Advice and Guidelines for Improvisers

 

Talent

Why are some more talented than others? What does it take to pre­vail in improvisation? Should improvisation be pursued as a career?

What do you want from improvisation?

My first piece of advice is to be brutally honest with yourself about what you want. Ask yourself why you are improvising.

If you want to work in the cast of a professional improv theater company, say that, to yourself and others. If you want to be a film star, declare that. If you would like to improvise as a hobby, then have it be that. Too many people shroud themselves with false inten­tions when it comes to improvisation.

Improvisation has an artistic presumption that makes people think that it is wrong to use it as a tool for writing, acting, or to fur­ther a career. While in it, people think they should hold it purely as an artistic endeavor, when really, in the back of their minds, they are thinking of having a big career in professional theater, film, or televi­sion. Improvisers would get there quicker (whatever "there" is for them) if they would just be honest with what they want. Not only is that sort of falsity annoying and tacky, it is also a practical inhibitor.

Integrity is living up to what you declare, in an improv scene and in a life. Declare what you honestly want, and live that vision fearlessly.

If you do decide to improvise as a professional endeavor, know that it is just that: a professional endeavor. And like all professions, it takes time. Improvisation has tangible skill sets and indicators of progress.

It takes time to attain these skills and the amount of time it takes is different for everybody. But it at least takes years—years of experi­ence, either on stage or training or preferably both.

You may be the funniest thing on the block, but if you don't have the technical skill set to improvise with another person, that talent will be forever locked inside, held prisoner by the common improv­isation behavioral pitfalls that reside in every beginning improviser. Just one of those moves where you lose power could get you in your head and ruin your scene.

 

The Concept of Training

There's such a thing as too much training. If you move to a city like Chicago, New York, or Los Angeles and enter into the lovely world of improvisation, check yourself to make sure you are balancing practical performing experience with classes.

It is very easy to get swept up into the social and academic arenas and convince yourself that you're making progress. Time on stage is paramount, and if you don't have it there's only so far you will evolve as an improvisational actor. If you find yourself enrolling in your second year of improvisation class and have had limited per­forming experience, my suggestion is to not enroll in that class.

Take time off to assess your station in the improv arena. You will discover much and observe those around you in your situation with a more powerful, objective eye. Then your decision to take another workshop will be just that, a decision, as opposed to a weak reaction to your perception that taking another class is what you are sup­posed to do.

Taking time off will also help you absorb what you've learned. The improvisation training world is saturated with varying points of view and different theories, including my own. I believe that none are wrong and none are right: Every approach has helped someone at some time improve their work. That's the beauty of paying for the service of being taught information about improvisation: You get to choose what works for you. What doesn't work, assuredly, is attempting to absorb and execute all of those contradictory influ­ences in one fell swoop. It takes being selective and using only that which helps you. And often, determining what works for you is best achieved with an absence of any influence.

 

Men and Women

 

Angry Men

Some men think that being negative all the time—on stage or off—is novel and powerful. I am here to tell you that it is neither.

Sometimes men feel they need to roll their eyes, shrug, and knock down an idea to gain their position. What they are really expressing is fear.

If you are that guy who doesn't readily support another's idea, or slices ideas to bits before they even reach a stage, save yourself some time and stop your behavior, even if you have to fake it. Even if you have to pretend to be enthusiastically supportive against your better judgement, do it. Over time, if you are at all smart and talented, you will realize the value of that support and even begin to abhor your former behavior when you notice it in others.

Being distant, objective, and negative is dime-a-dozen behavior— a reaction to fear and a defense against doing real work.

And it is, above all, boring.

 

Crazy Ladies

A lot of women who enter improvisation believe that if they act a little batty both onstage and, more particularly, offstage, they will stand out. Eccentric attributes will set them apart and they will excel.

Don't be a crazy lady.

Be a strong woman instead.

Be polite and economical offstage, and relentless on stage. Let the crazy show up in the improvisation as characters.

 

Women versus Men

"Women aren't as funny as men." "Men bulldoze scenes." "Men type women into subservient domestic roles."

For women: If you find yourself dwelling on or reacting to any of these statements, give it up. It is fruitless and powerless. As a man, I sometimes find this a difficult conversation to approach, but I can at least make the following observations.

 

■ It is a power drain for women to give such beliefs any credence, especially if doing so affects their work on stage.

■ Men joke about women not being as funny and will continue to do so. Fair or not, they do and will.

■ Men don't really believe that women are not as funny, because they have enough examples of funny women that they admire
to disprove the notion.

■ No strong, funny woman improviser I've ever worked with gives any thought to any of those beliefs and hates when other women do.

