The Elements of Improv - "Show Don't Tell" - Episode 103

This episode builds on our discussion of story and how to avoid talking about events offstage or in the past.

Elements of Improv - "Story," Episode 102

In episode 2 of our new series, "The Elements of Improv" we discuss basic guidelines which will help you tell more interesting and entertaining stores in your scenes. Happy improvising!

Elements of Improv - "Whose Line," Episode 101

Enjoy the first episode of our new series, "The Elements of Improv"! In this show we discuss how to play the game "Whose Line" more effectively. Enjoy!

Improv Mantra #26

In Which We Take a Short Break for Self-Promotion

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Fear Manifests Nothingness

I first have to make a confession: when I first said in a discussion with Karen, "Fear manifests nothingness," I had an inkling I was making words up, but they still seemed to say what I was trying to get across. That being said, the Cambridge Dictionary does, in fact, define nothingness as, "a state or place where nothing is present, or where nothing important is present" (emphasis mine).

Bridging, blocking, babbling, asking unproductive questions; these are all examples of ways we express our fear on stage. If we look at the issue with a critical eye, we can see that a large part of our fear is fear of change.

Fear of change creates resistance, and this resistance presents itself in the forms mentioned above, among others. When we give into our fear and resist change, we are unlikely to create anything of value in our scenes. Acceptance (that old familiar, "Yes, and..." attitude) manifests story, scenes, and characters that move everything forward in a productive and cooperative manner. Fear grinds things to a halt, manifesting nothingness.

An extreme example of fear of change involves an improviser being faced with their own character's imminent death on stage (we've all been in that position ourselves.) An actor who gives into their fear of change will do everything in their power to avoid that death, causing the scene to lose any power it might otherwise have had. 

"Fear of change creates resistance"

An improviser who gives into and accepts their character's death has a powerful effect on the story; will the audience be appalled, saddened, amused, or happy at the death of the character? If you've created a strong character and set a believable environment, you have the ability to pull the audience along with you and elicit whatever response you want. Don't let your fear take that power away from you.

Die, already.

Happy improvising!

Small Talk On a Big Stage

We do our best to see as many improv groups perform as possible. First, it's common courtesy to support your fellow artists, and second, it's important to observe others in the act of creating art so you can better critique and improve your own work.

As we watched, one common thread began to emerge among some of the groups: the practice of engaging in non-productive small talk in scenes.

We all need to be conservative with our time and energy on stage; we don't have the luxury of wasting time that might otherwise be going toward advancing or expanding our story. On too many occasions, however, we've witnessed actors engaging in conversations that neither added information nor pushed the story forward. They were chatting.

"Pay closer attention
to what is

being said on stage"

It must have seemed to them as if they were being productive; they were talking about stuff, but that stuff was trivial and unimportant. It wasn't building character or environment, it wasn't driving the plot, and it wasn't creating conflict. At times it seemed as if there was conflict, but in reality it was only argument.

Dialogue must be purposeful. Ask yourself this question: if I were watching a TV show or movie, or reading a book with dialogue like this, would it hold my interest? Would I watch or read it again? Would I recommend it to my friends? If the answer is "No," then pay closer attention to what is being said on stage.

Dialogue should:

• Reveal character
• Create environment
• Drive the story (plot) forward
• Create/enhance conflict

But what if my character likes small talk? Well, that would technically fall under "reveal character," but be careful you aren't using that as an excuse. Non-purposeful dialogue is a fear reaction, a sneaky form of bridging. Make sure that character also provides dialogue that serves a purpose, otherwise you're wasting everyone's time. The audience deserves to hear what's behind the small talk. Delve deeper and release what's inside.

One easy way to push yourself to use purposeful dialogue is to create a strong character. If the character is well defined, the dialogue should come naturally. Once you have set your environment, put you character in it with all your energy, and trust what the character has to say. Listen to yourself, and if you find yourself babbling, adjust.

