Lessons from the Masters, Volume 5: Noah Gregoropolous

In 2006, I attended an improv show at the old iO Chicago on Clark Street. I watched Noah Gregoropolous in a scene where he played a door. Yes, a door. I don’t remember why it was necessary for him to be there, but he was. And he stood there silently and waited patiently. At just the right moment, the door spoke:

“Everything has its time. I used to be an oak tree.”

The next week, Noah became my teacher. As the longtime guardian of iO’s Level 5B, every aspiring performer had to successfully navigate his class to have a shot at landing on a Harold team. He had a deep voice and the kind of deliberate manner that stood in stark contrast to the 20-and-30-somethings dripping with flop sweat in search of laughs.

Looking back at the notes from one of our classes, I see Noah said simply, “Stop. This is terrible.” I’m sure it was.

When Noah played, he rarely made the flashy choice, but his characters were wise, and he often elevated the scenes with impeccable support. He played waiters and customers waiting in line to flesh out a scene. He played with integrity and an incredible reference level.

More often than not, Noah was the oldest person on the stage at iO. It never seemed to phase him. He was there to do the work. He was there to honor the choices of his scene partners. He was there to do the unglamorous support that younger players overlooked. He was often the anchor of a show, tethering scenes to reality before they could spin off into oblivion.

I was always impressed by how Noah took his time. Many of us race in search of laughs, but Noah was smart enough to let the comedy come to him. You never saw him trying very hard, which is an exceptionally difficult thing to master. His brain was always working as he considered how to help the show. He would wait for his moment, and he would strike.

You may not know Noah, but his impact was immeasurable on thousands of performers who graduated iO over the years. The comedy world owes him a debt.

I share the following notes from Noah Gregoropolous’ 5B iO class:

• Be grounded and patient at the top of a Harold so at the end, you can rip through.
  
• Bringing back a scene creates a contract with the audience that they will see scenes more than once.
  
• Stepping past your fear is a gift to your scene partner.
  
• Open up to each other. We don’t want to see a lie on stage.
  
• Pay attention to any emotion spike, then deal with it.
• When at an impasse, create vulnerability to let us care.
• If your ship is sinking, don’t talk about it. Talk about each other.
• Boldness is a gift.
• When the audience laughs, it can signal a possibility.
• If you find yourself in a fight, lose it.
• Be careful of the automatic negative response to a strong initiation. That’s fear.
• There are no small choices.
• If a character doesn’t care, make them not care to the point of being active.
• (Regarding object work) Things aren’t always handy. They come from somewhere specific.
• You don’t always need to wrap things up. Sometimes we do that at our peril.
• Sometimes, patterns are more satisfying than plot. The audience can project plot on there.
• When you’re off-balance you have a tendency to attack. You need to be okay being off-balance.
• There’s a difference between a strong initiation and trying to control a scene.
• Never show contempt for your characters. You’ll get further satirically if you live in that person’s world.
• The unspoken joke is your friend.
• (Regarding scenic variety) If you hear a lot of brass, where are the piccolos?
• Patience gives you speed. Speed gives you stagnancy.

Noah Gregoropolous died yesterday. He was an oak tree.

Lessons from the Masters: Michael Gellman – TJ Jagodowski 1 – TJ Jagodowski 2 – Mick Napier – Mark Sutton

School of Fish

During my time with the iO Chicago Harold team Whiskey Rebellion, I had the great fortune of being coached by Bill Cochran of Cook County Social Club.  Bill had a saying about how he wanted us to approach group work.

“Be a school of fish,” he said.

By that, he meant that when the group functions as one body, we gain a power we can’t achieve as individuals.  Let this clip from Finding Nemo illustrate this further.

All the tiny fish come together to make big shapes.  With sketch or improv comedy, acting in unison allows the same power.  It’s rare in real life to see a group of people behaving identically.  When we see it heightened in scenework, it is a shortcut to comedy.

Though I’m not sure it’s true anymore, group work used to be Chicago’s great, unique strength.  When attending festivals around the country, my impression of New York and Los Angeles improvisers is that many of them are seeking the spotlight individually, much to the detriment of their scene partners and team.  But Chicago teams stood out by their willingness to fall into line to support a single idea.

The interesting part of being a part of a school of fish is that after jumping on to the initial idea, the leader tends to shift.  There is safety in numbers, and when the entire team is executing an idea, the group may be more willing to take a chance than when taking the stage as individuals.

