Improv Myth #2: Suggestions Matter

Can you think of any other art form where the artist gives the audience any degree of control?

Painters, musicians, filmmakers, sculptors, writers and actors set out to follow a vision.  Their vision.  Even if one is commissioned, one usually takes that as a sign their prior work was appreciated, so you’d be expected to come up with a variation on that theme.  (Really, how many more Frank Gehry buildings can we commission at this point?)

Somewhere along the line, we let the suggestion screw with our heads.  Beginning improvisers, especially, will take a suggestion literally.  An audience member says “goats,” and the team becomes a bunch of goats.  Is that fun?  Maybe.  Whenever I take a suggestion literally, I feel like an idiotic dancing bear.

The only reason our improvising forefathers took suggestions was to demonstrate that what they were doing was truly made up.  And still, every time someone sees improv for the first time, they ask, “How much of that did you write?”

Way back in the day, Second City would actually huddle up during intermission to discuss scenes they were planning to do.  In one case, an audience member shouted “dog” as the suggestion and a performer had enough time to go home and bring his own dog to the theater.  That’s not improv, that’s a drive-thru order.

The suggestion only has as much weight as we give it.  In some cases, you deliberately elevate the suggestion to absurd heights.  (Take the Invocation, for example.)  Most teams pay homage at the beginning of the show… then abandon it for greener pastures.  My favorite teams incorporate the suggestion at their leisure.  If someone suggests “spatula,” we don’t need to see ten people on stage flipping pancakes.  The scene could be anywhere, involving any characters.  If you choose to directly reference a spatula, so be it.  But merely mentioning the spatula is not a toll you have to pay to begin your show.

When I coach, I want my players to treat the suggestion as though they have synesthesia.  Those people assign flavors or colors or musicality to words.  We all have some measure of this.  You probably have a different reaction to the words “wet” and “moist.”  As many women have told me, “moist” makes their skin crawl.  (Similar judgments fall against words like “tits” and “panties.”  Women generally prefer “boobs” and “underwear.”)

When an audience shouts “sex,” and they will, how will you take that?  Will you start having improv-sex with your teammates?  Will you form a giant penis?  Or will you think about what “sex” means?  It is an incredibly loaded word.  It conjures memories and hopes, joy and pain, embarrassment and pride.  I’d love it if “sex” ended up being the subtext of a first scene.  Or if it was the endgame of the entire show.  Simply by saying “sex,” the audience will be primed to see it in places it may not be.  It’s like calling your movie “Saving Private Ryan.”  You expect they’re eventually going to get around to saving Private Ryan.  But it’s the journey and the characters that matter more than that brief moment of the film.

You are not under an obligation to get a suggestion.  TJ and Dave don’t.  Mick Napier shows nearly outright disdain for the idea of giving any weight to the suggestion.  But if you do get a suggestion, it should influence you somehow.  That’s the contract you make with the audience when you begin a suggestion-driven show.  Just remember you control how it affects you.

There are times you may get a suggestion you don’t know.  I once had a show when the audience member shouted “caltrop.”  No one on my team knew what the hell that was*, so we just jumped into our show with a guess or assumption about it.  It was strangely liberating.  Maybe we were doing the Caltrop Show.  Maybe we weren’t.  But we were at least trying to do whatever the hell “caltrop” made us think of.

Audiences like giving suggestions.  It makes them feel like they made the show happen.  We know that’s not true.  But the illusion is the point.

The next time you get a suggestion, let it wash over you.  Don’t let it pull you out to sea.

See Improv Myth #1 here.

* A caltrop is a small antipersonnel weapon made so a sharp point always aims up.  Caltrops were used to slow the advance of horses, war elephants, and human troops.  Now you know.

Improv Myth #1: Don’t Be Negative

Coaches hate negative scenes.  In a recent show of mine, a coach singled out a few of my scenes and suggested they were “too negative.”  But I absolutely disagree.  There’s nothing wrong with being negative, as long as the scene progresses.