Trust that you have something useful and important to say. If you don't, then cede the focus to someone who does, and retake the focus when you do have something purposeful to say. Silence is not a sin; it's a choice that is as purposeful as saying something out loud.

Happy improvising!

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Intelligent Design

The following is an excerpt from our book, 

"The 5 Elements of Improv":

Intelligence affects a number of aspects of a character’s expression. A highly intelligent character will speak and act in a very different fashion than one of low intelligence. Characters will display their intelligence through how they speak, what they say, and the choices they make.

Avoid the mistake of assuming that because you have chosen a doctor as your character’s profession that they must, by default, be of high intelligence. We once (very briefly) had a doctor who was not only an exceptionally poor listener, but was also quite uninformed in basic matters of medicine and nutrition. When called on his lack of knowledge, he became rude and combative. The moral of the story is this: there are doctors (lawyers, police officers, architects, politicians, professors, etc) who graduated at the bottom of their class. Embrace this fact, and enjoy playing intelligence (as well as any other characteristic) against what is assumed for a particular profession. The audience will enjoy seeing the dichotomy, and you will have more fun building a scene with a character who is not defined by a cookie-cutter mentality.

"The moral of the story is this: there are doctors (lawyers, police officers, architects, politicians, professors, etc) who graduated at the bottom of their class."

A note of caution regarding the portrayal of low intelligence characters: there is a tendency to cause these characters to talk and act like useless idiots, good only for a few laughs. To do so is to waste an opportunity and is a cheap way to avoid responsibility for driving the scene forward and supporting your partner. The internal and external lives of low-intelligence people are just as rich and vibrant as those of other intelligence levels. They necessarily manifest themselves differently, as the components of their lives are likely (though not always) different from those of smarter people. This could, in fact, apply to any intelligence level. The point to take away from this is to be careful not to fall into the stereotypical behavior of any aspect of your character. Play to the top of your character’s intelligence; stupid people don’t know they’re stupid. Explore the infinite possibilities available to you, and surprise the audience.

Happy improvising!

The Problem with "Games"

At the crux of the ongoing conflict between the Long-Form and Short-Form camps of improv is the deceptively simple term, "game".

Those in the long-form group have a tendency to look down their noses at their short-form comrades, basing their opinions on fundamental misconceptions such as, "The terms “long-form improv” and “short-form improv”...tend to imply different relationships between participants. Short-form improv tends to involve small teams (or more purely, individual actors) competing against each other to produce a sole victor. This is to say that in short-form improv, the relationships between actors (or teams) are immediately oppositional and ultimately competitive. On the other hand, long-form improv tends to involve a single team of actors working for each other to produce a victorious whole. In long-form improv, the relationships between the actors are immediately supportive and ultimately cooperative." (Hauk, Long-Form Improv)*

There is a small cadre of long-form enthusiasts in the United States that seems to get their information regarding short-form from Whose Line Is It, Anyway? What they don't appear to understand is that, while WLIIA? is certainly entertaining, it is not an accurate example of short-form improv. It is, in fact, a hybrid form of improv designed exclusively for television and is no more a real-world example of short-form improv than Chopped is of home cooking.

"Whose Line Is It, Anyway...is not an accurate example of short-form improv."

Here's the gist of it: the term games simply refers to a scenic form. Long-formers might call this a gimmick, and in doing so are intending it to be derisive. Merriam-Webster, however, defines "gimmick" as, "an ingenious and usually new scheme or angle". Games do not make for bad improv; bad improv makes for bad improv, and can be found with equal ease in both short- and long-form.

Games are templates for driving scenes. They provide a format that can be quite simple or insanely complex. The point is they give the scene its basic structure, with the actor's scene work supplying the details. Long-form formats such as the Harold are little more than an extended series of scenes and games loosely (if at all) tied together by common themes. They are templates, just as games are. In fact, most of what we refer to as long-form is in reality a collection of short-form; it's rare to see true long form unless you go to see performers like TJ and Dave.

Both forms of improv employ games, but not all improv must use games. Short-form can and is performed with little to no use of games, just as long-form is often performed with heavy reliance on games. 