When I had him as a coach, Adal Rifai liked a team warm-up called “Welcome to (Blank) Mountain.”  It begins with any player jumping out and filling in the blank, saying, for example, “Welcome to Pirate Mountain.”  That player uses his body to make the shape of a mountain.  From then on, each other member of the team  uses their body to join the mountain, adding another attribute, like, “Here is the river of blood!” and, “Here is the eye patch fashion depot!”  As soon as all members have “built” that particular mountain, the entire team says, in unison, “Welcome to Pirate Mountain!”  The exercise begins anew with another player establishing another mountain theme.

Improvisation is a collaborative art.  While we often see moments of great individual brilliance, the artform truly reaches its potential when the performers create something unique and wonderful from thin air, summoning the collective acting abilities of the entire group.  It’s something amazing to behold.

Ask yourself if your team plays as individuals or as a group.  If you rarely find your teammates jumping out to help create the stage picture or support your ideas nonverbally, ask your coach to help you work on functioning as a school of fish.  Audiences can’t get enough of it.

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

Requiem for a Building

The iO Theater I knew and loved is now closed.  After nearly 20 years at 3541 N. Clark, Charna Halpern is stepping aside for the Cubs’ bulldozer.  I’m sure the spot will make an excellent CVS or whatever.

Over the past few weeks, there’s been an outpouring of nostalgia on social media.  It feels like we’re all remembering our ex-girlfriend who’s getting married to some other guy.  “She was great,” we’ll say, thinking back on our relationship with rose-colored glasses.  And she was great.  But there’s a reason she’s not marrying you.

For a select few, iO has been all it’s advertised to be: a community, a family, a clubhouse, a springboard to fame.

For the huge majority, it’s been a place where they spent a year taking classes, spending thousands of dollars to chase a dream.  And then they were shown the door.

For me, it falls somewhere in the middle.  I always wanted to turn the corner and feel like it was home, but iO is a very fickle lady.

Last year, I had a conversation about this with Kevin Mullaney.  He spoke about Malcolm Gladwell’s book, “The Tipping Point.”  Gladwell argues that organizations start to unravel once they get bigger than 150 people.  The social bonds necessary for an efficient group start to fray as more people get added.

In some ways, iO’s success is its biggest problem.  By the time the theater dismissed me last year, there were about 30 Harold teams.  Each team had ten players.  And there were a shrinking number of performance slots for those teams.  We’d get two shows a month.  It’s impossible to improve when you perform that infrequently.

Yes, a handful of performers got lots of stage time.  And they probably deserved it.  But I wonder if the theater would have been better served by promoting and nurturing the younger performers, trusting that the most veteran folks would have no trouble finding stage time elsewhere.

I’ll be damned if that place wasn’t magical, though.  It’s a beacon for brilliant misfits around the country.  Improvisers have a shorthand.  When I’m around them, I feel like I’ve been reunited with my long-lost tribe.  Plop me down at a dinner with non-improvisers and I feel like the conversation grinds to a halt.

For six years, I got to perform on iO’s stages.  I laughed so hard, my sides hurt.  I fell in love with those people and that death trap of a building.  It was a candle of originality amid the darkness of drunken frat brother Wrigleyville conformity.

Every time I think about that phone call where I was dismissed, my heart breaks.  Was I that bad?  Did I suck?  What could I have done differently?  Should I have spent more time at the bar, making friends who could have shielded me from that decision?  Or did I trust too much that this was, as advertised, a “theater of the heart” – one that would reward my love with loyalty?

I miss improvisation every day.  Specifically, I miss being with those teams on those stages.  There is no feeling in the world that compares to having your friend jump out and save you when you feel lost.  It creates an unbreakable bond of loyalty.  You want to save them in return.  And so it goes, back and forth – a daredevil trapeze act that gets higher with each performance.

iO is not perfect.  Moving to a bigger building may alleviate the problem of limited stage time, but the sense of community will fray further as more people pour in searching for a golden ticket.  I really hope Gladwell is wrong, and that there can still be intimacy and support and camaraderie in a larger venue.

Regardless of iO’s future, I loved my time as part of its past, and I spend an exorbitant amount of time thinking how I can rekindle that old flame.

Thank you, iO.  If you weren’t so special, these memories wouldn’t sting.