In the first scene, I was a hillbilly talking to my friend about how much I hated the government.  My friend agreed with me and said the government had confiscated the bucket he used to live in.  Do you see a problem with this scene?

In real life, people do bond over shared hatred.  Look no further than the very beginning of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back.”

Oh, my, god. Becky, look at her butt.
It is so big. *scoff* She looks like,
one of those rap guys’ girlfriends.
But, you know, who understands those rap guys? *scoff*
They only talk to her, because,
she looks like a total prostitute, ‘kay?
I mean, her butt, is just so big.
I can’t believe it’s just so round, it’s like,
out there, I mean – gross. Look!
She’s just so … black!

Just two girls hating on a butt.  That works!  We often get the note that our characters “didn’t connect” in a scene.  Becky and her friend are totally on the same page about the girl’s butt.  My hillbilly friend and I were on the same page about the government.  A rant against a common foe can be just as illuminating as a tea party where the characters talk about what they love.

My coach said he wanted me to “care about something.”  Hating something is caring.  And clearly, I cared about my friend and was angered when he was mistreated.

In a second scene, I was on a double date with a woman, her friend and an orangutan.  It had previously been established that the orangutan was in love with the woman I was supposed to be dating.  As the scene started, I figured the most interesting thing would be to try to incite the orangutan to kick my ass.  So I started insulting my date.  This enraged the orangutan.  I insulted the orangutan.  He kicked my ass.  And the audience laughed.

The coach said that scene was negative, too.  But only my behavior was negative.  The orangutan defended the honor of his beloved.  And the audience loves seeing a bully defeated.

“Star Wars” doesn’t work without Darth Vader.  “It’s a Wonderful Life” ain’t so wonderful without Mr. Potter.  Without Norman Bates, “Psycho” is just a story about a woman who checks into a motel and takes a shower.

A good villain makes a good hero.  There’s no reason every scene must be two best friends lobbing compliments at each other.

Personally, I find negativity much more interesting than happiness.  Maybe that makes me odd.  But happiness seems to plateau.  Negativity seems like a fire that can flare up and die down.  It’s easier to veer from sad to angry than it is to move from happiness to… well… anything else.

Sure, happiness can go up and down, but isn’t a loss of happiness also considered “negativity”?  Aha!  I’ve trapped you!

In my mind, comedy depends on seeing our fellow humans work through pain and discomfort.  Three Stooges.  Laurel and Hardy.  “The Hangover.”  Every guy who ever suffered crotch trauma on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”  Other people’s pain is funny.  And there’s an element of negativity to pain.  It’s fun to watch people lose their tempers because we are usually so pressured to keep a lid on ours.

Even beyond comedy, I’m not too worried about a lack of happiness.  In the vast majority of art, very few stories focus on happy characters.  Sure, they might be happy to begin with, but something always comes along to jack them sideways.  William Wallace was loving life at the start of “Braveheart,” then his family was murdered, then he fell in love, then his wife got murdered.  “The Godfather” and “The Deer Hunter” start with weddings; they end in bloodshed.

Stories thrive on obstacles.  If we start at “happily ever after,” why do we keep watching?  Shakespeare’s comedies ended with weddings.  When true happiness enters, the story is over… unless tragedy is lurking.

Now, I will concede that poor improvisers can rely on negativity as a crutch.  Sometimes, improvisers criticize one another out of fear.  They fight in an attempt to gain power.  And those scenes can be really boring.

Negativity, fighting, anger, sadness and bitterness can stall out a scene.  But as long as the characters divulge more information about themselves and their relationship, as long as the scene moves forward, and as long as people are laughing, you’re fine.

One might argue that talking too much about cheese can derail a scene.  But then there’s this…

Or you might argue talking too much about a dead parrot can derail a scene.  But then there’s this…

Too much of anything can kill a scene.  But if you are smart, you can weave through obstacles like a slalom.

A show should consist of a variety of scenes.  Some short, some long, some grounded, some fanciful, some highbrow, some lowbrow, etc.  But a scene that works is a scene that works.  And negativity can work.

Got an improv question?  E-mail me at boilingpointimprov[at]gmail.com