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!

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 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!

How to Kill Your Scene In One Easy Step

There are few things more annoying while working an improv scene than to craft a character or create a reality out of thin air, only to have it bulldozed by a player who is either A) not playing attention, or B) not willing to give up control. Oh yeah, there's also C) they're looking to be "funny."

The importance of chivalry in improv simply cannot be emphasized enough.
   

One must respect the creation

of another and accept it and all

that goes with it, or you will 

never be a strong improviser.  

Fail to do so often enough and no one will want to play with you.  There is enough uncertainty built into the structure of improv without adding more to it.

So...when someone creates a character, acknowledge that character and build yours along with it.  It is of primary importance that you listen to everything that is happening on stage.  That bears repeating: listen to EVERYTHING that is happening on stage.  A good improv actor will drop clues as to who she is; if she comes out, assumes a lower status than another character and calls that character "Miss," then you would be right to assume that person may be a servant or caregiver.  To then try to endow that character as "Mother" would be inappropriate and dismissive of the groundwork already laid by your fellow actor.

Beware the improv actor who tries to control a scene at all costs; he will, without a doubt, twist your character and environment to suit his purposes.  If you start a scene by speaking in a "Yoda" voice and say, "Hmmm...Late you are!"  he will reply, "Now, Jeff, stop using that accent; it's not that good."  This is a fear response.  The actor in question does not like giving up control, so he will try to make the other actor seem "crazy," or "stupid."   

In order to dilute his 

fear of the unknown, 

he will deny the reality 

created by his fellow actor

 and insinuate his own 

reality onto the scene.  

This makes for poor, uninteresting improv scenes.  It also makes for fellow actors who will either not trust that actor, or will simply give up and let the fearful actor control all the scenes.  Audiences can sense choices made from the standpoint of fear, and they will not respect them.

Learn to let go.  If you have a gun and another character takes it from you, put your hands up and, if need be, allow yourself to get shot.  Don't pull another gun out of your pocket.  You created a reality, the other actor respected it.  They may have taken your gun, but they didn't point at it and call it a banana or a water pistol.  Be chivalrous.  Allow yourself to be changed.  The audience will appreciate it.

Happy improvising!