A Scale of One to Five

[dkois]

Yesterday morning Oscar-winning director Steven Soderbergh, clad in de rigeur baseball hat and sunglasses, strolled past the UCB Level II and III signups line, casting a curious glance at the sweaty masses assembled in ninety-eight degree heat in front of the theatre. Few among us even noticed him: we were too wrapped up in our own discussions of who was taking what class and why.

Upon walking to the deli on 7th Avenue, Gabe observed that it had been a long time since he had been surrounded by a community so insular and obsessed. "Not since college, I guess," he said. "It's a little scary." I agreed. Coming to the UCBT recently as I have, I frequently become intimidated by the closely-knit and well-connected community, all speaking a common language, all seemingly more advanced and experienced than me. It's been a long time since I've been a true neophyte, trying to find a place in a world. It's frightening at times.

One young woman walked the line, taking an informal poll: "On a scale of one to five," she asked, "with one meaning not at all and five meaning very much so, would you say you're taking these classes with a goal of doing comedy professionally?"

After years and years of short-form work -- and a growing frustration with short-form, and a growing desire to abandon it in favor of long-form -- I moved to New York this winter with my wife. It did not take long to attend shows at the theatre, and to be amazed and impressed by the art on display there. This summer I took Level I, choosing Armando Diaz on a friend's recommendation. I worked hard, tried to soak up everything I could, organized a weekly practice group with my classmates. It was a joy to be playing again, for the first time since we left Hawaii in the fall, and I fell immediately in love with the performance of long-form -- its freedom, its slow pace, its grounding in reality.

Now it was time to sign up for Level II. I told my class I'd get there around 10:00 or so for a noon signup, but got nervous the morning of and instead got there around 9:00. By then the line was dozens of students long. Luckily, Zach had gotten there at 7:00, and I plopped down next to him on the already-warm sidewalk as surreptitiously as I could.

The group behind Zach in line was pretty rag-tag, with members shuffling in and out for drinks, bagels, newspapers. My cutting in line was totally ignored, as if I were an Oscar-winning director. But at 10:30, other members of our Level I class started arriving, and joining us in line: first Gabe, then Dalia, then Renee and Donna. At each new arrival I worried that someone behind us might finally take note of the unfairness of our tactics. But no one did, and we all cut in line with impunity -- mostly, it seemed, because nearly everyone else in line was waiting to sign up for Level III.

Each of us got the teacher he or she wanted. I'm excited and happy and nervous about moving on. On the way out, I saw that the young pollster had posted her results on the theatre's outside window. Most everyone, including Zach, responded four or five: they were all very interested in doing comedy professionally. A couple of people, of course, answered with bits: "8-9," one response read. I was one of only six people who responded "one."

Nevertheless, I don't think my UCBT experience has been particularly unique. Far from it, in fact. I'll warn all readers that this very likely might end up uninteresting to most, even to die-hard improvisers; after all, any grand conclusions I reach, you've likely reached some time ago. You may not read much in this journal that you haven't thought already -- whether you're a UCBT vet remembering your low-level class experience, or simply anyone who's dived headfirst into an already-extant and hermetically sealed group. But I'm starting this journal anyways, as a way to sort out my very conflicted feelings about the art of improv and my own abilities. As I work my way through Level II (and, hopefully, levels beyond), I'll be very interested to see how my attitudes toward the theatre, the community, and myself evolve.

You, however, may be less interested.

xoxo
Dan

 

[dkois]

The Spark

Day One of Sean Conroy's Level II.

The class can basically be divided into three groups. First, there are five of us who all took Armando's Level I class together. Second, there are another five who took Betsy Stover's Level I class together. Then there are another six people who don't really know anyone else in the class. So much of the pre- and post-class social time was spent slowly integrating our various cliques into each other.

We began with some basic warm-ups and then moved straight into two-person scenes. Sean sat in the back and watched the scenes patiently, letting them go on for up to five minutes in most cases. Everyone had a good solid foundation, I thought, and I really enjoyed a lot of the scenes. It didn't take long to allay my fear of a Dud -- you know, one classmate who just Doesn't Get It, who is a jerk or is scary or is wakka-wakka funny. Unless I am the Dud, our class is blissfully Dud-free.