■ If women are on a campaign to change male improviser behavior, they have about as great a chance as changing the behavior of the guy they are in a relationship with.

■ Men rarely go on stage thinking, "Hey, I'm going to screw over this woman and bulldoze her scene." Most often they go on stage with their own fears and baggage and look to support whoever they are on stage with in order for the scene to go well and to have a good experience.

■ Men are labeled as husbands as often as women are labeled as wives.

■ The weaker and more insecure the woman, the more likely she is to dwell on and react to such beliefs. Strong women improvisers are busy improvising with integrity, regardless of what is offered to them.

 

The Perfect Actor

Below is an excerpt from a web journal I wrote in 1996 while I was directing "Paradigm Lost," a Second City Mainstage show. I wrote it oneafternoon after a particularly trying rehearsal. I have left it word for word, harsh language and all, to reflect my mindset when I wrote it. It's a list of guidelines for an actor working on a sketch/improv show. I think it applies more broadly, though.

Shut the fuck up.

In rehearsals or notes, if you don't really really really have to say any­thing, then don't. Some people talk for the sake of talking. This comes from a space of rightness or need for affirmation or need to be perceived as vital and intelligent. If you don't have to talk, don't. Look at what you are about to say and ask yourself, "Is this really supportive to what is going on right now?" If it's not, say nothing. It's so easy to whittle away a rehearsal talking bullshit. Everyone knows that ninety-five percent of what is being said will not come to fruition, yet they do it and feel a false sense of productivity when they leave the rehearsal. I've been sucked into that waste-of-time abyss more times than I'm willing to admit.

 

Know what you're talking about.

If you have to talk, know what is being discussed right now, and have what you have to say be relevant to that and that only. I've wasted so much time as a director wrangling tangents and bringing them back to the point at hand. I'm pretty good at bringing it back to what's up, but I don't enjoy it and it usually pisses me off.

 

Make strong choices.

Fuck your fear. We want to see your power, not your fear. Nobody has time for your fear. When I direct, I assume competence, not inability. That's all a director wants from an improviser in this process. To take the powerful choices he or she creates, and utilize them in the show. If I, as director, must constantly spoon-feed and suggest and coddle the actor in regard to their ideas, lines, and char­acters, then there's a ninety percent chance that the person is coming from a huge space of insecurity in the first place. That's the problem right there, not the idea or character or anything. The more you approach a director or other actors in this needy manner, the more you will alienate yourself from the director's power and your own. When I teach, I expect insecurity; when I direct, I expect the opposite. If you find yourself in a show and you are afraid, then fake it. Do the first three things on this list and discover that the more you are perceived as powerful, the more powerful you actually become. When I teach I have room for insecure choices; when I direct I do not. Once you are proficient in this behavior, you will have the wel­come right to discuss your scene with me or another actor. The best thing you could say to me in notes is, "I'll make another choice and we'll see if it works."

 

Show up and be on time.

If something comes up, call. Really.

 

Don't be tired.

It's actually okay to be tired; most of us are when we work so hard on a show. It's even okay to say you're tired. Just don't act tired. Be someone who isn't tired. I've seen too many people say they're tired at the beginning of a rehearsal and then spend the next three hours proving it to everyone around them. Often, tired is an excuse for lazy or scared. If you find yourself saying "I'm really tired today," know that everyone is tired and that's a given and who cares and then get up on stage and be vital and engaging. Don't let tired be an excuse— nobody cares.

 

Don't read in rehearsal.

Don't read in rehearsal.

 

Don't talk about the show in bars.

If I don't believe that talking in rehearsal is very productive—then— think about it.

 

Try anything.

Be someone who will try anything. If you have a consideration about something a director asks you to do, speak that consideration and do it anyway. Be someone who says, "Sure, I'll try it." Sooooo many good ideas have gone to hell because an actor (or director, for that matter) judges an idea, talks it to death, and never tries it even once. It's so easy to be negative; you think you're being smart and insightful at the time, only to learn later that you're merely an asshole.

 

Eliminate these words from your vocabulary.

"Can't"—Oh yeah, I'll bet we can. A process is about what we can do; it's so easy and limiting to state that we can't. A powerful person finds possibility with an idea, not its limitations. Try anything.

"Should" and "ought to"—Use the word "could" instead. "Should" forces your suggestion on me; "could" offers me the gift of choice and opportunity.

 

Don't interrupt anyone at any time; if you do, apologize.

If you interrupt another, you are instantly telling them a couple of things:

 

■ What that person is saying has so little value that you didn't bother to listen.

■ You used the time while they were speaking as an opportunity to think about what you were going to say, which you think is right and more important.

