that this condition plies to.

 

Bailing on a Point of View

 

It's so tempting and so easy to shift your point of view in an improv scene, and ninety-nine percent of the time it pulls the rug out from underneath the scene.

It takes a while for improvisers to learn that they can go longer with a point of view, character, emotional state, and so on than they think they can. Improvisers make a choice at the top of a scene and then judge their own creation and attempt to change their mind. If they don't get laughs right away or other affirmation from their audi­ence, they are sometimes quick to throw their whole bloody idea away.

There is a particular moment in improvisation, a threshold improvisers reach, when they must decide to pursue or abandon an idea they have created. Experienced improvisers have learned not to freak out when that uncomfortable threshold arises, but to take a breath and persevere.

Penetrating through those fear thresholds and sustaining your creation will reap you greater benefits on the other side. It takes guts and experience to hold on to your own vision, on stage and off. We're so conditioned to change our minds if something doesn't work out immediately that we bring this behavior on stage. In our contract with the audience to make more of the truth we have created, we must sustain our visions and creations regardless of how afraid we feel in the moment.

A tidy way to practice holding on when you feel like shifting is to restate your claim. I'll explain.

 

Improviser A: I don't feel well.

Improviser B: Well, you're going to school anyway.

Improviser A: Yeah, but I don't feel well.

Improviser B: Get your coat on.

 

It's at this point in the scene where Improviser A has to decide whether to hang on or shift. The "I don't feel well" thing isn't cutting it. A lot of improvisers might give in and respond:

 

Improviser B: Get your coat on.

Improviser A: Okay. I have a math test.

 

Or whatever. It's the "Okay" that signals you've changed your mind in the scene and dilutes that which you have already created. In those moments you want to restate your position and up the ante:

 

Improviser B: Get your coat on.

Improviser A: I think I'm dying. Yes, I'm definitely going to die.

 

You can go to school or not but you must hit that beat hard with your point of view and persevere. If you feel like bailing in an improv scene hit it even harder, instead. After a while, those moments won't be as scary and it will become second nature for you to get through that fear threshold.

Some might say that by holding on to "sick," Improviser A is blocking and resisting the course of the scene. I say, not if that's what the scene is about from the get-go. It would be a far greater violation to shift what has already been declared as true: that Improviser A doesn't feel well.

 

The above are some common issues I've noticed improvisers share. If you can first identify them and then go through some growing pains making alterations, you will end up on the other side.3 stronger, more powerful (and funnier) performer.