For the second round, Sean followed each scene with a short discussion of what worked and what didn't, with a specific eye toward finding the game. His advice and criticism was, without a doubt, spot-on in pretty much every case. He certainly nailed the primary problem with the scene Gabe and I did: that we did not really establish a firm prior relationship between our characters.

What I wonder about, though, is how much these discussions will help. What I mean is this: yes, our scene was certainly hurt by the lack of a prior relationship between our characters. But at the same time, our scene lacked more than that -- it lacked a certain spark, of excitement or intrigue, that might have made it more than the sum of many learned long-form techniques. And it wasn't just our scene -- most of the scenes in class lacked that spark. It's that spark, that sudden and unexpected sense that vast horizons have opened to the characters onstage, that I'm always searching for in improv, and only occasionally finding.

At about the time I was studying for my MFA in fiction writing, a number of critics started complaining about a sudden explosion of "MFA novels." These first novels, by recent graduates of Iowa or Columbia or UC-Irvine, are always accompanied by handsome author photos and charming blurbs from the heads of the MFA programs at Iowa or Columbia or UC-Irvine. According to the critics, these novels share an impressive level of polish. They are written in burnished, smooth prose that follows all the rules. These novels always are well-plotted. They always show rather than tell. They always contain witty dialogue and a smart, middle-class narrative voice. However, according to the critics, all these novels lack a certain excitement, a certain level of artistic distinguishment, a certain... spark.

Obviously neither Sean nor any other teacher can teach us how to find the improv spark. And of course learning the rules of long-form, and mastering them, will increase our chances of finding that spark on a scene-to-scene basis. But I worry at times that the smashing success and popularity of UCB's training program might mean that the classes are churning out improvisers who are writing MFA novels. This is an entirely unjustified worry, of course; I've seen any number of shows that contradict it. But what if New York is filled with dozens and dozens of graduates well-versed in the rules of improv, and able to construct a good scene -- a Good Scene -- at the drop of a hat, but lacking the ability to find that spark on a regular basis? And what if I'm one of them? What if there's nothing particularly distinguishing about what I do onstage, and I don't make my teammates better in any visible way? After all, if I ever got around to writing a novel, I bet it would be an MFA novel. So why should my improv be any different?

This is what made me feel better, though: after a break we circled up and each classmate said his or her name, accompanying it with some kind of physical gesture or action. That gesture was then associated with the student's name for the duration of the game. We then passed names around, zip-zap-zop style; when someone said my name (and performed my signature gesture), I repeated it, and then passed to another student by saying his or her name, along with the gesture associated with the name. I had chosen a fairly plain gesture to accompany my name, so I soon noticed that I -- along with others with equally plain gestures -- was not called as frequently as those classmates who chose goofy or funny or outlandish gestures to go with their names.

Later, at McManus, a classmate named Marisa told me that she had decided I was nice.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"When we were playing the name game," she replied, "I noticed that you always called on someone who hadn't been called yet. Like, no one ever called my name except for you. And you did it for everyone else who had sort of boring gestures, too."

And it's true: I was doing that. And it was great that Marisa called me nice, to be sure. But what really made me happy about this conversation was that Marisa noticed -- not that she noticed me, but that she was so sharp and so attuned, already, to the dynamic of the group that she noticed a relatively minor habit one player exhibited during an inconsequential game. That astonished me, to tell you the truth. It was a little tiny bit of spark, uncovered when I least expected it, two hours after class in a smoky, crowded bar. Half-drunk on Budweiser, I glowed for a moment, seeing that spark in Marisa. Because if it's in Marisa it can be in any of us in Sean Conroy's Level II class. And if it can be in any of us, it can be in me.

xoxo
Dan

 

[dkois]

Making Evan Look Good

"Level II is hard."

Each time I say this to anyone affiliated with the UCBT, I receive a knowing nod in response. The knowing nod is usually accompanied by a sad story from the affiliate's own Level II experiences -- stories that frequently end, "I just wanted to die, right then and there."