For two very polarized remembrances of that theater, check out blogs from my pals Ryan Dolan and Ben Johnson.

Polite Improviser Syndrome

Some improv training centers beat it into you – “Support your partner!”

So you do.

And you spend so much time supporting your partner that you eventually become a blank slate.  You’ll hit the stage focused only on your partner, hoping they’ll do something you can “support.”  And if they don’t, you just stare blankly at each other.  No one makes a move.

It’s called Polite Improviser Syndrome, and I’ve suffered from this disease.

We think we’re being helpful this way.  Coming out totally empty means we’re ready to do whatever our partner wants to do.  And that’s good, right?

Wrong.  In fact, it’s one of the worst moves you can make.  Coming out totally blank puts all the pressure on your scene partner to come up with everything for both of you.

Don’t do that.

The sooner you make assumptions and declarations about yourself and your partner, the sooner the scene gets started.  Have an emotion, have a point of view, start in the middle of a scene.  Just don’t spend those precious seconds at the top of the scene waiting for someone else to save you.

Have you seen the movie “Gravity”?  In the film, Sandra Bullock plays a spacewalking astronaut who’s cut off from her tether.  She’s just going to drift into space and die unless she takes action.  When she’s able to push herself toward something, her momentum carries her until she hits something else.  But without that push, she’s totally adrift and totally helpless.

Similarly, if you start with any kind of emotional or physical momentum in a scene, it’s enough to carry you until you bump into another bit of scene information you can push off.  Start angry and you’ll quickly learn something that allows you to get even more angry.  Start blank and it feels weird to get angry at that same stimulus.  More than likely, you’ll stay blank.  And who wants to watch that?

It is not cheating to start a scene with a decision in mind.

Read that sentence again.

Teachers warn against pre-decision and tell you to “support your partner” early in your training to prevent you from starting a scene imagining yourself as a doctor and your scene partner as the patient and you have a really hilarious way to deliver a cancer diagnosis.  But once you’ve improvised for a month or so, you realize that kind of play is totally dumb.  As long as your early scenic choice is malleable, it’s totally fine to make.

For example, you can start imagining yourself as a sad king.  And if someone calls you “Mom,” you can still be sad and regal.  That declaration doesn’t negate what you’ve established.  As long as you’re not the dummy who says, “I’m not your mom.  I’m the king!” you’ll be fine.  Sad and regal can work in any scene with any character.  And if your scene partner doesn’t name you, you can always establish that you’re the king very quickly.

Those kinds of decisions work because you’re going to play the energy of that character, even if you’re declared to be a turtle or a gang member or a lawyer.  Coming in with any kind of energy helps to fuel a scene.

The only time a pre-scene decision gets you in trouble is when you start predicting your partner’s actions or you predetermine where you want the scene to go.  But you’re not that guy, are you?

Start your scenes confidently, as if you’re pushing off an object in space.  I promise your scene partner will enjoy playing off that energy.  Otherwise, you’re just being polite… adrift… and on your way to a slow, slow death.

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

The Laugh Track

I graduated the Second City Conservatory in July, 2002.  Just three months later, the Conservatory’s graduating class would be followed by a documentary crew.  This is the result…

One of the stars of “The Laugh Track” is Jay Olson.  In 2007, he and I would end up being placed together on Whiskey Rebellion at the iO Theater.  Shortly after we met, I felt I’d known him from… something.  I pulled out my VHS archives and rediscovered this.  He and fellow “Laugh Track” star Melissa Cathcart later married and now have a son.

Re-watching this, I’m reminded of how very important the Conservatory seemed at the time.  It was my very first taste of improvisation.  And at the time, I was sure I’d end up on Second City’s Mainstage.  “Only a matter of time,” I thought.

When I was taking classes in the Conservatory, I videotaped each session.  I lived in Michigan back then, so I’d use the headphone jack on the camcorder to play back our rehearsal through my car stereo as I drove 150 miles home every week.

I remember obsessing over our shows and tinkering with all my lines to make sure each one was a perfectly crafted comedy missile.  I remember feeling jealousy and fear and self-loathing.  I remember standing on the corner of North and Wells, smelling the air and telling myself that I had to move to Chicago at any cost.  I remember the hours after our final show, wondering if I would ever have anything so special again.