It's doubtful that Renaissance artists spent their time ridiculing the art form of other artists. "What? You're a sculptor? Ha! It's easy to make something look human if you can use all three dimensions. Try using oil paints...they're flat, and they never dry!"

When improvisers waste their time putting down their fellow improvisers they sound petty and show themselves to be insecure and unknowledgeable. We should instead be learning from one another and reveling in the joy improv brings to us all.

Happy improvising!

*To set the record straight, Ben Hauk could not be more wrong about short-form improv. He apparently derives his view of the form from nothing other than Whose Line  and ComedySportz. The joke's on him, though: in neither format is the competition real; it's simply a veneer put on for the audience's sake.

Getting There is (More Than) Half the Fun

Art, by its very nature, tends to be process oriented. People, on the other hand, tend to be goal oriented. Can the two be synthesized into a cohesive, synergistic whole, a gestalt which satisfies both the performer and the audience?

Damn right they can.

Difficulties arise when striving for the goal overshadows the process of moving toward that goal. In a new millennium governed by pervasive technology, humans have been conditioned to believe that anything worth having should be within reach within seconds. We have become creatures of instant gratification, able to achieve a goal as easily as swiping right. What is being lost in the process is the capacity to take pleasure in the process, to savor the journey, to enjoy the ride.

Our waning ability to see process as an intrinsically valuable experience manifests itself in a number of ways in improvisational theatre. 

One example is the Case of the Improviser Who Takes Control! When goal outweighs process, there will often arise an actor of strong personality who grabs the reins of a scene and drives it in the direction they deem necessary to reach what they perceive as the goal. Fellow actors will very often give tacit permission for this to happen, interpreting the situation as "They must know what they're doing," instead of "This person doesn't understand how improv works."

A second example is The Mysterious Widget Salesman! This is the performer who, when a quest arises during a scene ("We need this thing...") they will appear out of nowhere ringing the doorbell and providing what was needed, thus canceling out the quest and neutering the story.

"The process of 

getting there 

is where the 

real enjoyment is."

Finally, people concerned with "getting it right" will tend to give up, especially in a guessing game. Instead of looking at the game as a journey toward the answer, they feel disappointment and personal anguish at not getting the correct answer right away. They throw their hands up, shake their head, and tell themselves and everyone else they can't do it. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy that will cheapen the game and annoy those actors who understand the process. The fun is in the journey to the answer; arriving at the answer simply means the game is over.  

As artists we must understand that while a goal is necessary (it helps to know where you're going, or at least why), the process of getting there is where the real enjoyment is. Story lies in the journey, whether it's to reach Oz, to procure the Lost Ark, or to destroy Voldemort. 

The audience doesn't always need to know the goal, but they must see the journey.

Happy improvising!

Always Move Forward, Even When Going Back

The following is an excerpt from our book, 

"The 5 Elements of Improv":

Improvisation has the inherent advantage of not being time-bound; we can move freely backward and forward, leaping through the time stream in the wink of an eye. With this freedom comes the danger of losing the progressive aspect of our story; no matter how we move through subjective time, our story must always move forward.

While time in the real world is perceived as being linear, in the arts it is highly malleable, subject to the whims of author, actor and improviser alike. We may start at point M, jump forward to point T one scene later, then flash all the way back to point B without causing so much as a ripple in the fabric of Space/Time. 

"Inexperienced improvisers 

tend to get themselves stuck 

in a linear time-stream." 

They have great difficulty tearing themselves free from the steady progression of a scene and jumping about in time. It’s almost as if they fear the repercussions of violating the linear model, or perhaps they are afraid of getting “lost” in time, never to find their way home again. To combat this fear, we must always keep in mind that we are in control of the process, no matter how “seat-of-the-pants” it might look or feel to the audience.