That said, this has been a really happy couple of weeks, improv-wise, mostly because I'm starting, slowly, to get to know people in the UCBT community. Though I post semi-frequently on the IRC's message boards, and take classes at the theatre, and even performed there once, I have never felt like I really knew that many folks.

But at the end of August, Charlie emailed me and asked if I wanted to perform as part of his team in the Tobacco Road Comedy show at DR2 -- a Duke vs. Carolina improv-fest. That night Porter's team, T.J. Monkey's, performed for twenty minutes, then our team, The University of North Carolina Varsity Improv, performed for twenty minutes, and then we staged the Duke/UNC Improv LoveFest 2002 for twenty minutes. It was a real thrill to be in front of an audience again, but more than that, it was exciting to meet Porter and Chris and Julie and Jane and all the other folks who were around the theatre that night.

"How's Level II?" many of them asked.

"Level II is hard," I replied.

Then last week, after class, several of us went to the theatre to see our classmate Corrine perform. Corrine was one of the unbelievably lucky folks who won The Lottery -- a contest in which two students from each level of UCB classes were picked at random to perform a month's worth of shows with seasoned Harold team vets. The show was really astonishing -- the level of support that the players gave each other meant it was difficult to discern who were the Harold team members and who were the newer students. And afterwards, my friend Anthony introduced me around to a number of folks -- a kind gesture that many don't take the time to make. Infected by the spirit of community that The Lottery spread throughout the theatre, everyone I met was friendly, welcoming, and kind.

"How do you like Level II?" many of them asked.

"Level II is hard," I replied.

This week's class focused on second beats and group games. We struggled throughout the night, all of us, but then near the end of the evening eight of us knocked out a semi-decent demi-Harold. Our opening was committed, our scenes weren't bad, our second beats made some sense, and our group game was even a little bit innovative. I was proud of how we'd come together, and of the contributions I'd made.

After class, I talked to a classmate, Casey, about our scene together, and about how we had almost found the perfect second beat for it. We were excited and happy, discussing subtle hints one or the other of us had just missed, moments where if I'd listened a little bit better we might have been exactly on the same page, instead of where we ended up, which was more like the same chapter of the same book, but not quite the same page.

In the elevator, we continued our discussion. If I was this thrilled about a Harold that didn't quite work, I thought, imagine how excited I'll be when we finally start to nail it! I looked over to our teacher, Sean, who was pressed up against the back wall by the mass of chattering students. He had the hint of a smile on his face. "Hey Sean," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Level II is hard."

"Yeah, it is," he chuckled.

The other day, Kevin Mullaney posted to this board that the theatre needed folks to stop by at 5:00 in order to hold a Fake Class. Apparently, the Fine Living Network -- owned by the same people who own the Food Network, and currently available on hardly any cable systems anywhere -- was filming a piece about non-actors learning improvisation. They were focusing on a nice fellow named Evan, who is currently a student in Level II. Evan has no intention of performing professionally, but signed up for UCB classes simply because it seemed like it would be fun. From his reserved demeanor I also guessed he was hoping by taking classes to boost his confidence a bit as well.

Anyways, the documentarians from the Fine Living Network wanted to film Evan's class at 5:00 that day. Unfortunately, neither Evan's class nor any UCB class met at 5:00 that day, so Kevin posted an appeal for folks to stop by the theatre at that time and pretend to be Evan's class. I had the afternoon free, so I emailed Kevin that I was available and dropped by the theatre. About ten other improvisers also showed up, almost all of them with far more UCBT experience than Evan or I. We circled up and ran through some warmups, and then did two-person and group scenes under Kevin's instruction for about an hour. The spotlight, camera, and boom mike followed Evan around the entire time.

And an amazing thing happened: by tacit agreement, everyone on stage focused their energy toward making Evan look good. It's an old improv saw that your goal in a scene is to make your teammate look good, of course. But in this case, we all saw that this TV experience was not about us, it was about Evan, and suddenly Evan -- a talented and smart improviser already -- was made a star through the combined efforts of the rest of us. We supported his choices; we elevated his characters to positions of power; we placed great scenic opportunities on tees before him and cheered when he knocked them out of the park.