For those of you just starting out in improvisation, the work may feel like a life-or-death matter.  You’ll watch shows with veteran performers and dream of standing on stage with them one day.  You’ll tell yourself that fame is just around the corner.

While all of that is fine for a beginner, the only truth I’ve learned in my comedy career is that persistence matters above all.  I’ve played with hundreds of people in classes and teams over the last decade-plus.  Nearly everyone gave up.

Getting in is easy.  Chicago is full of theaters willing to take your money in exchange for a pat on the back and a little stage time.

Quitting is easy.  A failed audition, a small audience, a string of weak shows or criticism from a teacher can reduce your dreams to dust.

The hard part is simply continuing.  Jay and Melissa still perform because they found a way to move past roadblocks.  Hell yes, they are talented.  But talent alone doesn’t keep you in this game.

The Improv King is not going to magically appear, touch you with his scepter and add you to an untouchable list of geniuses.  Hell, even if you get cast on SNL, you’re not assured of anything.  Ask Paul Brittain.

The happiest performers aren’t always the ones with the most “success.”  The happiest improvisers are the ones who simply love the process.  I improvise to improvise.  If critical acclaim or praise or stardom follow, so be it.  But I’m just as prepared for critical hatred, disappointment and obscurity.

Wherever you are in your improv career, have fun.  You get to play make-believe with adults.  And sometimes, other adults will come and watch you.  Sometimes, it’s art.  Sometimes, it’s dumb.  But it’s just pretend.  Remember to place greater importance on reality.

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

Video: Chicago Improv Summit

Years ago (probably 2007?), I recorded a conversation among some of Chicago’s major improv leaders.  Kick back and listen to Charna Halpern, Jimmy Carrane, Matt Elwell, Susan Messing and Mick Napier discuss the state of the art.

Be sure to listen to the responses to the question at 10:00 – “If you could say anything to a beginning improviser, what would it be?”

Also, enjoy Mick’s candid, invaluable advice at 32:28.

Funny that nothing’s really changed in six years…

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

Cut. Again.

Three years ago, iO Chicago decided they’d had enough of my first Harold team, Whiskey Rebellion.  Moments ago, I learned they’ve dispensed with my second – ButchMAX.

I take this news with more stoicism than the first announcement.  Objectively, our shows haven’t been cohesive for a while.  I accept my role in that.

Unlike 2010, I’ve learned that I will not be placed on a new team.

Of course, I’m confronted with the sadness of the situation.  I love improvisation more than anything.  I moved to Chicago to pursue it.  Hell, I write a blog about it.  That’s taking a nerdy pursuit and elevating it to obsession.  And now, my only outlet for performance has been severed.

To be honest, I’ve noticed my own performance slipping over the last few months.  I have my theories about why that happened.  But I also noticed a dramatic increase in the quality of my scenes after my workshop with TJ Jagodowski.  I felt that I was breaking through barriers previously thought impenetrable.

The question for a performer in my position is, “What now?”

Well, I intend to continue coaching.  And I have at least one audition lined up at another theater.  Beyond that, I don’t know.

I’m really over the notion of having a mysterious group of theater police deciding how much stage time I get.  For too long, I’ve waited patiently for opportunities.  And they haven’t really come my way.  It’s time for me to chart my own course and seek the stage time I deserve.

More than anything, I’ll miss my weekly rehearsals with Tim Reardon, Karisa Bruin, Mike Brunlieb, Julia Weiss, Nate Parkes, Allison Yolo, Amy Speckien and Jeff Murdoch.  They are wonderful people who’ve made my life better.

One day, I’ll look back on this and laugh.  I can’t believe I spent six years performing for free and praying I might get more than two shows a month.

Got an improv question?  Or, seriously, got a team for me to join?
E-mail me at boilingpointimprov[at]gmail.com

Lessons From The Masters, Volume 2.5: TJ Jagodowski

I recently had my first opportunity to study with TJ Jagodowski.  Kinda like getting batting advice from Babe Ruth.

His main lesson involved the Heat & Weight of a scene.

We started with the weight.  We did a series of scenes that had two constants.  First, the two actors portrayed a couple.  Actor A had a neutral emotion and was reading a newspaper.  Actor B would enter the scene, mindful of something that had happened between them the night before.  And then, Actor B’s initiation would always be, “Good morning.  Is there any coffee?”

