"The Rules of Improv;" "10 Things You Should Never Do in Improv;" "Cardinal Sins of Improv." We've all seen them, and they're crap. The magical characteristic of improv is its amorphous nature. Improv, unlike other forms of theatre, is unconstrained by rigid structural limitations.
Stage actors play within boundaries; Improv actors play with boundaries.
We will be dissecting the various assertions made by these various lists of rules along the way, starting with: Questions. Every list we've seen includes this "rule:" "Don't ask questions." Questions, they state with emphatic certitude, are bad.
It cannot be said questions by nature are bad. They typically make for weak theatre, but they are not in and of themselves "bad." What is bad is how and why people use questions.
Questions are a sign of fear, as put forth by Mick Napier in Improvise: Scene from the Inside Out. People ask questions when they do not have the courage, knowledge or capacity to move a scene forward. Eliminate the fear, say Napier, and the questions will fade.
But why are questions detrimental to good improvisational theatre? We ask questions in real life, don't we? Yes, we do. And real life is incredibly boring to a spectator.
Questions are time wasters. They are a rudimentary form of bridging; a refusal or unwillingness to move a scene in a constructive and entertaining direction. It's also rude to your scene partner. It places the onus on them to develop the scene by themselves, with you providing the Cattle Prod of Inquiry.
Instead of asking
questions, assume
the answer and
begin there.
We recently watched a video of a group's game of "New Choice." One player established some kind of cooking scene, and her partner walked onstage (wearing a "nyuk nyuk" wig in order to elicit giggles from the audience) and promptly said, "Do you realize you failed your potions exam?"
Watching the video we saw his partner stutter and babble in a frustrated manner. Not a strong improvisor to begin with, she found herself having to lift this scene off the ground without bending her legs, and without her partner lending a helping hand. Instead of making the concrete choice of assuming the answer and propelling the scene into the stratosphere, he left his partner having to scuffle her way through, "Yes, I know," and take the reins by herself.
Better to have assumed she knew and started with a strong (and potential-laden,) "You failed your potions exam!" She could then have explained how she was distracted in her studies by her evil roommate (prompting a flashback to those events,) she could have told how she had a cold and every time she sneezed she moved backward in time (an interesting one-person twist to "Forward/Reverse,) or any number of other interesting directions.
Instead we got, "Yes, I know." Yawn.
Make a powerful choice; make an interesting choice; make a supportive choice. And what should you do if your partner asks you a question on stage? Answer it as strongly as you can in a way that will move the scene forward. Then smack them upside the head after the show. Gently, of course; this is, after all, a learning process.