Feel free to move in terms of space, as well. So many improvisers find themselves rooted to the spot and fail to take advantage of scene changes to move the story forward. Perhaps since they have invested energy in setting the environment, they are reluctant to move on. If you find you're stuck in this position, uproot yourself; remember that no matter how realistic your environment may seem, it’s all in your head. Let it go. Embrace the freedom that saying, “Meanwhile, at the Blue Parrot Lounge,” affords you (we’ll discuss this in more detail in Chapter 4.) Audiences will become bored if you stay in one location too long (unless, of course, you have woven an especially enthralling narrative; if this is the case, they’ll stay with you until the end.) 

There are many excellent games and exercises which help fearful actors let go of their temporal and spacial anchors and roam freely through Space and Time. For now, though, let's explore the meaning of the title of this section, “Always Move Forward, Even When Going Back.” While it sounds self-contradictory, in reality it makes a great deal of sense.

"Ideally, when we are 

playing a scene we have 

some goal, whether 

we start the scene with it 

or discover it along the way." 

As long as we continually move toward that goal, we will keep the audience with us. On the other hand, if we stray too far off the path, we will lose the audience. It is important, therefore, that we always move toward that goal; everything we do of consequence in a scene (and there should be little, if anything, that isn’t) needs to drive us in the direction of that goal. If Hamlet strays from his path of vengeance, if the Phantom of the Opera gets bored with Christine, if Starbuck gives up his job as Rainmaker, then the audience is cheated and will walk out, either physically or, at the very least, mentally. We will have once again failed to fulfill our contract.

As we bounce backward and forward from one time to another we must always move the underlying narrative toward our goal, even if that goal changes during the course of the scene. Whether or not the audience is clear as to what that goal is (and sometimes they are not until the very point we reach it) is immaterial; they will know in their gut if we are wandering aimlessly instead of remaining laser-focused.

A note regarding flashbacks before we conclude this section: don’t be afraid to start a flashback (or a flashforward, for that matter) if you feel the urge. As with anything else in a scene, be certain that it adds to the narrative. A flashback simply for the purpose of getting in a cheap joke or pun is irresponsible. You insult your audience, your scene partner, and yourself by doing so. They can, however, be used to great advantage in setting up or explaining components of your scene: an ancestor getting cursed by a Gypsy, a wedding night promise coming back to haunt you, aliens landing 20 years ago and going into hibernation under your wine cellar. Don’t be afraid to use them (they can be great fun!) but always make sure they work with the scene’s progress, not against it.

No matter how you play with time in your scenes, keep the story moving forward. If the audience senses stagnation, they will abandon your story.

Happy improvising!

The Youthful Magic of Play

A 30-second promotional video I created for our Taylor Theater shows

6 Benefits of Improv

Like a Chainsaw in a Barbershop

The best comedies all have one thing in common: the characters who populate the story take everything that happens absolutely seriously.  Whether they are busting Zuul, attempting to land a pilot-less airplane, or questing for the Holy Grail, they do so with a mindset of absolute sober sincerity. Whether the comedy in question is the erudite pomposity of Noel Coward or the physical absurdity of the Three Stooges, it's all played with a metaphorical straight face; no mugging allowed.

If the characters in our comedies were to react in a manner unbefitting the situations in which they found themselves, the illusion would be broken and the suspension of disbelief would be shattered. For a comedy to truly succeed, it is imperative that the characters react to and interact with their own reality, no matter how ridiculous or insane, in a consistent and logical fashion.

Watching an improv scene unfold with the suggestion of "hair," we saw a customer enter a barbershop and sit down. A bumbling barber enters the scene. After examining his customer's hair for a moment, the barber grabs a chainsaw and starts it up. So far, nothing is necessarily going off track. The customer, however, does not react as someone would when faced with a murderous chainsaw-wielding barber. Instead, he turns his head calmly and comments on how nice the barber's "new chainsaw" is. 

Everything then goes downhill precipitously.

Countless appropriate reactions could have presented themselves; perhaps a blood-curdling scream from the terrified customer, followed by a hearty laugh from the barber as he gets rid of the chainsaw and explains it's a joke he plays on all his new customers. Not exactly brilliant theater, but appropriate within the context of the platform they created. 