Think of all the ways you could say those words.  Last night’s events would naturally affect how that line is delivered.  Did you have amazing sex?  Did you fight?  Did you cry?  Did something uncomfortable happen?  The way that line is delivered is the “weight.”

Sometimes, “Good morning.  Is there any coffee?” can sound like the sweetest words.  And sometimes, they could cut you to the core.  All depends on the relationship.  Some scenes are heavy.  Some are light.

We did the exercise again.  This time, Actor A would be standing at a sink, cleaning a glass with neutral emotion.  Actor B would enter as their roommate and say, “Great party last night.”  Again, think of all the ways that line could be delivered, and what that could mean about the relationship between these two roommates.

The key, TJ said, was not to respond to the information, but to respond to the weight.  Someone whose dog died last night and someone who just won $500 in a poker tournament would say that line entirely differently.  The information doesn’t change, but the weight does.

Your words, “Great party last night,” don’t tell the “neutral” actor the exact nature your chosen backstory, but that’s relatively unimportant up top.  If you say it wrenched with agony, your scene partner will (hopefully) honor the pain over the words.  In this case, “yes and” doesn’t mean a literal, “Yes, that was a great party because we had a clown.”  It means, “I hear your pain and that makes me respond like this.”

TJ also advocated that we not use our first response line to guess why the person is sad/angry/happy/fearful/whatever.  What happens if the scene begins with a sad, “Great party last night,” followed immediately by, “Hey.  Sorry you’re sad because I threw your computer out the window”?  You’ve jumped too far ahead. Your scene partner is sad.  Yes, why matters.  But the sadness is the oozing wound of the scene.  When a bloody person is wheeled into the emergency room, the doctor doesn’t try to ascertain the motive of the patient’s attacker.  What’s important is the wound.  Attend to that first!  It has more weight than the details.

In TJ’s mind, the scene is just dueling emotions.  Person A feels this way.  That elicits this response from Person B.  That affects A.  And so on.  You could strip away the words and replace them with totally different words and the scene may feel exactly the same because the underlying emotions remain.

It’s very difficult to improvise when you put all your weight on your words.  Your words would have to be brilliant to get an audience response.  None of us is that smart.  TJ advocates moving the weight from the words to the emotions.  Doing so makes your words less important.  And if the words are less important, it frees up an enormous part of your brain – the part that helps you do a good scene.

TJ also alerted us that everything is initiation.  Not just words.  The degree of eye contact, the emotion, the physical distance, any touch, your pace – all of these things send an enormous amount of information to the audience and to your scene partner.

Now, to the heat.  The “heat” is the nature of the relationship.
TJ said the heat is not the title of the relationship.  For some people, “mother-son” is a buoyant, happy relationship. For others, it’s like chewing broken glass.  You could be coworkers who behave like lovers… or brothers who behave like bitter enemies.  Some relationships are hot.  Some are cold.

(Side note:  Hot relationships can have scenes with any weight.  Ditto for cold relationships.  Sometimes, people who violently hate each other just talk about the weather.  And sometimes, you could have a deep, emotional conversation with a bartender you just met.)

At this point, we did an exercise where we paired up.  Person A remained entirely still – just an antenna ready to receive information.  Person B would think of a situation that resulted in an emotional state.  (“You’re my dad and I caught you cheating on my mom.”  “You’re my estranged boyfriend and you just said something that made me fall in love all over again.”)  Person B contorted their face to convey that emotion.  Then Person A had to guess what was going on.

In that exercise, we never exactly guessed the relationship titles or the details behind the emotion.  But we were close.  Darn close.  If someone looks like they want to bite your head off, that’s more important than why.  You will figure out why, though… in time.

After that exercise, we did scenes.  Each actor had a moment to settle in to an emotional face, then they’d look at each other and someone would say something inspired by the other actor’s emotion.  We never guessed the transmitted scenarios exactly, but we darn sure got the emotions.

TJ explained how his mind operates at the top of a scene.  Without a word, you can quickly get a feel for the kind of scene you’re in.  Your scene partner is either close to you or far away, speaking loudly or quietly,  speaking like they know you or you’re a total stranger.  Whenever any of this gets declared (verbally, physically, emotionally), it narrows down what is available to you, and that makes the scene increasingly easy to play.