 

Now what that person is thinking about after being interrupted is "He interrupted me," so they don't hear the thing you interrupted them with. Pretty effective communication, ay? As a director, I will promise to keep my eye on interrupting you if you keep your eye on interrupting me and others.

 

That was the original list. Here are some added things.

 

Don't lie down in a rehearsal.

Many people think it a harmless thing if they take a little snooze when they aren't doing anything in a rehearsal. The message you're sending is that you are uninterested in the development process of someone else's material, that you are bored and would rather take a nap. It makes people feel bad to be working while another actor is across the room sleeping.

 

Learn not to apologize before presenting your work.

A cast is asked to bring in an idea or a writing assignment to a par­ticular rehearsal; there is a slight apology before each idea the cast members are getting ready to present. They come in forms like:

 

"I'm sorry, I didn't have much time to work on this."

"This isn't working, but here it is."

"This is stupid, I had a hard time, but..."

"Before I present this, I just want you to know I hate it."

"You guys are going to hate this, but..."

 

It's very tempting to offer this sort of apology and I sympathize because it's very scary to offer an idea. Sometimes, the thought of being rejected or scoffed at is overwhelming, so you want to protect yourself by letting everyone know beforehand that you share their soon-to-be negative view. The reasons I'm suggesting getting over this behavior are:

 

■ It's a waste of time. It takes real time out of every rehearsal to wait for everyone's apologies.

■ It gives you permission to be mediocre. Every time you sit down to think of an idea or write something, you have the out that it is allowed to be mediocre because you are going to
apologize for how bad it is. What if the conversation were, "I'm going to create something that warrants no apology because it is good and I'm proud of it" and you wrote from that mindset? You would then give the idea the time it deserves and not be content until it was to your satisfaction.

■ It makes you look weak. If you apologize every time you present an idea to the director and the other ensemble members, then they will come to expect you to produce mediocre work.

 

Present your ideas proudly. They are your creation; you needn't apologize for them.

 

Work in the present, not the past

Some people, when asked to bring in an idea or writing for a show they are working on, drudge up material they worked on in an ear­lier show. I'm not hard and fast about this, but I do think it's a bad practice for an improviser to get into. Every rehearsal process has a collective, creative sensibility comprised of all of the actors and the director and the experiences and times that they live in. That's the marvel of creating ensemble sketch comedy: It comes from that ensemble's voice. Material created outside that process sticks out as foreign and contrived, not organic to that process. It also shows up as a crutch to the person bringing it in, suggesting that the ensemble member can't live up to the growth and challenges of that particular rehearsal process. Learn to create from within a process.

 

Don't meet as a group without the director.

You will screw up your show. 1 don't care if the person can't direct-dial, don't meet and discuss the show and the problem without the director. If this happens, there is no going back. It is the beginning of the end; the show will lose its power and will suffer on opening night or the next time it is performed. Learn to gently confront the director as an individual or a group. If there is a producer, meet with him or her. Know that discontent with a director or other ensemble members comes in waves, so give it a little time and see if the wave subsides. It might. If not, then confront; don't meet outside.

 

Ask permission to give another improviser a note.

If you really must give a fellow performer a note, ask their permis­sion first. "I noticed something in that last scene, would you like to hear it?" or "May I tell you something I observed last night?" Ask per­mission to give the information. Then, be okay if the answer is no. Be okay if they are not in the space to receive your information. Reflect on times when people have offered you notes and how it made you feel. Respect that space and don't take it personally.

 

Don't give other improvisers notes.

 

If you must give a note, don't, don't, don't do it during a show.

 

This almost always infuriates the recipient. Wait until an appropriate time, like never. Or at least until the director has offered notes; the director may cover your issue.

Jump on stage with enthusiasm.

If a director says, "Let's get on stage," do it with power and enthu­siasm and speed. Why? Because the sluggish, "Do we have to? I'm tired" approach sends a message of indifference and affects your work. It says that everything you are about to do on stage you will approach with less than your best. It will permeate the work you do with the precious little time you have on the stage, where ninety per­cent of the work that will appear on opening night happens.

 

Sit near others.

What the hell?? Yes. In the rehearsal room, sit near the other ensemble members, not apart. Survey the room, and if you find that you are sitting noticeably farther away from the group than they are to each other, move in closer and sit with the group. This sounds so stupid, but it isn't. Alienation comes in many forms. Sitting far away is a psychological tactic of being the objectifier, the guy (usually) who is "with" the ensemble, but who will also take on the "responsibility" of objectifying it. Often the culprit is not even openly aware that he has this behavior. The effects are subtle but powerful. Let the director be the eye of the group, the one who is objective. Your responsibility is to work powerfully as an individual within an ensemble. So be with the ensemble at every opportunity you can. Sit with them.

 

Shower.