Instead we watch as the barber fumbles about for a moment, suggests that perhaps he shouldn't use the chainsaw, and then lets it disappear from his hands, to evaporate into the ether. The scene meanders on for a bit, but nothing of note is accomplished. There is no miming of actual barber shop behaviors, no discernible characters, and no adherence to the environment created. In fact, there is so little environment created that there is little if anything to adhere to.

The point to be made here is to create your reality, stay true to the reality you've just created, and behave within that environment as characters naturally would. Will all characters behave as normal humans would in all situations? Of course not.

Not all characters

are

"normal" humans.

They must, however, behave in accordance with the character construct you adopt in order for the audience to accept your characters as "real" within the context of the scene. The audience may not consciously sense when an actor is not being true to the reality of the scene, but you can be sure they will sense it subconsciously, and that fact will color their perception of the scene, causing them to 

lose focus and drift.

The best comedy is played in all seriousness, from every insane minute of Monty Python to every childlike moment of Pee-Wee Herman's quest to recover his bike. Strive for that mindset, be true to the reality you create, and the humor with come of its own accord. 

Happy improvising!

Extroversion for Introverts

As teaching artists, Karen and I work with groups of kids from kindergarten through high school. Many are at-risk, and many have never experienced live theatre in any of its diverse forms. We take particular delight in seeing those children who are timid, hovering just beyond the threshold of participation, become drawn into the circle and infuse themselves into the spirit of the performance gestalt (not often I get to use the word, "gestalt").

All that's just a fancy way of saying, "We love seeing introverted kids lower their defenses and become part of the fun." People are always skeptical when we tell them that we are extreme introverts. Speaking for myself, I would rather be home in my chair reading a book that out among groups of people. 

"How can you be an introvert and perform on stage?"

~they ask.

Simple: all you have to be is a Situation-Specific Extrovert (SSE). A SSE is one who can be comfortable in a public performance situation because that person is aware of the rules, relationships and boundaries intrinsic to that situation. I know, when I'm on stage, that I am in control of (my part in) the experience and can trust those around me. My discomfort is allayed and I can function, as long as I know my world will soon return to what, for me, is normal.

This does not make me special; all it means is that I have learned over the years how to cope if I wish to do what it is I do.

The magic of improvisational theatre is that, with proper guidance, anyone can learn how to be a SSE. A primary element of improvisation is that of support; everyone involved, if they are doing it right, is cooperating and supporting everyone else. In stark contrast to stand-up comedy, the improv audience is rooting for the performers success. It's a case of "Let us laugh with you" instead of, "Go ahead...make me laugh!"  

This basic fact is what makes improv an
ideal environment for the introvert

Introverts by their nature tend not to seek the spotlight in social situations. Improv's inherent acceptance and support allows the introvert to feel secure enough to open up parts of their personality  they normally would not feel comfortable enough to share. 

Children and adults alike benefit from the positive atmosphere of improvisational theatre. The longer a person is involved, the more they are able to leave the confines of their shell and venture out comfortably into the world at large. As they learn to sense the boundaries and expectations of potentially distressing scenarios, they will become more and more capable of not only coping with those scenarios, but in feeling strong and in control while doing so.

Happy improvising!

A Question of Story

Re-reading the very first post on this blog, How Powerful Choices Beat Questions, I have the strong sense that I left the reader with the impression that I believe all questions are to be avoided.  "It cannot be said questions by nature are bad," I stated, but then I did not go on to explain when and how they can be "not bad".

It is undeniable that,
in most instances,
statements
are more productive than
questions.

Statements give more information and save time. There will be times, however, when a question can propel a scene in clear direction as well as, or better than, a statement might.

The key is to use the better form of question. Questions come in two general categories: open-ended and closed-ended. Closed-ended questions are those that limit responses to a very narrow range of answers, typically of the "yes/no" variety. They are polarizing, and give little useful information. Open-ended questions are those that require a more detailed response, one that can't be encapsulated by "yes" or "no".