When a scene begins, TJ says infinite possibilities are out there.  Making one move, like putting your hand on your teammate’s shoulder, destroys several possibilities.  (Destroys them in a good way.)  If you put your hand on someone’s shoulder, you probably know them, right?  And you have the kind of relationship where physical interaction is okay.  Of all the people in the world, how many do you, personally, feel okay touching that way?  Probably not a lot.  Would that person touch you back?  Do you touch them gently, roughly, intimately, timidly?  That is a ton of information determined by just one touch.

TJ sucks the marrow out of every move in a scene.  It’s all important and it all indicates something.  A begets B begets C begets D begets the end of your scene.  TJ says that at the end of the scene, you’ve created an illusion that what the audience saw was the only possible interpretation.

Let’s go back to our first line.  “Good morning.  Is there any coffee?”

If someone says that to you, what can you deduce from that?  Depends on the tone, right?  Let’s say it’s conveyed happily.  You respond to the happiness, not really the request.

“Yeah.  You’re up early!”

Boom.  We know that these two people (whoever they are) know each other well enough to know what time one of them gets up.  We know that this is a break in the pattern – so maybe this person is unusually happy for some reason.  We know that they aren’t terrified by bumping into each other at this hour.  Great starting point.

What do you know now, and where can you go from here?  Person A might go to get that coffee.  How does this place feel?  Does it feel like home?  Like an office break room?  Like a hotel lobby?  Don’t reach for it.  Just feel it.

Person B – given what’s established, what’s going on in your environment?  Are you comfortable?  Is the sun shining in your eyes?  Does it feel like a 7 a.m. morning or are these a pair of third-shift workers?

Whatever choices you make – they shrink the world.  Sometimes, they shrink just a bit.  Sometimes, a whole lot.  But the world continuously shrinks until we have a scene about two running buddies on New Year’s Day.  The fatter one has a great attitude about running today because his hot girlfriend promised to move in if he lost 30 pounds in a month.  He’s going overboard, drinking coffee and immediately vomiting because he’s got to drop that weight.  The thinner one is happy his friend is motivated, but he’s concerned about the unhealthy extreme, and he blames the girlfriend for turning his friend into a psychotic bulimic.

By constantly making discoveries with what’s available to us, we relieve ourselves of the burden of being clever or propelling the plot.  How would you even create that scene another way?  Lead with the line, “Brad, I’m worried your girlfriend is making you unhealthy”?  Jeez.  If your scene partner did that, wouldn’t you feel panicked to justify that?

When you begin a scene, the end of the scene is already in the room with you.  But you have to follow the thread to discover it.  If Dorothy arrives in Munchkinland and immediately teleports back to Kansas, we’d be deprived of the true story – her journey.  The journey is where the story is.  The destination is somewhat irrelevant… but the destination is the only possible outcome of the million choices you made along the way.

Other assorted TJ notes…

• Don’t be so involved in an activity that you block out your partner.  The only way forward is to receive emotion and information.  Open up.  Be that antenna! 
• Dave Pasquesi says, “If the message hasn’t been received, it doesn’t exist.” 
• Your education (about the scene) begins when the lights come up. 
• Seek eye contact. 
• Make moves in service to the show. 
• Make specific emotional choices.  “Happy because you won a Stanley Cup” and “happy because you got extra French fries in your bag” are different happinesses. 
• Ambiguity is hard to react to because you’re literally straddling two emotions.  Make choices that will be easier for your partner to read. 
• Remain open to something that can change you.  Even if you are in a total downward emotional spiral, something can be done or said to halt (if not reverse) the process.  We must always keep our antenna up to receive information.

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To see what we’ve previously learned from TJ and to see videos of him discussing improv, check out Boiling Point’s “Lessons from the Masters Volume 2.”

And to see the very best improv show on the planet, check out TJ & Dave, Wednesday nights at 11 at iO Chicago.

Previous Masters: Michael Gellman – Mick Napier – Mark Sutton

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

So You Wanna Improvise. Now What?

A coworker approached me and said he was thinking about getting into improv.  “Where should I start?” he asked.

There’s no perfect answer to that question, but I recommend the following…

1) See shows.

If you’re in Chicago, you can throw a rock and hit a good improv show in progress.  Other cities aren’t so lucky.  But chances are, there’s a theater in your town that does some form of improvisation.  Go to the various theaters and take in as much as you can.  In Chicago, the style of play and the form may be wildly different from night to night at any given theater.

