Who Does It Hurt?

"Analyze the basic conflict. Ask yourself, 'Who does it hurt?' That's your story."

~James Blish

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!

The Story You Should Be Focusing On

If you're looking for a book to help you learn the "How" of improv, there are dozens of them out there. If you are, instead, looking for the "What" of improv, you'll be hard pressed to find anything of worth, at least anything specifically designed for improvisation.

Let's take our first foray into the "What." We will start out by explaining what the "What" isn't: the "What" isn't the rules of improv; it's not telling you the mechanisms behind good improv. Instead, it focuses on the substance of what you're creating, the "stuff" of good improv. If the "How" tells you how to nail boards together, the "What" helps you design your Dream Home. It gives you the wherewithal to know how many bathrooms you want, where you want the bedrooms, and whether you want a crawlspace or a finished basement.  

Here is your first Guideline of What: 

Never mistake activity for story.

Too often we've witnessed weak improv actors stroll out onto stage after receiving a suggestion like, "shoes," and begin a scene where someone is shopping for shoes. "Do you have this in black?" one actor asks. Will his scene partner move the story forward by having some strange flashback involving black sneakers? Will he pique our interest by saying, sotto voce, "My wife loved black shoes..." Will he surreptitiously pass his fellow actor a note, saying (even if it is a cliché,) "The owl hoots at midnight?" No. He will say, "I'll check," rummage around a bit, and come back either saying "Yes we do," or "No we don't." 

Activity, not story.

"Doing something" is not enough; while it is a starting point, it must be used to launch us into story. We are here to be interesting, not funny. Shopping for shoes in and of itself is not interesting; we must make it so by building story. The only way we can do that is by letting go our fear and journey into the unknown. What do I mean by that? Let's dissect it. 

When we enter into an activity, we are doing something for the sake of doing it. Again, someone walking into a shoe store is not in and of itself a bad thing. Where we go after that initial offer is what counts.  

When we are fearful of the unknown,  

we fall back on the familiar, 

clutching it like a time-worn teddy bear to our bosom. We go shopping, we go to the doctor's, we have arguments that go nowhere, we sit in our imaginary living room, refusing to go out to the club in our shiny new suit. We become mundane. Mundane is not interesting. Mundane is the death of improv. 

What is interesting is the "tilt;" when we take the mundane and twist its nipples until they hurt. This does not mean we must go to the absurd, although that is a valid option. We simply have to chuck our fear and take that leap of faith, just like Indiana Jones while seeking the Grail. When we move past our fear and boldly go where no improviser has gone before (two nerd references in one paragraph! Score!) we then begin to craft a story. 

Story is the narrative. It's the tale we tell that pulls the audience in and wraps them around our little fingers. It starts with a kernel and build through struggle and conflict until it reaches a climax, providing the release. That's where the laughter comes from. Cheap laughter comes from the joke. We leave it to the stand-up comics to do that; we craft laughter from the telling of stories. Laughter is the result of tension and release. If you've ever watched a horror movie with a group of people you have seen the mechanism at work: tension is created when we see a character walking backwards through the dark woods, then when they bump into something and scream we laugh when it turns out to be their best friend (who will probably be eviscerated within the next two minutes.) 

Bear in mind: "struggle and conflict" does not mean fruitless argument. It means the putting up of roadblocks and hurdles and the subsequent overcoming of those impediments. Can good story be created from argument? Yes, but it takes a very skilled improvisor to keep it from slipping into the mundane. Audiences want to see your character changed by the end of the scene. If there is no change, then there was no story. They could have changed status, they could have achieved their goal (love, money, a really good pina colada,) they could have died. We fear change in real life; improv is not real life. Change is crucial. Change is not boring. 

Would you go to a movie, spend ten bucks for a ticket and twice as much for a bucket of popcorn, then be happy sitting in the dark watching some guy shopping for shoes? Would you watch "Inception" time and time again if Leonardo DiCaprio was sitting in his doctor's office reading "Hilights?" Think about it next time you dive into a scene. 

Create the interest; create the story.

Happy improvising!

How Powerful Choices Beat Questions

"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.