Afterwards, as the cameraman packed his equipment up and the producer got everyone to sign releases, Evan and I chatted. His face was a little bit flushed and he sported a grin a mile wide. I asked him what class he was in, and he replied, "Level II."

"How do you like it?" I asked.

"Man," he said, shaking his head. "Level II is hard."

xoxo
Dan

 

[dkois]

Oscar de la Hoya

Tonight our class tries to redeem itself.

Last Tuesday's class was truly awful. Three of the most painful hours I've ever had to endure, on par with the removal of my wisdom teeth in eleventh grade. Worse, though, because in eleventh grade the oral surgeon drugged me up good, and last Tuesday, I was completely, and horribly, conscious.

The first sign that all was not well in our class was the tremendous difficulty we had with warmups. Now, I am a big proponent of warmups. I think they're critical: not only to get people hyped up for the work they're about to do, but also -- and most importantly -- to get the group focused on working and thinking together.

Tuesday our class wasn't interested in warmups. There was a long debate about which warmups to do; classmates joined in half-heartedly, grudgingly; our group was obviously not focused and not working together. It came to a head when we played a game I've always known as "Where the Fuck's the Celery?" In it, the group establishes a pattern in which energy is passed around the circle in a specific order -- person A to person C to person F to person B to person Q... and so on until the pattern finally comes back to person A. The first person in the pattern declares a category, and in the creation of the pattern, each person, while pointing at the person after him or her in the pattern, says the name of something within that category. Our first category was Indian food; Dalia pointed at me and said, "naan"; I pointed at Ben and said "chicken khurma"; Ben pointed at Donna and said, "curry"; and so on all the way back to Dalia.

We then repeated the Indian food pattern while adding and creating new patterns: one in which we all say the names of states, one in which we all say the names of mixed drinks. The game becomes challenging as the group attempts to keep track of all three patterns at once, without losing track of any of them; in essence, we're all working together to keep three balls in the air.

But we couldn't do it. The game seemed overwhelmingly confusing to many, and even once everyone figured out what we were doing, we simply couldn't keep the balls in the air. Four times in a row we lost the mixed drink pattern within seconds of starting. Sean actually had to step in and remind us to focus, and that this shouldn't be that hard; nevertheless, we never managed to get it right. Sean was clearly disappointed, and with good reason.

It only got worse once we started working on the Harold. It was suddenly as if the whole class had never taken Level I; had never learned the basics of scenework; had never, in fact, stood on a stage before. No scene had a clearly defined relationship, location, or game. Hardly any of the characters even had names.

Worst of all, though, were the denials. Whole scenes went by like this:

ONE: Here is an offer.
TWO: I reject your offer.
ONE: I attempt to justify your rejection. Here is another offer.
TWO: I reject your offer.

...and so on.

An overwhelming sense of frustration enveloped me, and everyone else in the room, I think, as Sean was forced to give us notes like: "Why did we never find out what relationship these two had together?" or "Where did this scene take place?" or "Why are you saying 'No' so much?" He looked uncommonly miserable -- and Sean is not a guy who usually appears about to burst into song. I'm sure he was upset that we seemed to have forgotten everything he ever taught us, but I also think he was pissed at having to watch three consecutive hours of lousy improv.

Some students eagerly responded to notes, defending their choices. Others simply sat quietly, in a funk. I had to restrain myself from screaming at the top of my lungs with frustration and anger and shame.

(I'm just as much to blame as anyone, I'm sure. There must have been more I could have done. And I'm sure someone from my class spent a long time afterwards complaining about Dan and how lousy his scenework was.)

Soon we stopped working on Harolds and reverted to Level I-style exercises. The three hours crawled by. When it was over, Sean seemed truly at a loss for words. He asked us to watch shows and pay close attention to the basics: location, relationship, status. We were silent in the elevator on the way to the street.

Tonight we have our first class since that disastrous Tuesday. I am going to go in with a positive attitude. I am going to have energy and focus during warmups. I am going to concentrate on being specific and patient in my scenes. I am going to do everything I can to make my scene partners look good. And if anyone out-and-out denies anyone else's offer, I will enter the scene as superstar boxer Oscar de la Hoya and punch that person in the mouth.

xoxo
Dan