The idea is to find something that speaks to you.  Maybe you want to play slow, like “TJ & Dave.”  Maybe the up-tempo game style of ComedySportz appeals to you.  Maybe you like the polish of a Second City show.  Or maybe you love the unhinged, uncensored madness you’ll see at The Annoyance.  Chances are, the theater you enjoy most has a training program that will lead you down the right road.

For the most part, improvisers are incredibly friendly.  If you see a show you love, ask your favorite performer how he/she got started.  Ask for a recommendation of a training center.  You’ll discover more of the scene when you get involved.

2) Take classes.

In my experience, each theater in Chicago has its pros and cons.  Start with the one that addresses your greatest love or greatest weakness.

Second City – I started here.  Most people do.  Second City has tons of classes, all taught by very reputable performers.  The program is very polished.  If your interest runs toward writing, performing or directing, Second City has a program for you.

Second City treats improv as a writing tool.  I went through the beginning program and the Conservatory.  Doing so allows periodic opportunities to put on shows for an audience.  The Conservatory program essentially teaches you how the theater comes up with its polished shows.  By the end of your time there, you’ll get a multi-week run, so you have an opportunity to try scenes over and over.  It’s an interesting challenge.

Second City also offers a very comprehensive curriculum.  I remember spending entire classes on topics like energy, entrances and exits, music and blackouts.  Another benefit of the Conservatory program is that you usually stick with the same group for a year or more.

The biggest downside of my Second City experience came immediately after graduation.  Now what?  You’re cut loose.  Sure, you can audition or propose shows at their smaller theaters.  But no one will mentor you unless you pay them.  It can feel a bit like a diploma mill.

iO – This theater believes improvisation can be an artform unto itself.  As you go through the program, there’s a big focus on support.  Make your partner look good and you’ll look good.

The teachers here are usually less tenured than Second City, but all are current performers.  It’s nice to be able to see your teacher take the stage.

At the end of your iO experience, you also get a run of shows.  In the final level, your class creates two unique improv forms.  During your shows, you perform those original forms.  Again, everything here is completely improvised.

For me, iO’s biggest selling point is also its biggest weakness.  At the end of your training, there is a chance you can be put on a team that performs regularly on iO’s stages.  Stage time is crucial for you to become a better performer.  iO offers more of it than most other theaters.

The problem is, as you near the end of your training, people start freaking out about whether they’re going to make a team or not.  That turns them into awful performers.  Gossip spreads.  Scrutiny seems to lurk every time you step on stage.

But hey, if you make a team, that’s awesome!  I love playing at iO and consider it my home theater.

On a personal level, I came out of the iO training center hyper-focused on support.  I was so focused on my scene partner, I often brought nothing to the stage.  Blind support is great, but you need to bring a dish to the improv potluck. That’s where our next theater comes in.

The Annoyance – This theater’s mission is to create scripted material.  Though the focus of the training is on improvisation, the Annoyance tends to choose scripted shows to put on the stage.

On the whole, this theater has the best teachers I’ve met.  The Annoyance is a little like the Wild West.  Students in these classes tend to be really weird, even for improvisers.

But the amazing saving grace of the Annoyance program is that it will turn you into a bulletproof performing machine.  What you may be doing may be absolute crap, but you’ll be happy with it.  The Annoyance preaches performer empowerment.  If your scene sucks, you should look at yourself first.  Did you have fun?  Did you make a choice?  Were you powerful?  That’s what the Annoyance wants for you.

I feel like I did my best improvisation after training with them.  It should be noted, however, that I was nine years into my improv career when I wrapped up classes at the Annoyance.  Had I done them first, I don’t know that I would have felt that way.

Performing at the Annoyance is not guaranteed at the end of your training.  The theater tends to be a tight-knit community, so getting on stage usually comes by virtue of knowing someone already on the inside.

ComedySportz – Read Ian’s comment below since he’s actually taken classes here.

I speak largely out of ignorance, since I haven’t taken ComedySportz classes.  My understanding is that the curriculum focuses on short form improv games – the kinds of things you’d see on “Whose Line is it Anyway?”  You do have the opportunity to audition to join their ensemble and… (drumroll please)… they pay you if you perform there.

The ComedySportz style focuses on speed and wit.  It’s rare you’re going to see a grounded scene here, though it’s not impossible.

So far as I know, those are the only training centers in Chicago.  Seeing a show at any of these theaters will give you an idea of what you’ll learn in those classes.