When I was a corporate trainer, I would use the following example to illustrate the difference between the two types of questions. I would choose one member of the class and ask them to think of a favorite vacation spot. I would then ask them a series of yes/no questions to try and guess which location they were thinking of. It would go something like this:

"Is it Paris?"

"No."
"Is it Toronto?"
"No."
"Is it Mumbai?"
"No."

...and so on, until they have clearly gotten the point that I'm not about to guess it easily. I would then change up the question and ask, 

"What's your favorite vacation spot?"
"Boston."

...and voila! I had my answer in a single shot, and hopefully some of the class members would take this lesson with them out into the field and make better use of their questions.

In the world of improv,
where time is a precious
commodity, we cannot afford
 to lavishly waste time asking
unproductive questions. 

We must train ourselves so that when we do ask those infrequent questions, we make them productively open-ended. By doing so we add information to the scene and incorporate it with already-existing elements, moving us forward and advancing our story.

Happy improvising!

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: “Whose Line”

We make every effort to attend performances by local improv groups and watch online videos of companies all around the globe. It’s important from a learning perspective to do so; you can’t properly self-assess if you have no experience of what’s going on outside your field of vision.

In what will be a series of articles, we will be looking at some popular improv games and offering recommendations on how best to play them. Bear in mind, there are as many variations to games as there are groups; what we present here is simply an analysis of what brings out the best in the core games. It is a best practice to learn the game as it was designed before making changes; learn how to play by the rules, and you will learn when and how to break those rules.

The game of “Whose Line” goes many other names, such as “Blind Line” and “Pockets”. Whatever name you use, how you play it will decide how successful you are.

To play “Whose Line”, it is first necessary to have audience members write sentences on slips of paper. How many depends on how many actors will be in your scene. As a two-player group, we get four sentences each; usually three or four per player is enough. A suggestion is given by the audience and a scene is played. During the scene a player will take a sentence out of their pocket, read it aloud and incorporate it into the scene. Here is where things get fuzzy.

A natural inclination when first playing “Whose Line” is to preface the reading of the sentence either by saying, “As my grandmother used to say,” or “Let me read you something from the manual,” and then reading the line.  

While you may get a small laugh from doing so, you have missed the point of the game. 

The point is to use the sentences as dialogue, and then skillfully justify and incorporate it into your scene, moving it forward in a potentially new and interesting direction.

Refusing to use the sentence as dialogue is a fear reaction; it negates an actor’s responsibility for taking ownership of the line. It’s safe to place the words into the mouth of someone else, and it allows the scene to continue unchanged until it sinks to the level of boredom. 

Change is what makes scenes interesting; to refuse to change is to refuse to entertain.

“Whose Line” can be considered a game of “mini tilts”. A tilt is by definition something that pushes a scene into a new trajectory. It is necessary from a storytelling aspect to have tilts; they keep the story fresh and interesting. Every audience sentence has the potential to provide a tilt, but only if it is used in an active, not passive, manner.

We recently performed at a Moose lodge, and one of our lines was “Every start is a new beginning.” This line alone sent us, as a hotel maid and guest, spiraling into a love affair that would not have happened if not for the audience’s sentence. If we had read it as a quote from someone not present on stage, it may have gotten a chuckle from the audience, but the scene would have stayed where it was and been far less interesting.

It’s scary to have another person put words in your mouth. It’s challenging to have to incorporate a strange line into your scene immediately. It’s tough to avoid using the “I’m crazy” explanation when a bizarre sentence comes up. But then again, this is why we do what we do. To do anything less is to give into fear. 

Happy improvising!

Kurt Vonnegut's Rules for Writing

In his book Bagombo Snuff Box, Kurt Vonnegut listed these eight rules for writing short fiction. With little effort, they apply just as easily to the creation of an improvisation scenes:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Note that Vonnegut himself admits that rules are meant to be broken, but the application of these principles will undoubtedly make for more interesting improv. 

Happy improvising!