Nearly all of these theaters also offer “electives” – a class you’ll take for one or two days, focusing on one particular discipline.

3.) Perform!

This is the most important part of becoming an improviser.  You must perform.  Take every opportunity to do so.

If you’re just beginning, check out improv “jams” at theaters throughout the city.  They’re usually cheap/free and you’ll get a chance to play with more established performers.  In Chicago, The Mixer at The Playground is a great way to get your feet wet.

Once you’ve taken a few classes, consider starting up an independent team.  Many perform at bars and smaller venues around the city.  Look at this as much-needed batting practice.  If you have an idea for a show, consider hitting up the Upstairs Gallery.  It’s an awesome performance venue where Chicago performers swing for the fences.  (All the shows are free, but you should donate to keep the flame alive.)

4.) Audition.

As you continue to perform, it’s time to get involved.  Look for audition opportunities and get out there.  Expect to suck at first.  I still suck at auditions.  But eventually, you can break in with a group and get some “legit” performances under your belt.

Some theaters that don’t have training centers do have resident performing groups (pH, The Playground and CiC come to mind).  You only get better by improvising, so do it a lot.

See shows, take classes, perform, audition.  Do that over and over again.  And don’t stop.

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

Trust Fall

In last night’s ButchMAX show, I began a scene with two other actors.  Doing a quick calculation, I decided I would play the tertiary role.  I immediately established myself as a creepy janitor.

I approached Jon Butts and stuck out my hand, palm up.  Jon slapped it.  I walked away.  Jon resumed a conversation with Allison Yolo.

I returned and interrupted their conversation, just by nudging Jon.  He slapped my hand.  I walked away.

This pattern repeated several times while Jon and Allison had a conversation.

“What am I doing?” I wondered.  “I keep going back to him.  Is he giving me money each time?  I’m nudging him, getting my hand slapped and walking away, waiting, and going back with my hand out.  I do not know what I’m doing.”

That’s when Karisa Bruin jumped in to save me.  She tagged out Jon and Allison and looked at me.  “How many high-fives did you get today?” she asked.  The audience roared.  She rescued me.  And I felt grateful.

Too often, we find ourselves stuck in a scene, doing a thing we can’t understand. Most of the time, we abandon it.  Lately, I’ve been focusing on maintaining the “rules” established at the top of a scene.  If I do an awkward thing up top, I’m going to do it again.  I don’t care what it is.  If I stop doing it, that move looks like a mistake.  Repeating it makes it deliberate.

When Karisa jumped out, I was reminded I’m not alone.  This is a collaborative art form.  If you have good teammates, they will solve the puzzles you set out.  At the very least, they can join you in the struggle.

It drives the audience wild to see 4-10 people doing the same thing.  It doesn’t matter what it is.  It’s the willingness to agree that gets them off.  Everyone in the audience comes in from a world of judgment.  In real life, seeing a guy rub his butt on a wall would be a reason to run away.  On stage, seeing a group of people rubbing their butts on a wall is a reason to join in.  The judgment of “good” or “bad” falls away when a large group does it.  (Also explains why some of us act very differently in crowds of like-minded sports fans.)

The idea of sideline support was also illustrated in a rehearsal I recently taught.  Two women began a scene by looking at each other with a degree of hostility.  Each grabbed a chair and moved it to an opposite corner of the stage.  They continued mirroring each other – each moving her chair and stopping, moving her chair and stopping, saying nothing, no solution in sight.  A third actor walked on and said, “Boys, you can’t fight forever.  You have to share this bedroom.”  The third actor immediately left.  You could feel the relief spill out of the remaining actors.  They suddenly knew who and where they were… and why they were behaving that way.  What a great gift!

If we are really, really good, we can observe scenes we’re in while remaining in the moment.  We can make a phantom projection of ourselves who sits in the audience.  That mind can guide us and point to openings.  But that is a high level improv Jedi skill.  (Ever notice how much clearer things seem when you watch improv from the audience?)  It’s far easier to use someone who’s actually on the outside of the scene, looking in.

Many times, context can only be seen from the outside.  That makes it similar to pointillism.  Hopefully, you play with people savvy enough to provide context when needed.  It’s often cliche for improvisers to say, “I’ve got your back,” before a show.  In these cases, backs were supported.  And that opens the door to fearless play.

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